After two weeks I could stand it no longer. I called him, from my untraceable, pay-as-you-go iPhone.
‘Leo,’ he said. ‘I’m so pleased to hear from you.’ He sounded it too.
‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ I told him, truthfully.
‘Good,’ he responded quickly.
Then there was a pause and he sounded a tad ill at ease when he spoke again.
‘I, uh, tried to call you, but the number you gave me didn’t work so—’
‘I know.’ I interrupted him. ‘I lost my phone, had to get a new one and a new number. It’s caused me chaos. One of the reasons it took me so long to call you. And I’ve been really busy at work. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right.’ He paused again. ‘I thought maybe you’d deliberately given me a wrong number …’ He laughed nervously. I laughed too, perhaps too loudly.
‘No way,’ I said. ‘I really want to see you again.’
‘I’m glad. Me too. I just thought … Well you know, I thought you didn’t feel the same …’
‘I do feel the same,’ I said. That was also true. I wasn’t used to so much truth. I seemed to have spent most of my life living one sort of a lie or another.
‘Look, shall I book that Premier Inn again? It’s OK, isn’t it? And it’s central.’
‘All right.’ He didn’t sound enthusiastic. ‘Are you sure we can’t meet at yours?’ he asked. ‘You’re not married or something, are you?’
‘No, I’m not married,’ I told him honestly.
‘But you have a partner? You live with someone? Is it a man or a woman?’
‘Nothing like that, I promise.’
‘What then?’
‘Well, apart from anything else I live miles out of town, I have a flat in a new build in Stevenage,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ll explain when we meet. See you there.’
Both Stevenage and my promise to explain were lies, of course. I had little idea what I would tell him about me and my life, but it would not include much truth.
I’d briefly considered taking Tim somewhere nicer, somewhere special, and splashing out on the Strand Palace or the Waldorf, even. I could afford it, just about. For one night anyway. I was far from rich, but I earned reasonably well, was careful with my money and I had no extravagant tastes.
But the most important thing for me, really, was anonymity. There are few places more anonymous than those big, budget hotels. So the Premier Inn it would be.
I walked in off the street so I could pay cash. That made it more expensive, but I didn’t want my credit card details on record. I didn’t even have a credit card with me, just a thick wad of notes in the inside pocket of my jacket.
The girl on reception barely looked at me. I carried my rucksack, as I always do, on my trips to Soho. So, as far as she was concerned, I had luggage. If she even noticed, I doubted clients checking in without luggage were that unusual at The Leicester Square Premier Inn. I’d already transformed my appearance at the pub around the corner. I preferred to arrive at the hotel looking the part. In any case, although I was early, it was always possible that Tim might already be there and waiting in the foyer. Although I’d instructed him otherwise.
This time the rucksack contained more than my straight clothes. I’d packed a bottle of champagne in a cooler bag – because Premier Inn rooms don’t have fridges – a bottle of decent claret and a picnic dinner of: smoked salmon, pate, French bread, some cheese, fruit and two slices of rich, chocolate cake.
I wanted Tim to realise that I wasn’t just after his body, though God knows I lusted after it. I would have liked to take him out to dinner, to wine and dine him in a smart restaurant and to lavish affection on him in a more romantic setting. But, as ever, I was determined to avoid unnecessary risks. Even in London, I felt the need to protect my secret self.
There was CCTV everywhere nowadays, but footage was only checked when there was a reason to do so. In any case, I’d developed a knack for knowing where the cameras were. A knack nurtured at first by working at it and then it became habit. I was good at keeping my back turned away and I usually wore a hat of some sort, or a hoody. Though you had to be careful with both. Sometimes, they actually attracted attention. Hoodies, in the wrong context, could make people suspect you were some sort of thug. By and large they were OK in the street, but if you walked into a shop or a bar with your hood up, it could make people uneasy. They might study you more carefully than otherwise and that went for hotel receptionists too. A baseball cap was usually all right and common enough.
I laid out the food and the wine as best I could on the narrow desk-come-dressing table, which stood by the window. There wasn’t much other furniture, just a small built-in wardrobe and one chair. That didn’t matter. I suspected we would eat our picnic in bed. I’d brought proper glasses, plates and cutlery, all wrapped in kitchen paper. I arranged everything as attractively as I could.
At the appointed time I texted Tim, as arranged, to give him the room number.
He must have been waiting nearby, probably inside the hotel. The knock on the door came far more quickly than I’d expected. I was just opening the champagne and called out for him to wait a moment. I quickly poured two glasses and carried one of them with me, holding it aloft, as I opened the door.
‘Welcome to the Ritz,’ I said.
He stepped into the room and I passed him the glass. His face broke into a smile, that big, crooked, lovely smile I feared I was becoming more or less incapable of doing without, whatever the dangers. He took the glass, leaned forward and kissed me lingeringly on the lips. After a bit, I backed away.
‘First, dinner,’ I said, waving an arm at my picnic.
He looked gratifyingly surprised.
‘I uh, hadn’t expected,’ he stumbled. ‘I mean, I didn’t bring anything. I, uh, wasn’t sure …’ Of course he hadn’t been sure. How on earth could he be sure of anything? I’d done nothing but send out mixed messages ever since we’d met.
‘I didn’t want you to bring anything,’ I said. ‘I just wanted …’ It was my turn to stumble over the words. ‘I wanted to make things special … well as special as I could in a Premier Inn,’ I finished a tad apologetically.
‘The Premier Inn is fine,’ he said.
I suspected, however, that he was wondering why, if I wanted to give him dinner, I hadn’t arranged to do so in one of the restaurants Soho is teeming with.
‘I just wanted us to be alone all night,’ I offered, again apologetically.
‘It’s fun, really, it is,’ he said, flashing the crooked smile again, even more broadly.
‘Enjoy,’ I said, topping up his glass.
I’d barely touched mine. I didn’t want to drink too much and for anything to take the edge off what was going to happen. I hadn’t even brought any poppers. I didn’t think either of us needed them and I wanted to see what it would be like without.
I couldn’t believe I was with him again and I was going to be able to spend all night with him. Well, most of it anyway. I couldn’t believe how much he already meant to me. I supposed I really was falling in love with him. I wasn’t entirely sure, though, because I had never been in love before.
Tim drank most of the champagne and at least two large glasses of the claret. I don’t think he noticed that I just took sips. By the time we climbed into bed and lay naked alongside each other, he was more than a little tipsy. But he somehow seemed all the more attractive to me. I’d wanted us to have a good time in more ways than the obvious. I’d wanted to show him that I cared about more than the sexual gratification I had when I was with him. I was only sorry that I hadn’t felt able to do so in a less secretive way.
He was an eager lover. Ever since the last time we’d been together, I had done little but dream of this, of touching and caressing him, of feeling his hands and his lips all over me and, ultimately, of entering him.
My every expectation was, if anything, exceeded. It was as if my whole being came alive. When we’d finished I was a t
rembling wreck. He fell asleep almost at once, in my arms. I lay wide awake through the night.
I left just after five, before the city was awake.
I climbed back into my clothes in the half light and loaded the glasses, crockery and cutlery I had brought for the picnic back into my rucksack. Although I moved as quietly as I could, this time I had nothing to worry about. It would have taken a lot more than me dressing and packing to wake my young lover. The alcohol and the sex combined had done their job. Tim was dead to the world, lying flat on his back, snoring. His outrageously beautiful, young body was spread-eagled across the bed. His organ lying limp and damp now. I felt aroused just looking at him, but that was no good. I had to go. I walked softly across the room to the door. There I paused. I couldn’t leave him with nothing, not even a goodbye.
I reached into my pocket for a pen and a piece of paper, on it I scribbled a brief note. Farewell, sweet Tim. You were magnificent.
Then I left the room, pulling the door quietly shut behind me. I put on my baseball cap and pulled the peak low over my forehead. I walked with my head down and kept out of the way of the CCTV cameras as much as possible, both inside and outside the hotel. I walked down to The Strand and on to Waterloo Bridge. In the middle, where the Thames was deep, even at low tide, I stopped and stood looking down into the murky waters. Then I reached into the pocket of my jacket, took out my pay-as-you-go iPhone and threw it into the river. I felt a tug on my heartstrings and a renewed sense of longing in my groin, as the phone sank without trace.
But I had been forced to take drastic action. I could no longer trust myself. My feelings for Tim were such that I was in danger of taking huge risks just to be with him, just to spend a few hours with him.
I had to end it.
As long as I had the phone, I knew I would not be able to ignore him if he called or texted me. Or rather, when he called or texted me, because I was sure he would. Neither would I be able to stop myself calling him. After all, his was the only number stored in that phone. It would just be too easy. If I no longer had the phone, Tim had no way of contacting me. He knew nothing about me. He thought he did, but he didn’t.
And maybe, just maybe, without that phone I would be able to resist even attempting to contact him again. And eventually, day by day it would become easier.
I lasted for two weeks. It felt like two years. No. Two decades.
I could not get Tim out of my head. Whatever I was doing and however hard I tried, his presence was there within me. Nothing, it seemed, could block Tim out.
Eventually, I gave in.
That original hotel bill, with his number scribbled on it, was still in the top drawer of my bedside cabinet. I’d got rid of the phone, which was my main connection with Tim, but had proved quite unable to destroy that scrap of paper. I suppose it had always been just a matter of time. I guess I’d only been kidding myself otherwise. After all, I’d bought myself a new pay-as-you-go phone at the end of the first week. Just in case.
On the day that I attempted to contact him again, I took that piece of paper from its hiding place several times and then replaced it, before eventually dialling Tim’s number.
I knew it wouldn’t be an easy call. He was going to be angry and hurt. Yet again I’d blown hot and cold. I’d allowed him to think that he was special to me, which he was, whatever he now thought and however much I denied it to myself.
However, I had walked out on him again, whilst he was asleep and without even saying goodbye, then effectively cut our cord of communication.
I was right too. He was angry.
‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ he said. ‘You have a nerve, Leo, I’ll give you that.’
‘Look I’m really sorry, I can explain—’
‘What?’ He interrupted me. ‘With some piece of fiction about another lost or stolen phone, I suppose? I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear from you again, not ever. Go play your stupid games on some other poor sucker.’
And, with that, Tim hung up.
It took me several days to find the courage to call him again, but it was inevitable that I would, eventually.
He didn’t seem quite so angry this time, at least he listened when I told him I’d never come to terms with my sexuality. That I’d always kept everything about it a secret from my family and friends, that I had previously been content with occasional, casual, sexual encounters to satisfy my needs and that I’d never before found a man I wanted more from.
‘It was hard for me to take the next step,’ I said.
‘And you really think you are ready to take the next step now, do you?’ he asked. He seemed a little mollified, at least.
‘Yes,’ I said. I was lying of course. Or was I? There was some truth in it.
‘All right,’ he countered swiftly. ‘Let me into your life. You say you live alone. Let me visit you at your home.’
‘I will,’ I said. I was definitely lying about that. ‘But can we do the Premier Inn one last time?’
He remained silent.
‘I think of it as our special place,’ I persisted desperately. ‘I feel so relaxed and happy there with you. It would help me a lot.’
‘You need help to be with me?’ he queried. His voice had edge.
I feared I might lose him for ever. I couldn’t lose him. I had to say something he would want to hear, quickly. Anything at all that would make him see me again.
‘Look, you know that’s not what I meant,’ I said. ‘Go along with me on this, Tim. I will explain more when we meet and, if you like … if you’re free, I’ll make sure I have a day off the next day and you can come back to my place in the morning.’
I heard him sigh. ‘You expect me to believe that, after what you’ve done?’ he asked.
‘I’m hoping you will believe it,’ I said. ‘Hoping with all my heart. We have something together, you and me. Something special.’
There was another pause.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll do it your way, but you’d better be telling the truth, because I won’t let you mess me around again, do you hear?’
I said that I heard.
‘And I want us to meet somewhere else first, have a drink, go out to dinner, like a proper couple. OK?’
A proper couple? I loved the idea, just as I so feared I was beginning to love Tim. But it could never be, of course. Not for us. Not for me. I was different.
All the same, I said that was OK.
I’d got to the stage where I would agree to anything so that I could see my Tim again, to lie with him, stay in the same bed as him and make love with him.
One more time.
That was probably all it could be now, but it was better than nothing.
TWELVE
It was almost midnight before Vogel got home. His wife was used to it. As usual, she had waited up for him. Well, half waited up. When he entered the living room, he saw that Mary was sound asleep on the sofa. She was wrapped in her favourite, fluffy dressing gown. It was turquoise coloured and just a shade darker than the bedsocks keeping her toes warm. Mary liked coordinated colours.
The room wasn’t yet cold. Vogel reached out a hand towards the wood burner. The fuel had gone out, there was no longer any glow at all, but there was still a little heat coming from the stove.
He leaned over his wife and touched one shoulder, shaking her gently. She woke straight away, the anxiety in her eyes fading as she focused on him. She was always apprehensive when he was on a big case, particularly if he was late home, even though he almost always was.
They had moved to Bristol from London the previous year, not long after Vogel had been badly injured in an incident in Soho. Mary told herself that The Avon and Somerset Constabulary was surely a less dangerous force for a copper to serve in than the Met. She still worried, though.
That was not why they had moved, of course. Vogel would never allow personal safety to influence him professionally. But Mary wouldn’t forget, for as long as she lived, the night she
was told that her husband had been rushed to hospital following a clash with a violent criminal. Back then, they had been living in a flat in a mansion block in Pimlico. A far cry from a suburban bungalow on the outskirts of Bristol and – if it hadn’t been for their daughter, Rosamund, and her special needs – they would still be there. Mary was quite sure of that.
Vogel was a Londoner through and through. To be a detective in the Met had been his only, real, professional ambition. To most people, Bristol was a vibrant, modern, cosmopolitan city but, to Vogel, it was merely an outpost of the capital and virtually green-wellies territory. But then, so was everywhere.
However, thankfully, to Mary’s relief, he was proving able to immerse himself in his work in Bristol, just as much as he had in London. That was what Vogel did. Mary knew that her husband loved her; she considered herself very happily married, but it was only Rosamund for whom Vogel would ever have been prepared to move out of his beloved metropolis. Mary suspected he would even give up the job altogether for Rosamund, if it ever became necessary. He would do anything for Rosamund, anything at all to make her life better.
Rosamund had been born with cerebral palsy. She was a happy and intelligent girl, trapped within a body that consistently failed her, except when she was in water. Swimming was Rosamund’s greatest joy. The water gave her freedom. In water, her body was no longer an encumbrance and this small, apparently very ordinary, suburban bungalow was the reason Vogel had been prepared to move out of London. The previous owner had installed a seventeen-foot-long pool, equipped with a jet swimming system, in the garage. It presented an opportunity to make swimming an experience Rosamund could enjoy whenever she wanted, instead of on occasional and often quite difficult visits to municipal swimming pools.
Mary had accidentally discovered the property advertised in a copy of Somerset Life magazine, which she’d picked up in her dentist’s waiting room. And David Vogel, who had not imagined in his wildest dreams that he would ever be able to afford any sort of home swimming pool for his daughter, quickly put in an offer. He told his wife it was clearly fate that she had found the bungalow and Rosamund must come first.
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