Then Strauss said something which cut through the jangle of thoughts in my mind. ‘Hang on, hang on. Say that again,’ I said.
‘I’m extending my trip,’ Strauss repeated. ‘Probably for six months.’
Strauss outlined his plans. After doing the London Fashion Week, he was going to stay on there with Blair. He’d pick up some work for a few months, then do some travelling with Blair in Europe before coming home. ‘That’s great,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
But it wasn’t great. It was terrible. Strauss was my one close friend left in Sydney and now he was abandoning me too. ‘Stephen, you definitely have to shift in here while I’m away,’ Strauss insisted. ‘Then you can get right away from them. You’ll never be able to move on otherwise.’
I nodded and tried to smile but I just felt so bereft. All my close friends would be overseas—Ant, Blair and now Strauss—at a time when I needed them most. How could I possibly adjust to not having Blake, the person I’d shared my life with, when I had no one else for company and support?
‘Look, once you’ve had six months living over here, back in your old neighbourhood, things won’t feel so raw and nasty,’ Strauss assured me. ‘It truly is remarkable how love can turn into indifference. In the immortal words of Michael Zager and Denice Williams “Time heals every wound.”’
Strauss insisted on rushing to his iPod and playing the song. ‘You can copy this and whenever you feel a bit blue, you can play it,’ he instructed me.
It was silly but in fact hearing the song did lift my spirits. Though when it had finished, it reminded me of how much I was going to miss Strauss.
‘Now Stephen, there is one responsibility that comes with living here while I’m away,’ Strauss said, his voice taking on a serious tone, ‘you have to monitor the rubbish room for loot.’
I laughed.
‘Stephen, I’m serious,’ Strauss said huffily. ‘I have very high hopes of you. You’ll be home during the day and can nab all sorts of treasures that undoubtedly slip through my fingers while I’m at work.’
‘Why don’t I donate some of Blake’s belongings to you instead?’ I suggested.
‘Oh no, darling, no, no, no. This is The Altair and Bland’s taste is so like him,’ and Strauss’s voice quavered with distaste, ‘so functional.’
That made me smile but I only half-listened as Strauss raved on about the best times to check the rubbish room. I had no intention of snaffling other people’s cast-offs. Though what I would do was move those items Blake thought he had a claim to, into Strauss’s apartment.
Strauss refilled our glasses and started talking about his travel plans with Blair. I suppose he was trying to distract me, but it just made me feel lonely and left out. After a while, I tuned out completely. I was feeling light-headed from the champagne. The events of the evening were beginning to seem more and more remote and improbable. It was just so hard to believe that Blake had left me.
But there was undeniable confirmation: that cold, dismissive note he had written. I had it folded in my pocket and I kept reaching for it, fingering it. The note contradicted what I wanted to believe, that this had all been a terrible mistake or misunderstanding. I had to start trying to accept what seemed impossible: that the golden boy had been dumped.
9
Chapter Eight
In the days that followed, I discovered how obsessive I could be. I simply couldn’t stop thinking about Blake. Our break-up had been completely unexpected but it was also very difficult to accept and process when Blake refused to talk to me. Worst of all was the knowledge that he was right next door with someone else.
The reminders were inescapable. The following day, having returned home from Strauss’s, I had a bad moment over the laundry. I was loading the machine, when I came across socks, underwear and tee shirts of Blake’s in the laundry basket. At first, I was frozen. What should I do? Deposit them on Rick’s doorstep as they were? Or wash, iron and return them, demonstrating what a good housewife I could be when I set my mind to it? The latter option might also provide a pretext for seeing Blake. I couldn’t decide. I put his clothes in the machine, stared at them for a minute or two, before taking them out again. I picked up a pair of his Calvin Kleins from the little mound in front of the machine and buried my face in them. I sniffed them deeply, but began to feel vaguely perverted. I tossed them back into the machine along with his other clothes and set it going. As the water surged in, I felt an urgent stab of regret. I wished I had kept back that one pair of unwashed underwear as a memento.
An hour later, when I was pegging the clothes out on the line, I heard his voice calling out. I glanced around, couldn’t see him, but realised he must have seen me from the upstairs window. I imagined he was thudding down the stairs to see me. I kept pegging the clothes, anticipating that I would hear Rick’s back door open at any moment. Then I heard his voice again and I called out ‘yes’, but still he didn’t come. I stopped still and listened, and then I heard him laugh, a great joyous gurgle, which made me realise. He hadn’t been calling out to me but to him. Suddenly, his laughter felt like a taunt. He was laughing at my mistake or laughing at the pathetic hopefulness which had crept into my own voice when I had called out. I dropped the tee shirt I was pegging and ran back inside the house to escape him. I turned on some music to drown out any further incursions of his voice. But even being inside my own house with all the doors firmly closed didn’t seem like an escape. The two of them were still right there, on the other side of the double brick wall, laughing together.
The thought of that made me feel so frustrated, furious and wound up, I ran back outside, delved through the laundry basket and started tossing Blake’s clothes over the fence. I was in such a state, I actually tossed one of my own tee shirts (which he used to borrow a lot) over and only realised my mistake as I watched it sail away over the fence. Then I noticed that I’d pegged one of his tee shirts on the line. I yanked at it, the pegs popped off, and I stood there grasping it, feeling like I wanted to rip it to shreds. But when I tried, the hems proved surprisingly resistant. Frustrated, I dropped it on the ground and stamped on it and though that rendered it somewhat grass-stained, that still seemed inadequate. Then my eye fell on Blake’s budding vegetable patch. I hurled the tee shirt over there, then went and did a little war dance on top of it. Finally, I picked it up, screwed it into a ball, and hurled it over the fence. I stood there panting from my exertions. I felt so much better. Now I understood why Blake threw things when he was angry. It felt great.
Though ten minutes later, when the adrenalin had faded, it didn’t feel so good. In fact I deeply regretted what I had done. Blake would never talk to me now. I had just demonstrated that I was hysterical, vindictive and destructive. But it was too late. It could not be undone. I couldn’t climb over their fence and retrieve the items—or could I? I crept outside to assess that possibility, but my deed had already been discovered. I heard their voices as soon as I stepped outside—‘how could he do this?’ I heard Blake moan—and I turned tail and went back inside.
Later in the day, I sent a text message apologising. When that went unanswered, I sent an e-mail, apologising at much greater length and making my excuses. But that too went unanswered. After waiting for two hours, I sent him another text, alerting him to the e-mail in case he hadn’t been online. After several more hours had passed without any reply, I realised I was wasting my time, constantly checking my mobile and the computer. He wasn’t going to reply and he wasn’t going to forgive me. My behaviour had no doubt confirmed that his decision to leave me was the correct one. This realisation sent my already fanatical thoughts into complete overdrive.
My mind whirled non-stop. It was unrelenting. I tried to distract myself but found I couldn’t really concentrate on anything—television, reading, even phone conversations. I’d drift off and start thinking about him, again. It was startling to realise just how much I relied on Blake, missed him, and yes, loved him. I had taken Blake for granted, but f
or him to be gone, so abruptly and apparently for good, left this yawning gap in my life.
Bedtime was the worst. That first night, back in my own bed, I lay there for an hour or more, trying to calm my mind. I tossed and turned, and eventually resorted to a sleeping pill. When that failed to work, I took another one, which did the trick for a while. At 3am, I awoke with a start, aware that I had been dreaming of Blake. Waking up stopped the dream, but reignited the incessant thoughts and of course I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay there for a couple of hours, obsessing until I was exhausted. Miraculously, I managed to drift into a fitful doze, but only until 6am when daylight began to seep into the room. I no longer had curtains thanks to Blake. The oblivion of sleep was my only escape at this terrible time and he had effectively robbed me of that.
Over coffee, brooding over my purloined curtains, I began to feel more and more indignant that Blake’s departure could be accomplished with such ease. My house and Rick’s were almost mirror images of each other. It was as if Blake had merely stepped through the looking glass, taking his curtains and his Caravaggio print with him, to arrange in their identical positions on the other side. The curtains fitted seamlessly and that big cock fitted too. It was infuriating!
The lack of decent sleep exacerbated everything, making the thoughts in my head even more strident and all-consuming. I was constantly imagining conversations with Blake, face-to-face or by phone, or was writing him e-mails in my head. I would spend hours agonising over what I would say and how I would phrase things; then would imagine the different scenarios this would provoke. I would be contrite, I would be cold; I would be nostalgic and regretful, I would be tearful. Though after thirty-six hours of absolute silence on his part, I began to wonder if I would ever be granted the opportunity to exhibit any of these emotions or make any of the declarations to him that I’d rehearsed in my head. I’d sent so many text messages to Blake which basically all said the same thing—we need to talk. They all went unanswered. When I tried phoning, the calls went to voice mail. Finally, I’d gone to a pay phone and tried from a phone number he wouldn’t recognise. He answered that call, but then hung up as soon as I said his name.
I needed to know why. That note of his had been so inadequate: cold and brief and measured. I had analysed it from every possible angle as I had nothing else to go on. I found it hard to believe that he had written it alone. I was quite sure it had been edited or even dictated by Rick or Damon. He had cited Gabriel and my subsequent lies but that was surely just a pretext, a convenient incident that made me out to be the transgressor, when it was him who had committed the much graver betrayal. He had also claimed to know that Gabriel was not ‘an isolated incident’, though he had no proof of anything.
But then I remembered Alejandro. Rick had observed us being ‘friendly’ at the gym. What did that mean and what on earth had he told Blake? Could Rick possibly know anything? I was sure Alejandro wouldn’t have said anything to Rick—he couldn’t stand the guy—or would he? Guys bragged about who they fucked all the time. I sent Alejandro a text, explaining things were rocky with Blake and demanding to know if he’d said anything to Rick about us having sex. He at least replied immediately, though was somewhat testy.
Alejandro: What? U think I am not discrete? I have bf. I don’t want problems. Never I say nothing to nobody.
I tried to ring him to set things straight but he didn’t take the call and it went to his voice mail. I left a message apologising and explaining.
Yet despite Alejandro’s vehement denial, I wasn’t entirely convinced he was telling me the truth. Honesty wasn’t his strongest suit. I had nothing to go on but my instincts, which were admittedly in a heightened state and possible all askew, but I had a hunch that Blake knew something about Alejandro and me.
Then suddenly, music started up loudly from next door making me jump. It was the Pet Shop Boys, ‘Always on my Mind’, one of Blake’s all-time favourite songs. But what was unbearable was that I could hear snatches of Blake singing along to it. That song was like a taunt. I felt like screaming through the wall at him, ‘yes you are always on my fucking mind. I don’t need a fucking song to remind me of the fact.’ Finally, the song finished but then I remembered what was coming next. This was a compilation CD Blake had made and played to death. I knew the track order by heart. Sure enough, ‘I Want You Back’ by Take That started up. I strained to listen. Blake didn’t seem to be joining in on the chorus of that one!
Those songs, which I used to love too, were the last straw. Blake’s presence was so inescapable and insidious, I phoned Strauss and asked if I could come over. ‘Um, well, yes, yes of course, come,’ Strauss said a little unenthusiastically. ‘Just don’t expect too much in the way of tea and sympathy. You know I’m not good in the mornings.’
I got over there as fast as I possibly could. But when Strauss opened the door to me, we both stared at one another in surprise. I realised that I had never seen him when he wasn’t wearing make-up. He looked so wan and rather vulnerable without it. However, apparently, I didn’t look so great either. ‘God, you look a wreck,’ Strauss declared. ‘We both need make-up desperately. Let’s put some on and go out for breakfast. You can’t be seen at Uliveto looking like that. Not now you’re single.’
I rushed to the bathroom mirror and could see what he meant. I was unshaven, unnaturally pale, but worst of all I sported very prominent dark circles beneath my eyes. Even my hair, usually ‘my crowning glory’ looked as flat and drab as I felt. Strauss insisted on putting some concealer on my face, and some product through my hair, which I had to admit was an improvement.
Once we were installed at an outdoor table at Uliveto, I began to talk. I hadn’t unburdened myself to anybody since I’d last seen Strauss and it all came pouring out: everything I’d done and thought and felt. Unfortunately, Strauss didn’t provide the support I’d hoped for. Initially, I thought he was just distracted—ordering coffee and then food, waving to friends at another table, lighting cigarettes—but after a while, it became plain that he was in a contrary mood. All I really wanted from him was to pat my hand, echo what I said and agree with my theories, but he wouldn’t indulge me. Instead, he tried to get tough with me. He wanted me to delete Blake’s number and all his stored messages out of my mobile phone. ‘Absolutely no contact,’ he decreed, and when I protested, he retorted unnecessarily bluntly, ‘he’s not thinking about you. He’s with someone else.’
I didn’t appreciate this firm approach. It was only getting me more worked up and I began to point out all of Blake’s recent behaviour, which completely contradicted his shock departure. There were the renovation plans of course. Why had he invested so much time and energy in that, if he planned to leave me? But there were other incongruities too, like a trip to New Zealand for Christmas, which we’d only booked at the end of July. Then, just a few days before I went to Melbourne, we’d paid an inflated sum to procure tickets to see Cate Blanchett in ‘Hedda Gabler’. ‘Why would he spend that sort of money if he had no intention of going with me or seeing me again?’ I appealed.
But Strauss merely shrugged and lit another cigarette. I continued to analyse Blake’s behaviour aloud, though after a while it began to seem that the gay guys at the next table were paying a lot more attention to what I was saying than Strauss was. He seemed preoccupied by the parade of guys walking in and out of Bayswater Fitness. ‘So what do you think?’ I asked abruptly.
Strauss looked at me blankly.
‘What should I do?’ I asked.
I was referring to the theatre tickets but Strauss had lost the thread of the conversation. ‘Well, instead of all this moaning and moping, you need to concentrate on something that’s going to make you feel better,’ Strauss declared.
‘I couldn’t have sex with someone else if that’s what you mean,’ I protested.
The most perverse thing about the break-up was that it had actually made me feel sexually attracted to Blake again; something I hadn’t felt strongly about for a y
ear or more. But it was him that came to mind when I had erotic thoughts. I especially missed watching his face as I fucked him. That initial strain of concentration to his expression, the way his lips parted and his eyes narrowed, and then the pleasure that rippled across his face. It was a classic case of wanting what I couldn’t have.
‘No, no, no, though sex would probably be a good distraction,’ said Strauss, and he lowered his voice dramatically. ‘I’m talking about revenge, getting back at the uncommunicative bastard. He’ll start talking to you if you start fucking with him.’
I protested that I couldn’t.
‘Why not?’ Strauss demanded. ‘Because you still think there’s a chance he might come back to you, and you don’t want to screw that up?’
That observation made me feel uncomfortable because it was exactly what I’d been thinking.
‘He’s left you for someone else,’ Strauss reminded me, ‘in the cruellest possible circumstances. He won’t explain himself, won’t communicate with you. It’s time to retaliate.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t feel vengeful.’
Strauss raised an eyebrow. ‘What about his laundry? Anger and revenge is one of the stages you have to go through. You should express it.’
But I wouldn’t be goaded. I still felt terrible about his clothes and fretted over what damage that might have done to our reconciliation prospects. Strauss signalled to the waiter for the bill. ‘Have you talked to Ant?’ he asked and I shook my head. ‘Oh, you should. Ring him up when you get home. Have a long chat to him. You guys are so close.’
I felt crushed. I hadn’t planned on going home. I’d been counting on spending the day with Strauss, even hoping he might offer for me to stay the night again. But it was pretty plain that Strauss was tiring of my company.
‘Look at you and Ant. That just shows how you’ll feel better once some time has passed. It was difficult when you two broke up, but now you’re best of friends.’
Time to Upsize (The Indignities Book 1) Page 13
