by Bonnie Dee
“Won’t they wonder why I have no baggage?” Jay asked as he climbed naked out of bed and gathered his clothes.
It was something Nigel hadn’t even considered. “I’ll tell Mrs. Cubbins there was some mix-up at the railway and you have yet to receive your bags. The woman detests all mechanical modes of transportation and will be happy to have her fear of rail travel confirmed.”
Jay had chuckled and bent to kiss Nigel sweetly before leaving. He’d paused at the door of Nigel’s bedroom and turned. “Shall I actually get my bags, then? Do you want me to stay here while I’m in London?”
With every fiber of my being, Nigel had thought. But Jay’s words had reminded him that the man must eventually return to his life in Paris. This was but another interlude for them and when it was over… Dread settled on him at the thought.
“Yes, please do stay,” he’d offered. “Mrs. Cubbins will be glad to have a guest to look after. She has far too little to do with only a bachelor to tend to.”
As Nigel resumed figuring percentages and cross-checking numbers, he thought how wonderful it would be to come home to Jay waiting for him. How long might this visit go on before both servants and neighbors began to wonder about the arrangement? Could it possibly become a permanent sharing of lodging? Might Jay be willing to give up his life as Jean Michel and stay in England?
Hope glimmered like a shining silver thread against black cloth. Nigel might actually, possibly be able to have everything he wanted—his new management position at the bank and a good friend to share his life with.
He was humming under his breath again. Nigel stopped the joyful noise and silence fell in the office but for the quiet scratching of two pencils.
Nigel must return to Paris with him, Jay decided as he left the street of pristine white row houses to head to darker parts of the city. An entire day sprawled in front of him with only another visit to his uncle and seeing a few old friends to fill it. He had plenty of time to concoct a plan to convince Nigel to abandon this wretched country and move to France. The man was clearly eager to be with Jay sexually, and he’d admitted to feeling restless in his life. His work must be so unsatisfying. Columns of numbers day after day? The very thought made Jay shudder in horror.
Although, when Jay pictured Nigel in Paris, he couldn’t quite envision what the banker would find to do with himself other than tumble into bed with Jay. Which, of course, meant he would need a bed instead of a sofa. And how would it work with them sharing the flat with so many other people?
Was he going insane, mentally turning an enthusiastic and thoroughly satisfying sexual encounter into something more meaningful than it was? When had he become a hopeless romantic again—he, who’d turned into an utter pragmatist after Grenton shattered his young heart? He snorted at that thought. Jay had never been much of a tender blossom sort of lad.
Ah but Nigel. That night on the rooftop. And again on the Ferris wheel. That’s when you truly began to feel love, Jean Michel’s voice in his mind whispered. That silly chanteuse who nightly sang of love and loss and love renewed had apparently invaded Jay’s real life and attempted a coup.
Well, he couldn’t honestly expect Nigel to chuck his life and run away to Paris, but he could spend a few days longer than intended in London, Jay decided. Dulac would continue to hold a place for him on the schedule—at least for a time.
But meanwhile, Jay needed some coin if he were to continue to stay in London. It was an expensive city to live in, even if he didn’t need to pay for a room since Nigel had invited him to stay. He would visit several old friends who worked in burlesque and see if he might be added to the roster as a singer. Not in drag, of course, unless as part of a buffoonish skit.
With his francs changed to pounds, Jay paid a cab driver to take him to the West End. Entering the theatre district, he immediately began to feel more at ease. This was the part of the city where he’d always fit in. Apparently a performer at heart since childhood, according to Uncle Curtis, Jay couldn’t survive without music.
He went to the backstage door of the Royal Holburn Music Hall. Their variety shows played several times a day, matinees and evening performances. When he’d lived in London, the manager had always been looking for new acts. It didn’t take many performances of the same old thing for audiences to tire of the revues and search for other entertainment. Once Jay had thought Holburn’s stage would be enough to satisfy him, but then he’d heard about the Rouge, and the more exotic night life of Paris beckoned. There he could perform in the beautiful costumes that most appealed to him.
After several hard knocks with no response, Jay thought he might need to return when the box office had opened, but then a pretty girl joined him in the alley by the door. She eyed Jay up and down. “You’re a likely looking lad. Come for a job, then?”
“If there’s any to be had,” he replied. “You?”
“Oh, I’m in the chorus.” She lifted her skirts above the ankles and did a little jig. “A high-kicking dancer like what they got in Gay Paree. And what is it you do?”
“Singer,” Jay replied. “And I’ve just come from Paris. I can guarantee they’ve no lasses as pretty as you.”
She grinned, showing teeth not nearly as attractive as her face. “Go on with you, charmer. I’ll put in a good word for you with Mr. Height. He’s the manager and chooses the acts for the show. A fair enough employer. All he asks for is talent and punc-tu-al-i-tee.” She pronounced the word with an accent on every syllable.
“I have both.” Jay grinned.
“Can you sing in French? That’d impress him,” the girl said, then lowered her voice, though no one else was in earshot. “Truth is, attendance hasn’t been so good lately and Mr. Height wants to make it as popular and racy as that Moulin Rouge.”
“Good plan. So, do you have a key to get inside?”
“Oh, it ain’t locked. Everybody’ll be arriving for the early matinee. I’m Sally, by the way.” She shook Jay’s hand, opened the door and led him inside.
Backstage, performers in costumes bustled back and forth, sang scales, practiced dance steps or juggling or lines of a skit, preparing for curtain, which Sally told Jay was at two. Jay hoped he might recognize someone he’d known during his stint here under different management, but it was all new faces. Exactly what he’d find at the cabaret if he stayed away too long. Things changed fast in the entertainment world.
Sally located Mr. Height, introduced Jay, then sauntered off toward the dressing rooms, singing warmup scales.
“What can you do?” the man asked without preamble. “I’ve already got several singers. I need something different.”
“Well…” Suddenly the idea of doing his Jean Michel act here didn’t seem so preposterous, especially if the manager was enamored of all things French. “I have an act at the Cabaret Michou, a very popular club near the Moulin Rouge.” He struck a charming pose. “I dress as a woman, as do all the performers. My act is very well received. I’m the headliner there.”
Jay sang a verse of La Morte de Juliette to show his skill, then waited for Height’s reaction. The man gazed at him, weighing him.
“Our audience might not take to it. Lot of middle-class family types who only see men dressed in frocks as a farce. They’re not as cosmopolitan as the French.”
“I can sing in a tuxedo then,” Jay said. “A few shows a week. Matinees are all right.” He knew evening shows were a coveted prize a performer must work his way up to.
The manager gave a decisive nod. “I’ll try you out. Not as a main act right away, but one of my chorus boys didn’t show up yesterday, so he got the boot. Can you dance?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Jay stretched the truth.
“Go find Sally. Tell her you’ll be filling in for Jake Kilburn. She’ll show you his costumes and the other lads can show you the moves. All you have to do is gaze adoringly at our star, Lady Estrella, and chime
in on the choruses. Good luck.” Height walked off, puffing on his cigar.
The first matinee was in approximately an hour. Jay’s pulse quickened as he dove into the monumental task of learning several numbers complete with a few simple dance steps. Height was putting an insane amount of faith in an unknown. Maybe it was his way of testing to see if Jay was stage worthy enough to earn a solo number.
The hour flew by. He had no time to grow nervous as he prepared, and then the curtain opened and the first performer went on—a comic to warm up the audience. The funny man was followed by a chorus line of female dancers who showed not nearly as much leg as real can-can dancers did. Sally was one of them. She caught Jay’s eyes as she left the stage and gave him a smile and a wink.
A short humorous skit followed, and then the number Jay was in began. There was no real dancing in it. He merely had to circle around the buxom woman in a spangled evening gown and sing harmony on the choruses of her song. It wasn’t even a challenging song, predictable melodramatic stuff. Within minutes, the piece was over and Jay and the other boys escorted Lady Estrella offstage.
Easy. Too easy. He wanted his spotlight back. He wanted his solo performance, and he wanted his wardrobe and the adulation of his crowd, an audience who understood his artistry. He missed Jean Michel as if that part of him were some sort of twin he couldn’t do without.
But at least he was making a bit of cash, and, God willing, he wouldn’t be in London for too long. Surely Nigel would quickly see that Paris was the only place a pair like them could thrive freely.
Chapter Fourteen
Nigel lived in a happy haze. His work, which had been dull lately, now progressed without much effort or notice on his part. He continued to hum over his numbers, and lived for the hours after work and after Jay’s performances in the theatre. Those precious minutes when only they two inhabited the world.
All of Nigel’s restless need to leave the house dissipated. In fact, he was impatient with any time spent away from home. Why listen to music or watch a play when they might be alone together? Nothing fascinated him more than Jay’s conversation, Jay’s laughter, Jay’s crooning sweet songs to him, Jay’s body.
The dry, sensible voice inside reminded him that this sort of infatuation couldn’t last or great portions of the population would walk around befuddled. But until that particular sun set in his world, he was out in the light, nearly dazzled by joy.
He tried to come up with ways to suggest that Jay remain with him and never go back to Paris. How wonderful it would be to come home to Jay every evening, greeting him at the door. They might go to the seaside together. And soon they’d go to the country. Yes, he’d try to arrange some leave before the winter set in properly.
Nigel found the opening he needed when Jay came home exhausted and complaining one night. “The audiences are shrinking, not growing. I think Mr. Height fails to spread the word about his music hall.”
“Perhaps you could quit?” Nigel asked. He stopped pretending to examine the post and shifted back on his heels. “In fact, you could leave the profession altogether if you wished.”
“And survive on a diet of air, I suppose?”
“I’d support you. I would be so glad to do that for as long as you needed me to.” For the rest of our lives, he wanted to say, but didn’t dare.
He expected Jay to break into a happy smile. Instead, Jay tilted his head to the side and examined Nigel, his mouth a thin line.
“There’s a word for people who do that, and it’s not polite,” Jay said at last. Easy-going Jay rarely had steel in his voice, but clearly something ruffled his calm.
Nigel frowned. The only word he could think of was “wife”, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to say it out loud. “Well, I say, one doesn’t expect you to organize the household accounting or arrange menus or that sort of thing. Whatever it is they do all day.”
Jay’s scowl vanished, and he began to laugh.
“What’s so amusing?”
“You were thinking of the word ‘wife’, weren’t you?”
Nigel nodded. “But naturally I shan’t think of you that way.” Although, come to think of it, wife came dangerously close to the role he’d assigned to Jay.
“The word I came up with also started with ‘W’—whore,” Jay said.
“What? No, no.” Nigel waved a hand as if erasing it from the air. He scratched the back of his neck. “From what I understand, the, ah, objectionable part of that…that kind of thing…”
“Whoring,” Jay supplied. He no longer seemed upset. Instead, he wore a warm smile.
“Yes. That. Beyond the, ah, sexual nature of the profession…” He stalled out.
Jay sniggered again. “We are well past worrying about that, I suppose. Go on. What were you going to say?”
“The people who do that kind of thing only pretend the affection. Do you see? I think you have real regard for me, and I do for you and…and…” He hated the fact that his face went hot, for he knew he turned red. He hurried on before Jay should think he was fishing for some kind of declaration of affection. “Forgetting all the words that start with W or X or Y, what I suggest is a reasonable solution. You stay here. We carry on as we are now doing.”
Thinking about the “carrying on” brought up some exciting pictures. His face drew into an involuntary leer.
“Ah, Nigel, you do tempt a man.”
“Excellent. Give in to temptation. We shall live as two comfortable old friends sharing lodging. Nothing suspect in that.”
Jay shook his head. “I’m already shrinking. I miss my life in Paris, and, try as I might, I can’t reproduce it here.”
Nigel gnawed the edge of his thumbnail. This was disastrous. Jay would succumb to his need for his old life and fly away. There was only one solution.
Nigel declared, “We should go out. Yes, we’ll find something pleasant to do here in London. I know there are places where men gather who are… Places where men who prefer—”
Jay interrupted. “They gather to find people to fuck.”
Nigel winced at the word but carried on. “I am not certain how to find a spot you’d find amusing or people you’d appreciate, but I will find them. London is not a wasteland.”
“I’m aware of the spots to go. Remember, I lived here most of my life. Although these places tend to shift and move and I have been away for four years.” Jay threw his coat on a chair, then walked over to Nigel and pulled him into a hug. “Anyway, I am tired tonight, and that’s why I complained. I appreciate you, and I’d love to show you how much. I have something that will liven me up in no time at all.”
The coca elixir contained in Jay’s little vials appeared to simultaneously relax and invigorate him. Although Nigel refused Jay’s offer for him to try it, he could not see that it did his friend any harm. But there certainly seemed to be a never-ending supply of the stuff. Nigel couldn’t help wondering how Jay replenished it and if he might have some difficulty going through a day without it.
The next day at work, Nigel walked from his office to the counter, where a man named Mr. Culpepper perched, as always surprisingly elegant for someone on a tall stool. Nigel rarely exchanged any words with Culpepper, who was handsome and tended to gaze at him as if vaguely surprised that such an unworthy being shared air with him.
He was extraordinarily well-dressed for a man on a clerk’s salary, and his hair was parted in the middle, slicked back and glossy, not a strand out of place.
“May I help you, sir?” Culpepper put down his pencil and slid off the stool. “Have I gotten any sums wrong?”
“No, not at all.”
“Oh, sainted mother. That’s such a relief.” Culpepper’s exaggerated response made Nigel want to smile, though he mustn’t encourage his cheek. The man managed to exude a total lack of respect without ever using any disrespectful language. It was a talent that drove most of his superio
rs to the brink of firing him. Nigel had always rather admired the way he didn’t seem to give a snap about any of them.
Nigel said, “I have a friend visiting from Paris, and he’s bored with London. I thought perhaps you might have some suggestions for places we might go that are entertaining.”
“Me?” Culpepper’s usual sneer transformed into an actual smile. He grabbed a piece of foolscap and his pencil, scribbled some words and handed them over. “I think I know what you want.” His voice dropped to a confidential whisper, which naturally made other clerks at the counter look up. “Mind you don’t allow anyone from this place to see you there. Although I suppose if you should see one of us there, then neither you nor the other gent will talk.”
“I don’t want anything too risqué, Culpepper.” Nigel felt a twinge of alarm. He’d wanted to entertain Jay and to keep him happy. He did not want to hurt his own reputation or damage his family name.
One more time he was reminded that, in the eyes of society, he’d done more than besmirch himself. He’d broken all sorts of rules, ecumenical, judicial—not to mention the laws of good taste. For a brief moment, horror seized him. But he was used to those moments of dismay by now. They never struck when he was with Jay, nor when he thought about Jay—only when he thought about the rest of the world. The deep-down consternation hit now, but he only froze for a second or two.
“This is not a comprehensive list, Mr. Warren. Not by any means.” Culpepper’s smile still appeared genuine. His voice dropped again. “If anyone else here had asked, I would’ve professed ignorance. But you’re a straight arrow. You wouldn’t go babbling about the bank like a merry brook.”
