For the Love of Luke

by David C. Dawson

  “Tell me about the executive chef of the Savoy,” continued Luke. “How did you meet him when you were only eighteen?”

  “I went to a ghastly public school in London,” said Rupert. “I spent my life trying to escape. By the way, a public school actually means a private school when you translate it into American.” He looked up at Luke. “As the wonderful Oscar Wilde once put it, we have everything in common with America except our language.”

  Luke laughed and picked up his glass of wine. “To the chef of the evening. An Englishman who cooks a mean chili. I’m going to be breathing fire tonight at this rate.” He took a sip from his glass and placed it back on the table.

  “Why do you call them public schools when they’re private, anyway?” asked Luke.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” replied Rupert. He tucked into his chili. “Long before there was state funding for schools in England, it was really only the church that set up schools. Rich people set up public schools for those who didn’t want to have to belong to any particular religion so their children could be educated. In other words, they were open to the public. The paying public of course,” he added.

  “History lesson gratefully received.” Luke placed his palms together in front of him in mock servitude. “But why was your school so terrible?”

  “Partly because I was a boarder,” replied Rupert. “I was a long way from home. Or at least it felt that way. And also because I was bullied. Even worse, my parents did nothing about it. My father had gone to the same school, and he said it made a man of him. So he thought it would do the same for me. You see, in those days I was a delicate child who hated rugger and cricket and all these stupid games you have to play at an English public school—”

  “Whereas now you’re over six foot tall, broad-shouldered, and gym-honed,” said Luke with a smile. “What happened along the way?”

  “Why thank you, kind sir,” said Rupert and waved his arm before him as though at court. He picked up his glass of wine and drank. “This really is an excellent vintage.” He set the glass down on the table. “What happened? Like I said, I met the executive chef of the Savoy, and I fell madly in love with him. He was thirteen years older than me. A beautiful man. Successful. Romantically foreign. He was German. And he’d not only succeeded in a foreign country, but he’d also succeeded in a cutthroat profession dominated by the French. Even better, he rode a motorbike and swaggered around in leathers. I was besotted.”

  Rupert scooped up a forkful of chili and rice and shoved it in his mouth. He looked across at Luke, who gazed at him with a frown on his face.

  “Are you still in love with him?” asked Luke.

  Rupert swallowed and shook his head.

  “He’s long gone from my life. We only lived together for a year. But he opened my eyes to everything that I’d been missing—”

  “You mean sex?” asked Luke.

  Rupert shook his head. “I was already getting that. That’s one thing I did learn at public school.” He sighed as he thought back to his teenage years at the Henry Royal School in Westminster.

  “So it wasn’t all bad at school, then?” asked Luke.

  A vision of his former teenage self flashed into Rupert’s mind. “I’m afraid most of the time it was. You see, although I say it myself, I was a very pretty boy. In those days, my hair was in long blond ringlets, and my skin was smooth and fair. I spent a lot of my time hiding from the older boys who were after me.”

  “Weren’t you flattered?”

  “I was terrified. I didn’t want to be gay. I wanted to be a man. I wanted my father to be proud of me.”

  “But weren’t you attracted to the other boys?”

  “Some of them. But as I say, I was terrified. They’d make a joke about it. And I was the joke. It wasn’t funny. They’d say they wanted to screw the batty boy.” Rupert set down his fork and sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to harp on about this nonsense. It’s long gone and there are much nicer things to talk about.”

  “No, no,” said Luke. “Please go on. I’m real interested. How did you survive? Didn’t the school do anything?”

  “Ha!” said Rupert. He shook his head dismissively. “They knew damn well it was going on. I know that because I told them. But they took the side of the bullies. When I reported it to my housemaster, he just said it was my fault.”

  Rupert sat forward. He picked up his fork and pointed it at Luke as he imitated his housemaster. “Pendley-Evans. Stop being a sissy and start being a man. If you insist on looking like a girl, with your long blond hair and your girly body, what do you expect? I’ve seen you hiding in the library when you should be out on the rugger field or going on a cross-country run. You need to man up and show us you’re worthy of our school motto: scientia ac labore.”

  “Which means?”

  “Knowledge through hard work,” replied Rupert with a snort. “Which was complete rubbish. After all, it wasn’t the most academic of schools. Most of the boys were pretty thick. They certainly didn’t work hard. But they were rich. A lot of them went on to be bankers, who are the bullies of the City. The rest simply returned home to manage daddy’s estate in the country.”

  “Which I guess is what your father wanted you to do. How did you end up a journalist?” asked Luke.

  “It was Christoph. The executive chef of the Savoy. He showed me how I could be anything I wanted to be. That I didn’t have to simply do everything Father demanded.”

  A sudden gust of cold air blew in from the window and extinguished two of the candles in the candelabra. Luke stood up and crossed the dining room to a small oak writing desk. He opened one of the drawers and retrieved a box of matches.

  “He sounds like the perfect man,” said Luke. He returned to the table and lit the candles again. “How did you meet him? Surely you were locked up in your British boarding school day after day?”

  “Once we were sixteen, we got special privileges,” explained Rupert. “At weekends we were allowed out without having to wear school uniform, provided we were back by eight in the evening. That’s when I discovered the Coleherne. It was a gay pub in Earl’s Court. It’s long gone now. Renamed the Pembroke. I was sixteen and a half when I first went there. I was completely illegal of course.”

  “How did you manage to get in on your own?”

  “I didn’t,” replied Rupert. “Not everyone stayed inside the Coleherne. A large crowd hung around outside. It was very popular with men in leather. Freddie Mercury had been a regular in the eighties. It was very famous. I’ll never forget the first time I went. It was a hot Saturday afternoon in May. I got the District Line Tube at Westminster to Earl’s Court. The pub was just down the road from the Tube station. I was terrified. I walked past it on the opposite side of the street to start with. Then I crossed the road and walked past again. There were all these men standing around outside, drinking and laughing. I’d got so scared that I’d decided to walk back to the Tube station. Then I heard this voice behind me.”

  Luke gestured to Rupert’s plate. “Don’t let your food get cold, Rupert. I’ve nearly finished mine, and I’m going to have some more. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” said Rupert. He stood up, reached across the table, and removed the lid from the pot of chili. “Am I talking too much again?” he asked as he served Luke. “I’m always doing that. Help yourself to rice.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” said Luke hurriedly. “I love hearing your story. There’s so much I want to know about London. So the voice was Christoph’s, was it?”

  Rupert sat down and picked up his napkin from the floor where it had fallen. “Yes. He was standing there in his bike leathers, a pint of beer in his hand. I couldn’t help noticing how tightly his leathers fitted. They were unzipped to his waist. There were little beads of sweat, glistening on his chest. It was a glorious sight. I could feel my cock hardening by the second.”

  “But I thought you didn’t feel anything for the boys at school. How come you were su
ddenly attracted to this man?”

  “No, I didn’t say I didn’t feel anything for them. I said I didn’t want to feel anything.” Rupert took a sip from his wine. “But I was certainly attracted to them. I hated being in the communal showers after games. I couldn’t look at any of the other boys. I was terrified I’d get an erection.” Rupert put down his wineglass and looked at Luke. “I was ashamed of how I felt. It was miserable. But that day at the Coleherne, in the heat of the afternoon, with all those other men around me, and seeing Christoph standing there—”

  He looked across at Luke, who had picked up the bottle of Syrah and refilled Rupert’s glass.

  “So come on, then,” said Rupert. “Now it’s your turn. When was the first time you fell in love with a man?”

  Luke refilled his own glass and set the bottle back on a silver tablemat. He picked up the glass, took a long drink, and looked across at Rupert.

  “I can’t remember,” he said.

  Rupert grinned. “Have there been that many? I’m not surprised.”

  “No, Rupert,” said Luke. “I mean I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything of my life before I came to London. It’s just a blank.”

  Chapter 6

  THE MOON hung low in the sky that night. Even with the light pollution in London, it shone brightly—and faintly red. An early harvest moon in July. Rupert stood by the open window and gazed at it, an almost-empty glass of wine in his hand. The wind had dropped, and the atmosphere had become close and stifling once more.

  Luke was in the kitchen, clearing up the supper dishes. Pans clanged and crockery rattled as he loaded the dishwasher. Rupert reflected on the one-sidedness of their conversations earlier. When he had enthusiastically talked about his past life and his past encounters, it seemed Luke was genuinely interested and keen to hear more. Rupert was well aware when he became a bore at dinner parties and had long ago learned to ration his enthusiasm for storytelling. But at dinner tonight, whenever he asked Luke about himself, the man had deftly deflected the subject back to Rupert.

  At first Luke was full of intrigue. He acted like a man of mystery. But after a while, Rupert became frustrated at Luke’s reluctance to open up about himself. He was used to one-night stands, where the sex was good and the conversation merely incidental. He was also certain Luke was giving him plenty of come-on signs. After all, the American had flirted with him even as he lay injured on his bathroom floor the night before. Rupert was more than happy to respond and reciprocate. But was it really leading anywhere? Rupert drained his wineglass and headed for the kitchen. He needed to find out.

  “Can I help?” he asked. He stood in the doorway of the tiny galley kitchen.

  “I’m nearly done,” responded Luke. He finished wiping down the worktop with a cloth and looked at the wineglass in Rupert’s hand. “Do you need a refill?”

  Rupert shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve had enough alcohol for one evening.” He set the wineglass on the counter. “Now it’s time for you to fulfill your side of the deal.”

  Luke put down his cloth, leaned back against the worktop, and rested his hands on the counter on either side.

  “I’ve done the clearing up, and I’ve offered you my spare bed.” Luke tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “What more are you expecting?”

  Rupert stepped back into the hallway and gestured with his hand toward the living room.

  “Your paintings,” he said. “You promised to ‘take me upstairs’ after supper. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  Luke laughed and followed Rupert into the hallway. He turned to face him, and the two men gazed at each other.

  Rupert leaned toward the American’s kiss-shaped lips. Immediately, Luke responded by leaning away. He gently placed his hands on Rupert’s shoulders and held him still.

  “Whoa, boy,” said Luke. “Baby steps, huh? I told you, I’m complicated. Don’t want to muddle things between us. At least not while you’re staying here.”

  Luke dropped his arms, pushed past Rupert, and began to walk down the corridor. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder. “Everything’s laid out weird in this place.”

  At the end of the hallway, he stopped by an open door on the left and turned to Rupert. “You see, to get up to the studio, you have to go through my bedroom.”

  Luke entered the room and switched on a pair of glass-domed wall lights on either side of the king-sized bed. The bedroom was well proportioned and uncluttered, with simple, Shaker-style furniture. Rupert stood on the threshold and watched as the American crossed to the other side of the room. Luke bent to pick up a short wooden pole with a hook on the end of it. He raised it to the trapdoor above his head and struggled to insert the hook into a small metal loop on the hatch. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled down on the pole and swung open the trapdoor to reveal a lightweight metal ladder. He gave the end of the ladder a tug, and it extended with a clatter down to the floor. Luke dropped the pole, put his foot on the first rung of the ladder, and turned to Rupert.

  “It’s a bit of a mess up there I’m afraid,” he said. “I don’t usually show my work to anyone. It’s kinda private.”

  He climbed the ladder and disappeared into the black hole of the hatchway. A moment later, the darkness was replaced with a flood of white light. Luke called through the opening. “Come on up, Rupert. But watch your step on the ladder. It’s a little shaky.”

  Rupert entered the bedroom, walked around the end of the bed, and paused by a tall wooden dresser positioned below a large round mirror. He took a moment to look at the few items arranged neatly on top of the dresser. There was a brass carriage clock, its white face faded and streaked with brown rust stains. Leaning against it were several postcards of Dali paintings. On the left was a carefully positioned group of toiletries, and on the right was a battered old teddy bear, propped up against the wall at the back of the dresser. The bear had lost an ear, and large patches of its fur were missing.

  Luke’s head appeared through the hatchway.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see you’ve met Archibald. He protects me from curious Englishmen. Come on up here, and I’ll show you what I waste my time on.” And he disappeared again.

  Rupert climbed the narrow metal ladder to the makeshift studio in the loft space of the old Edwardian house. At the top of the ladder, he stepped onto white wooden floorboards, stood up straight, and looked around him. The studio must have been about twenty-five feet long, with ample head height in the middle of the room. On either side, the ceiling followed the roofline and sloped down to the eaves of the house. The studio space was lit by five panels of white LED lights, suspended along the length of the ceiling. They were set between six large skylights, through which Rupert could see the night sky.

  “Well,” he said. “I never knew this existed.”

  Luke stood at the far end of the studio by a giant easel on which was propped a canvas about five feet high and seven feet across. Beside him, ranged along the length of the back wall, was a paint-spattered wooden table covered with a jumble of painting paraphernalia. Brushes, tubes of paint, palettes, jars of liquid, and an open toolbox littered its surface. Leaning against the low, sloping walls of the studio on either side were smaller canvases, similar in size to the ones Rupert had seen in Luke’s hallway earlier. Like those paintings, these were dark, brooding works, created with angry brushstrokes. Three of the small canvases were starkly different from the others. Against a backdrop of dark, swirling clouds, they featured white oblong panels, within which Rupert thought he could see the dim outlines of heads with vague facial features.

  “Welcome to my sanctuary,” said Luke. “This is where I escape from the real world and create my own.”

  “It’s impressive,” said Rupert. He walked the length of the studio to reach Luke’s side and turned to look at the huge canvas on the easel. Luke had barely started on this new, larger work. He had sketched charcoal outlines across the surface of the white canvas stretched tight on its frame. Rupert str
uggled to understand the image the charcoal marks intended to convey. They seemed to outline the upper torso of a person; whether it was a man or a woman was impossible to determine. The person seemed contorted in a strange position. The upper part was larger and dominated the canvas. Rupert studied the outline for several minutes before he commented.

  “It seems very different to the other work you’ve done,” he began. “Is it going to be a figurative piece?”

  Luke’s voice was excited, like a young child proudly showing off his schoolwork. “I’ve wanted to do one for some time, but I’ve never had the courage. Until now, all my work has come from inside my head. It’s what I see in my mind. In my memory. The smaller canvases—the seven up here and the two downstairs—are a composite piece. Actually, the gallery over at Battersea is going to exhibit it next spring.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Rupert. “Have you exhibited before?”

  Luke shrugged. “Who knows? So I’m real nervous about this, and I’d much prefer not to.”

  “Why don’t you want to exhibit your work?” asked Rupert.

  Luke turned to the table beside him and began to create order from its disarray. He collected a handful of the paint tubes and lined them up in exact rows along the back edge of the table.

  “I never intended to paint for an audience. Just for myself,” he began. “I suppose it started as my therapy. It kinda helped root out some of my demons.”

  He placed the last of the paint tubes in the line and looked up from the table.

  “That sounds pretty lame, I guess. I mean, I don’t think I’m any good or anything—”

  “You’re going to have an exhibition,” said Rupert. He turned away from Luke to look at the seven canvases ranged along the sloping wall of the studio. “London galleries don’t just take anybody.” He walked across to the paintings and squatted down to inspect them closely.

  “Hey, wait,” said Luke. “They’re not placed as they should be.” He picked up a large sketchpad from the table, carried it across to Rupert, and squatted alongside. He flipped over several sheets of the heavy cartridge paper until he came to a page with pencil sketches of nine rectangular panels on it.