by Sean Kennedy
“Especially one that could tie you in a knot and bench press you.”
“Thanks, Lisa.”
“Sorry.” She wasn’t, really. “Anyway, you do know he’s a jerk, right? He has nothing on you.”
“You’re meant to say that. You’re my friend.”
She snuggled in closer to me. “I’m so glad to hear you say that again.”
“Yeah, well I never stopped saying it.”
Lisa slipped her hand into mine. “Just let it go.”
So I did. But the Heyward situation couldn’t be dropped. “Dec’s meeting him for coffee.”
Lisa almost yanked me off the couch as she jumped up. “That son of a bitch!”
“Which one?” I snorted.
“Greg!” Her brow furrowed. “Declan! Both!”
“Settle down, tiger.” I pulled her back down onto the couch. “I’m trying to be the new, mature Simon. I shall let him go in peace, and he’ll return like a butterfly or some shit.”
“He isn’t going anywhere. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t worry about that fuckwit trying to cause trouble.”
“He will, won’t he?” I hated hearing my own suspicions confirmed by somebody else. And Lisa had actually known the guy, so she knew better than me what he could be like.
“I can guarantee it. When are they meeting?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So soon? Even more suss.”
“It’s not like I can tag along on their coffee date.”
“Not as a chaperone,” Lisa said. “But you could… as a spy.”
I sat up, the wine emboldening me far too much than was healthy. “Should I wear a trench coat?”
WORK was stultifying that afternoon. I let the researchers do all the work on Heyward’s personal history and footballing record, and just signed my approval. I read the newspapers and was relieved to see that Heyward hadn’t said anything about Dec other than thanking him for “paving the way for others like me to finally be open about themselves.” Puke. I wouldn’t have given him such a cake walk interview—I would be asking what took him so bloody long, especially as he had hinted to Dec that he was going to do it over three years ago.
Thankfully, Dec was already home when I stumbled into our apartment, immediately kicking off my shoes. He was cooking, a stress relief for him. It smelled good, something with lots of garlic. So obviously he wasn’t planning to pash Heyward tomorrow. Oh, I kid! I knew that joke wouldn’t go down too well with him, so I artfully restrained myself from sharing it.
I balanced myself over the counter top and kissed him hello. He had already been tasting the sauce as I could taste the garlic coming off him—although it was at that good stage before it fermented.
“How was work?” he asked as I got us both a beer from the fridge.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grunted. “You?”
I passed him his beer, and he looked at the one in my hand. “Haven’t you already been imbibing today?”
I looked over at the coffee table, where I had forgotten to clear away the wine bottle and glasses. Oops.
“You really must be more careful with your affairs, Simon,” Dec said gravely.
“I told you this was the way it would be when we got together,” I replied in the same tone.
“Fran?” he grinned.
“Lisa.” I did my best waiter impersonation and cleared the table. “How did you know it was a woman, anyway?”
“There’s lipstick on the glass. Unless you or the other guy wants to fess up to another secret.”
“Look at you, Veronica Mars!”
Declan laughed and then remembered what I had said. “Hey! Lisa?”
“I ran into her doing the walk of shame.”
“But what were you doing home—wait, the walk of shame?”
“Uh huh.”
“That bloody bugger didn’t say a word to me about it today,” Dec said, referring to Abe.
“Lisa wasn’t exactly forthcoming about it either. ‘It is what it is’, or something like that.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it until they make a decision.”
“I think they’re on their way to making one. Anyway, you’ve avoided my question.”
“What question?” Avoiding it once again, he turned back to his sauce.
“How was work?”
“Oh.” Dec grimaced and turned the sauce down. “Let’s finish this beer in peace.”
We rendezvoused on the couch, Dec sprawling against me.
“So?” I asked.
“I was the centre of attention. Everyone wanted my opinion.”
“Did you speak to Jill?” That was his manager, and I was surprised she hadn’t called Dec yesterday, although I guess her calls could have been a number of the many we avoided.
“Yes. I’ve been booked on some of the shows.”
“Why are you doing that?” It wasn’t like him.
“A clause in my contracts with the channel. Nicely hidden away, and vaguely worded enough that they could pull it out on me.”
“You could always say no. It’s not like they’d risk losing you for good.”
Dec shrugged and took a long swig of his beer. “Jill made sure to remind me that I could plug some charity events.”
So she got to him through guilt. Dec served on the boards of a couple of sport charities. The one most close to his heart dealt with LGBTQ youth in sport, trying to give them the opportunities to be open and happy from the start that he had never allowed himself.
“I don’t like Jill,” I said, sotto voce.
“I know. And it makes you happy that she doesn’t like you either.”
“Because she knows I don’t see you as a cash cow.”
“And I love you for it.” He grinned. “Will you come to the studio for the taping?”
It was the last thing I wanted to do. “Of course I will.”
Declan knew that my history with footy talk shows wasn’t always a positive one. The Neanderthal mindset that lent itself perfectly to the old guard of the sport manifested itself in rather bigoted ways against “the women” and “the gays” when it wanted to—which was almost always, at least on the most popular footy programs. Dec tried to go on those ones as little as possible, preferring the more “cerebral” footy shows (and yes, I know, that’s pretty much an oxymoron) where they actually devoted the majority of air time to discussing footy rather than doing skits in drag or talking to the most brain-dead fans they could find on the streets.
I sound like I hate the sport I love sometimes. I don’t; I love it passionately. But that doesn’t mean that it’s immune to criticism from me. And when I’d been profiled for WAG spots or if I’d been asked a question because I was spotted in the audience while watching Declan at a taping, I had never censored myself. That usually meant the next day would find my ugly mug plastered across the sports page or on a website with people lambasting me for daring to have an opinion. Inevitably my family would then show their disapproval, although Mum still loyally cut those articles out to stick in her scrapbook.
“Did anybody ask you if you knew about Heyward?”
“Yes.” Dec scratched evasively at the side of his nose.
“What did you say?”
“I couldn’t lie. Just in case. So I said that, yeah, I did. And left it at that.”
“Obfuscation, but not denial,” I approved.
“Yes, Mr. Dictionary.”
“I wish we knew what exactly was going on in his head. I hate this feeling like he has all the power, and he’s waiting to use it on us.”
“It’s not pleasant, no,” Dec said in the understatement of the year.
“Maybe you should plan a preemptive strike!” I sat up excitedly, almost causing him to fall off the couch.
“What?”
“A preemptive strike. Like on Star Trek. When you go up against the enemy while they’re planning to sneak up on you, but you gain the upper hand.”
“I’m pretty
sure that was invented before Star Trek.”
“Whatever. Maybe you should just leak it to the media first.”
Dec placed his empty bottle of beer on the table. “That’s not the way I want to do it. It’ll make me look like the attention whore.”
He was right, and I knew it. But we were both coming from opposing forms of pride—mine wanted to get Heyward, and get him good before he got us. Declan didn’t want to appear like he was seeking more press.
Dec slapped my knee. “So, are you hungry?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
But I had lost my appetite.
DEC fell asleep long before me. I remained awake for quite a while; long enough for him to wake up when I stirred uncomfortably.
“What is it?” he mumbled.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t like it when you get insomnia. It means you’re stressing.”
“Aren’t you worried about seeing him tomorrow?”
Declan paused, then propped himself up on his elbows, staring down at me. “Should I be?”
“I wouldn’t look forward to seeing an ex.”
“Well, it’s not something I’ve drawn hearts and flowers around in my diary.”
I ran my finger along his shoulder blade, and he tried to bite it. “I guess it’s for the best, anyway.”
“Hopefully we’ll have a better idea of what he’s up to.” He kissed me, his hand dropping down upon my chest, his palm warm against my skin. “Please go to sleep.”
He rolled back over, and I spooned against his back. As my hand slipped over his waist, he held it against his belly.
I was slowly lulled to sleep, although my conversation with Lisa kept coming back to me.
That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t worry about that fuckwit trying to cause trouble.
Exactly what I was worried about.
OKAY, so I know what I did was stupid, immature, and oh-so-very-wrong, but I had to do it. You would think that sense would have returned once the effects of the wine wore off, but the more I thought about it the more I wanted to do it.
And it was lucky that I had a friend who was just as stupid and immature as I was to help me do it. It was also lucky for both of us that he had a wife—also my friend—who was smart enough to come along with us to make sure we didn’t get into too much trouble.
Declan had seemed a little nervous when he left half an hour before I met Fran and Roger in our building’s car park. I had made the offer of accompanying him, but he denied the possibility before I even had the chance to finish my sentence. It was a wise move on his behalf, especially seeing he had no idea what I would actually be doing in his absence.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Fran said as we headed out from the city towards Fitzroy.
“You didn’t need that much convincing,” I reminded her.
“Neither did Roger!”
We both looked at Roger, who squirmed in his seat.
“I really need to go to the loo,” Roger said.
“Hold it in,” I told him. There were no spaces right near the cafe, so we had to circle the block four times before we lucked out into getting a parking spot right across the road. I turned off the ignition and settled back into my seat for the long haul.
“I really need to go to the loo,” Roger repeated more insistently.
“Hold it in,” I repeated, just as insistently.
Roger tugged at the crotch of his jeans, and Fran and I immediately shielded our eyes.
“I can’t!”
“You’re going to blow our cover!”
Fran leaned over from the back, her breath sweet from the cinnamon donut she had just scarfed down. Our supplies weren’t going to last that long, the way she was going. “Our cover? You know we’re not in Law and Order, right?”
“We have to treat this as seriously as if we were,” I said. “So, Roger, shut up and hold it.”
“There’s an empty coffee cup back here,” Fran said helpfully. Too helpfully.
I yelled out “He is not—” just as Roger moaned “I’m not—” and Fran shrugged.
“Go in a coffee cup!” Roger fumed. “I’m not an animal!”
“If you were, you could just go on the floor,” I told him.
“You’re going to get kidney problems,” Fran singsonged. “That’s what my mum always says.”
Roger was now practically dancing in his seat. “Your mum also thinks you get piles from sitting on a cold dunny seat.”
Fran ignored him, staring at the takeaway coffee cup she was holding. “I really want a coffee.”
“Both of you shut up!”
The response to that was Fran’s door flying open, and her stepping out onto the pavement before slamming the door shut again. She strode off down the street, looking a little like Miss Gulch from The Wizard of Oz as her hair flew behind her in the wind, heading towards a different cafe than the one Declan would be in.
“She’s going to get us caught,” I grumbled.
Roger shot me an apologetic look before he threw open the door and followed his wife, doing the awkward shuffle of a person with a bursting bladder.
At least they weren’t distracting me now. Like I said, I knew this was stupid. And quite honestly, it wasn’t that I didn’t trust Declan. I wanted to see Heyward for myself, even if it was from across the street and hiding out in my friend’s car. I wanted to analyse his body language—see how he greeted Dec, how he sat across from him, whether he did any “friendly” touches during conversation. And whether Dec would punch him.
I wasn’t advocating violence. I knew even if it so happened that Heyward made a pass at him, Declan wouldn’t punch him. But I still wondered exactly how he would react.
Too bad I couldn’t have bugged him about it before he left the apartment.
It was at that moment I realised how crazy I sounded in my head.
“Oh my God,” I said out loud to myself, as if the concrete reality of my voice would bring me back to earth even faster. “I’m a fucking lunatic.”
I had resolved that as soon as Fran and Roger returned we would get the hell out of there, and I could at least pretend that I had some scrap of dignity intact, but that was when Heyward appeared.
I hadn’t seen him in person since that night at the Brownlows, and only on television or the net since then, but his image was forever burned into my brain. Declan’s infamous ex, the one that had cheated on him and kept him even further in the closet and succeeded at being the only person who ever really made Dec feel shitty about himself… there he was, walking along the street like some character in a cartoon, musical notes flying out of his mouth as he whistled merrily to himself without a care in the world.
I hated him. The deep dark Gollum-fied twisting of my heart testified to that.
He was my nemesis, and he didn’t even know it. He would probably laugh if he did know it, because in his mind I would be no threat to him whatsoever. I was nothing more than a cockroach, something easily crushed beneath his size thirteen feet.
And he was going to meet my partner for a cosy little catch up.
Without taking my eyes off him, I ferretted around in the bag Roger had brought along, feeling for the pair of binoculars he claimed he had. Pulling them out, I looked through them to see that they were useless. I might as well have been looking through the bottom of a tumbler.
Dec was seated by the window. It was lucky for me, or else I would have had to stalk them in the cafe, with eye holes cut into a newspaper. I earned my diploma in Spy Techniques from the Looney Tunes University. Maybe Dec had even chosen that table just to prove to himself that there was nothing to worry about—that both he and Heyward were out in the open and didn’t have any reason or suspicion to hide away from anything. He stood as Heyward approached him, and I squinted as if I could make my eyes zoom in like a telephoto lens. Heyward went in with what looked like a preemptive strike of a hug, but Declan leaned back and offered his hand instead.
Team Simon: 1
; Team Heyward: 0.
As far as I could tell, Dec was sitting with his hands crossed in front of him on the table, and he was hunched over them slightly, a sure sign that he was feeling defensive. Another good sign for me.
I threw the binoculars back in the bag. I knew I shouldn’t be here.
The doors to the car opened and Fran and Roger got in noisily, arguing amongst themselves. Fran handed me a coffee, and I took it gratefully. “Thanks.”
“So, what’s going on?” Fran asked.
“Nothing much,” I said. “Are your bladder issues resolved, Roger?”
“I’m an empty vessel.”
Fran snorted to herself, and even I ignored the way-too-easy opening for a put-down.
“By the way, these binoculars are shit. Where did you get them, inside a Royal showbag?”
His silence confirmed it.
“The James Bond one,” Fran whispered.
“That must have been some lousy Q who developed those binoculars,” I said.
“It was cheaper than renting a costume,” Roger said.
I looked at Fran. She remained stoic.
“I’m not going to say a word.” I said.
“For a party!” Roger quickly protested. “Seriously!”
Strange, I couldn’t ever remember Roger dressing up as Bond for a party. “Were you Pussy Galore?” I asked Fran.
She smirked. “Tits McGee.”
“Is this part of some seven year itch marriage therapy?” I asked.
“We’ve been together ten years, and besides, we’re dealing with your problems,” Roger said quickly, as he knew that Fran would probably be more than happy to spill some secrets, even if I really didn’t want to hear them. But who was I to judge? Sometimes it was fun to let Declan drag out his old guernsey, or even make him wear the black and gold—
“Why are you blushing?” Fran asked of me.
“I’m not!” I said, my face feeling warm. “It’s hot in here. I’m going to wind down a window.”
“Why don’t you just turn on the air con?”
I did both, and breathed with relief at the fresh air that hit me, filled with the exhaust of city traffic and methane of city commuters.
And finally noticed that Dec wasn’t at his table any more.
