Ned had the driver drop us off on a main street, Tremont, I think, and he walked me around a little. It wasn’t a part of town I’d been in before. There were restaurants and shops and a playhouse, and lots of people out walking around. Several times I noticed two men walking together, some of them obviously couples. It was thrilling, and I wanted to take everything in.
Which is probably how I happened to notice Mr. Lloyd, Kay’s father. He had just come out of a restaurant called Hamersley’s, a couple of storefronts ahead of us. In front of him, a young woman turned, smiled, and held her hand out to him. The young woman was Colleen.
I froze in my tracks, and Ned said, “Seen a ghost?”
Turning around so my back would be towards the couple, I said, “That’s Kay’s father. And that is not Kay’s mother. It’s their housemaid.”
Carefully, not drawing attention to himself, Ned turned slightly to watch them. “You can turn around; their backs are towards us.”
“I don’t think they saw me.”
Ned grinned. “Don’t worry; they wouldn’t recognise you.”
“What do you suppose his wife thinks he’s doing out on the town, without her, on a Saturday night?”
Ned shrugged. “Maybe she’s with her own paramour.” In a heavy, fake German accent he said, “Can one ever choose where the heart leads us?” I stared at him. “No? Cabaret? Never mind. You’re just a baby, too young to know that one. But, truly, watch the film sometime. A Bob Fosse classic. Liza Minnelli is perfection as the naïvely decadent Sally Bowles.” He kissed his fingers and sent the kiss towards the sky.
Chandler Street is tiny, like so many things in Boston, but it’s tiny and charming. It’s very narrow, with brick walkways on either side and trees planted every thirty feet or so. The townhouses are only a few stories high, but the street is so narrow they nearly block out the sky.
So much of the evening was a blur; I think I’ll just try to document the highlights. First, the wine. It was Veuve Clicquot champagne, orange label. Nothing else was served, and nothing else needed to be. There were glasses of it on a side table on one side of a large, high-ceilinged room. On the other side was a long table full of finger food that kept coming from the kitchen, carried by what appeared to be caterers. There were little smoked-salmon spirals with cream cheese and chives, broccoli florets wrapped in strips of soft cheese, something Ned called q-cakes which were little quiches with no crust in cupcake papers, and maybe four other options.
Ned said, “Note the conspicuous absence of heavy carbs. Start watching your figure now, and you’ll be set for life.”
The flat wasn’t huge, but somehow it seemed spacious. Ned introduced me to the hosts, James Miller and Roy Kennedy. It was their condo. James was maybe twenty-five, whilst Roy, I would guess, was forty. As I struggled to think of something witty to say, James told me more about the condo than I could take in, let alone remember.
“James, darling,” Roy said as he hooked an arm through one of mine, “this adorable boy is too young to be concerned with real estate.” To me, he said, “I’ll bet you’d like nothing more than to meet some nice men. You’re not ‘with’ Ned, are you?” He glanced at Ned and winked.
Ned held his hands up. “He’s not my property. I’m just on orders to see that you don’t do anything nasty with him.”
Roy laughed and pulled me through the small crowd, using his champagne glass to point towards different people, giving me brief and often humorous synopses as we went, loudly enough for the men he was talking about to hear. Some had witty responses; some just rolled their eyes.
All together, there were probably fifteen people there, almost all men, almost all of whom were gay. It’s not something one announces, of course, but it seemed evident. I didn’t notice anyone else my age. Roy introduced one man, maybe in his mid-thirties, saying, “Tom is our token straight guy. But it’s okay; he’s a metrosexual.”
Tom shook my hand. “I’m the upstairs neighbour,” he told me. “They have to invite me to all their parties or I call the cops about the noise.” His grin told me he was being facetious. “My girlfriend is in the kitchen, I think, advising the caterers.” He stressed the word “advising.”
“Of course she is,” Roy said. “But she might be able to improve almost anything.”
Roy moved on a few steps, and suddenly there was someone standing right in front of us.
“Oh, my.” Roy’s voice took on a fake intensity. “It seems this one will not allow us to pass.”
It seemed to me that the fellow was about twenty. He looked directly at me, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side, an almost-smile on his face. His black hair was just long enough for me to see curls. He was slender and just a little shorter than I am.
“This,” Roy said in formal tones, “is Luther Pinter. Watch out for this one, Simon. He’ll eat the heart out of your chest and make you ask why he can’t do it again.”
Luther: Bright orange, pale pink, bright blue, cream, lilac, bright red. He didn’t hold a hand out, so neither did I. He said, “Simon, is it?”
I started to speak, but I found I had to clear my throat. “Simon Fitzroy-Hunt.”
Luther raised one eyebrow nearly into the curl that decorated his forehead. “My word. A Brit. Roy, wherever did you find him?” His eyes didn’t leave mine.
Roy had released my arm so gently that I didn’t notice until I was free.
“Ned found him; not I. And you’re not to hurt him.” Roy smiled at me and turned to leave, his job evidently completed.
“How do you know Ned?” Luther sipped from his glass, lessening the tension a little.
“He’s the cook at the house I’m living in.”
“That sounds like there’s a story behind it. Tell me. Please.”
“I was kidnapped,” I said, purely for effect, “by my mother and her new husband. This time last year I was at home in London, blissfully ignorant of my future fate.” I have no idea where all this folderol was coming from; something about the place, the people, inspired me. It was fun.
“And where will you be this time next year?”
“If I have anything to say about it, at Oxford.”
“You were kidnapped, you say. How old are you?”
I could not bring myself to say that I was sixteen-going-on-seventeen, and even less did I want to say that I would reach that august age on Hallowe’en. “Old enough to be here tonight. Not quite old enough to have refused to be transplanted.”
“Kidnapped.”
I smiled. “Ned is the cook at my stepfather’s house on Marlborough Street.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Nice neighbourhood. In school?”
I didn’t want to say that I was still on the younger side of college, so I sipped my champagne to stall for time. Then, “Not fair. You’ve told me nothing about you. I’m not revealing anything else until I get some reciprocation.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”
I barely had time to learn that he’s a senior at Boston College, or BC, reading philosophy, and that he lives alone in a flat off of Commonwealth Avenue—though much farther out than Boston University and Michael’s rooms—before Ned interrupted us.
He gave Luther a teasing hard stare. “I’m responsible for this young man, Luther. You’ll have me to answer to if—”
“Not to worry. I’ve been warned already.”
“Why is everyone warning everyone else about me, anyway?” I asked, trying to sound amusing, but probably coming off more sulky and immature. Ned came to my rescue.
“Let’s get some food to soak up some of this Veuve, shall we? You coming, Luther?”
“In a bit.” And just like that, it was over. I suppose I could have insisted that I didn’t need food, but in truth I kind of did. I’d had lunch before one in the afternoon and nothing since, and I had almost drained my glass.
I didn’t do a lot of talking through the evening, but I did a lot of laughing. It was i
ntoxicating to be aware that so many of these men found me attractive; I could tell by the way they looked at me and, sometimes, by what they said. “What a darling,” one fellow said. Another called me eye candy. Someone called me a fiery redhead in a way that made it sound sexy.
Luther didn’t approach me again, and I didn’t seek him out except a few times with my eyes. I never caught his glance, so I don’t know whether he watched me at all.
I ate just enough to keep the wine from going straight to my brain and nursed the champagne so I wouldn’t appear drunk when I got home, certain Mum would be waiting for me.
Ned rode back to the house with me before the taxi took him off to his own home. He didn’t prod me for my reaction, just sat in companionable silence for several blocks. I opened the conversation.
“How well do you know Luther Pinter?”
“Not as well as I suspect you’re going to.”
This gave me a jolt of something I can describe only as pure pleasure, with a focal point at my crotch. “Do you like him?”
“Yes, qualifiedly. He’s a good guy, just puts his own needs first a little more often than I would want in a partner. He’s had a couple of messy breakups.”
I had really enjoyed Luther’s attention, and I wanted more of it without anyone worrying about me. I pulled out something Brian had once said to me. “I know that I haven’t yet met anyone I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
But Ned was quick with a response. “Maybe not, but any of us can be hurt by putting too many feelings in an unsafe place.”
I shrugged to hide my irritation at being denied credit for wisdom. “I might never see him again, anyway.” I wanted to sound like I didn’t care. But I did. So Ned’s next response made me feel good again.
“Oh, I think you will.”
I couldn’t resist. “Would you rather see me with him than with Michael?”
“Yes.”
“That was quick.”
“Michael’s confused about who he is. That makes him a danger to you, because even if he wants to be honest, he probably can’t be. And even if he managed it eventually, he’d lead you on a nasty chase first. Luther isn’t what I’d call confused, and in fact I think he’s pretty honest with himself, and with others, about his feelings. It’s just that they’re not always what you might like them to be, so just be as prepared as you can for that.”
The taxi pulled onto Marlborough Street at ten minutes to twelve. “Ned,” I asked, “where do you live?”
“In the South End. Not far from where we were tonight.”
“But . . .”
“I had to see you home, dearie. Your mother would have had my head.”
“Do you live with anyone?”
“Finally. Thought you’d never ask. His name is Manuel.” He pronounced it with a proper Spanish accent. “He would have come with me tonight, except his mother’s health is bad. He’s with her in Santa Fe. He’ll be home tomorrow night.”
“So I was your substitute date?”
“You complaining?”
I grinned. “Not at all. Thanks for taking me.”
Mum was waiting for me, as I had suspected. Both she and Brian were reading in the living room. I called to them, “I’m home,” and started up the stairs but didn’t get very far.
“Simon?” Mum called. “Where’s Ned?”
Determined not to let an interrogation ruin my mood, I shuffled towards her. “He just drove off in the taxi.”
“Did you have a good time?”
“I did. I met several people. It was a pretty sedate party, actually. Very sophisticated finger food.”
“Alcohol?”
“I had two glasses of champagne.” I’d had three. Or four . . .
“Meet anyone special?”
“Not really,” I fibbed. “Nice people, though. They’re all friends with each other. Small party.” Before she could ask anything else, I said, “I’m knackered. See you tomorrow.” And I escaped upstairs to relive everything I could remember.
Boston, Sunday, 21 October, Addendum
This will be quick; just have to get a few thoughts down.
Upstairs, I had gone into the bathroom to see how Ned’s handiwork had held up. It was a little smeared, but not bad. I washed my face and then pulled the pencil out from where I’d stored it in a drawer. I dotted all around my eyes the way I thought Ned had done, but when I smudged it with the soft end the effect was more like I’d been looking into binoculars smeared with something. It would take a little practice, I figured. I washed again, patted my eyes with a tissue to dry the skin thoroughly, and tried once more.
This time it was better. Still not quite as good as Ned’s job, but also I was tired and a teeny bit tipsy. I put the pencil away, took a shower, and headed to bed.
And on that bed, Graeme lay on his side, head propped on his hand, sheet draped seductively so that it almost but not quite concealed his tenderest bits. I knelt on the bed, kissed him softly, then harder, and then harder still, and his parts—and mine—grew decidedly less tender. We made love—had sex, really. Insistent, powerful, male sex. The sheets were soaked and, in the morning, would be as stiff as we’d been to get them that way.
Graeme is the light to Luther’s dark, and he will always be there for me. My needs are his needs. If Luther and I start something, and he backs away to meet his own needs, I might get hurt; it’s true. But Graeme will be here. He’ll hold me, stroke my arm, my hip, my ass; he’ll kiss my mouth, my belly, my thighs. He’ll be everything I need him to be and nothing that will hurt me.
He just won’t be real.
Boston, Monday, 22 October
This is going to be another short one, but I can’t resist.
Luther called me tonight. I was in my room after dinner doing schoolwork (of course) when my mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number, but I answered it anyway.
“Hey there, Red. It’s Luther. Remember me?”
My heart skipped a beat. Hell, it skipped several. I made sure my tone was as teasing as I could make it. “Red, is it? Let me see.... I don’t recall anyone who uses that moniker to refer to me, no. Luther, you say? Luther who?”
He chuckled. “Pinter. As in Harold Pinter.”
“The playwright?”
“Exactly, though no relation. I’m glad you know the reference. Which brings me to my point. Any interest in seeing Betrayal with me Saturday night? I happen to have two tickets.”
I was not prepared for this. I was by no means prepared for this. Luther was asking me out on a date. I’m nearly seventeen years old, and I’ve never been out on a date at all. I fought for breath and finally managed, “I don’t know that play. Is it any good?”
He laughed for several seconds. “Now, Simon, I know you know I’m asking you out. If you don’t want to see the play, I’ll find takers for these tickets and we can do something else.”
I did my best to chuckle; don’t know that I succeeded. But I did manage to say, “Yes, I do know. And I’m glad you called. I’d love to see the play with you.”
“Pushing my luck, here . . . Dinner before? I’m thinking Brasserie Jo, just because there are so few decent restaurants near the theatre. Do you know it?”
“I’m new in town, as you might tell from my accent.”
“It’s casual but not too casual. Decent food, Alsatian leanings. I’ve been there before.”
“With other dates, no doubt.”
“No doubt. And would you be my ‘date’ there Saturday?” He stressed the word “date” oddly, as though using it facetiously; maybe gay men don’t date? Maybe they—what, connect? Hook up? God, how did this happen so fast?
As our exchange had gone on, I’d performed a wild set of mental gymnastics. Ned had insisted on letting Mum see me out for that party. He hadn’t argued with her about curfew; he’d negotiated. He’d made sure she had the address and his own phone number. He’d treated her with respect as someone who has authority over me. So the question I had to answer fo
r myself was whether to dream up some story about where I would be on Saturday night, or tell her the truth, knowing she’s going to want to meet the guy.
For only the second time in my life, I felt that horrible trap that most teenagers rant and rail about—of being under the thumbs of their parents whilst starting to be real people with lives of their own. The first time, of course, had been when I was kidnapped away from London.
I made a snap decision. I would go with reality. “I would love that, yes. Thanks.” I was struggling with how to let him know he’d have to pick me up when he solved that problem.
“I’ll come by around quarter of six. It’s outrageously early for dinner, but I suspect your captors would prefer that to your getting home late after a post-theatre dinner, and I want to have dinner with you.”
He wants to have dinner with me. I felt giddy. “Do you need the address, then?”
“I have it. Ned gave me your cell number as well as your address. Will I get to meet your captors, by the way?”
“I’m afraid it will be obligatory.”
“Then I’ll be on my very best behaviour. At least for that part of the evening.”
“Very funny.”
“Not what I was going for, actually, but we can explore that Saturday. See you then.”
Man. Wow. Luther is only a couple of years older than Michael? Really? He seems like a man of the world. He seems . . . really, he seems too old for me. And I love it. I really love it.
I stored his number in my phone and practically danced downstairs to find Mum. She and Brian were in the den, watching television, but it was something they had recorded so I didn’t hesitate to interrupt. I’m not going to catalogue here the grilling Mum gave me. I don’t remember ever being so profoundly patient with anyone before, or being so strategic in my wording. I nearly lost it at one point; didn’t she trust me? But we’d had no practice, trusting each other in this area. And patience did the trick; I got a qualified approval.
“This is tentative, Simon. I’m going to ask Ned about this fellow tomorrow, and if I don’t like what he tells me, the date is off.”
Educating Simon Page 27
