When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  Thank you, he mutters.

  Instead of handing it over, the carney lets the pony drop on the pile of other soft toys then turns away to serve another customer. Colin reaches over and picks it up.

  When Roxy comes back, wielding a burger and a bright pink cloud of candyfloss, he brandishes the pony at her. She squeals and skips in the air.

  You won me Rainbow Dash! My hero!

  Bought it actually. Cost me forty quid from that shark behind the counter.

  Roxy’s shoulders drop and she hands the burger to Colin then takes the giant pony with her spare hand. Colin feels the sting of her disappointment.

  What’s the difference? says Colin.

  What are you talking about?

  No, tell me, Rocks.

  It’s fine. It was very sweet of you.

  You’re bullshitting.

  I know I’m being ridiculous.

  About what?

  You were meant to win it for me. That’s what happens in the films.

  Fine. If you don’t want it.

  He takes the pony off her and drops it in an overflowing litter bin, where it perches as if about to take flight on its little rainbow wings. Scowling, she immediately rescues the pony from the bin but it has upended a beaker of some blue sticky drink, and its contents are soaked into the mane.

  Look what you’ve made me do.

  Roxy. Stop it. I’ll buy you a real pony if you want one.

  She laughs, then notices his flat tone.

  You’re serious, aren’t you?

  Of course I am.

  Why would you do that?

  Colin mutters something.

  Can’t hear you, says Roxy.

  Cos I bloody love you, don’t I?

  Roxy stares at him, then decides to skim over it.

  It’s not going to be much fun keeping a pony on the balcony of the flat in Hammersmith.

  We can move to the country. Clean air. Peace and quiet.

  Boredom. Lights out at nine.

  They walk on in silence for several minutes until the air heals and no more thunder can be heard. Roxy is still clinging to the sticky Rainbow Dash with one arm, while her bag hangs loosely from the other.

  She finds herself to be faintly stunned. It is the first time Colin has ever told her that he loves her. She keeps turning the phrase over in her head like a gewgaw in a flea market that may be junk or precious.

  Can we go in here?

  She is pointing to a hall of mirrors.

  Colin nods, pays the entrance fee, and they press through the narrow entrance.

  Roxy stands in front of the first one and sees her body stretch and elevate. She bursts out laughing.

  Hey look at me! I’m skinny!

  But Colin is standing in front of his own mirror, fascinated. It makes his head huge and his body tiny.

  Bighead! calls Roxy.

  Colin moves on to the next one. This time it makes his stomach enormous and his mouth tiny. He finds this disturbing, as if it has captured his inner life, and switches his eyes back to Roxy.

  Now Roxy is standing in front of a mirror that squashes her outward so she is short and fat.

  Now this is what I call fat.

  Next to her is a real mirror, which gives her the true image.

  Suddenly I feel undernourished.

  Next, they go on the merry-go-round. Up and down. Round and round. Going nowhere. When they finally get off, Roxy, still holding the pony, looks like she is going to be sick. She even bends for a moment as if to puke.

  As she bends, out of nowhere a hooded figure – a skeletal man with waxy skin and black stubble – materializes from the shadows and makes a grab at Roxy’s new handbag. Roxy screams and holds on furiously. Colin, without hesitation, leaps at the figure and they struggle. Then another figure appears from behind the first one, tall and powerful, and punches Colin square in the face.

  Colin falls to the ground. Roxy screams again, but still will not let go of the bag. Colin is bleeding heavily from the nose. The thieves, seeing the attention they have drawn from the crowd, finally give up and run back behind the tents. Colin, on the floor, has his legs drawn up into a foetal position.

  Roxy feels a rush of tenderness at this display of chivalry. She bends down beside him, takes a make-up cleansing wipe out of the bag, which she keeps clutched tight to her chest, and wipes his face. He looks up at her, winded and helpless. He mutters something which she can’t quite hear.

  What? Do I want to be carried? It looks like you need carrying more than me.

  Do you want to get married, I said, says Colin, faintly.

  What?

  Do you want to be married? I mean – will you marry me?

  The merry-go-round starts up again and the noise increases. Roxy watches a little boy sit and watch them, serenely eating a toffee apple. Everyone else is ignoring Colin on the floor.

  What – to you?

  Of course to me. You . . . silly tart.

  He begins to laugh, which seems to cause him pain, and he stops.

  I don’t know, says Roxy.

  I’m sorry. I’m not doing this right.

  He forces himself to sit upright, and blood pours out of his nose down his fleece.

  You’ve ruined your new jacket.

  But will you? says Colin, persisting.

  I don’t know, says Roxy.

  Oh. Okay.

  The merry-go-round gradually decelerates and grinds to a halt. Roxy sees his disappointment, the crumpling of his face, his struggle to control it.

  The lights blur in her mind from the shock of the attempted robbery. The alcohol and candyfloss curdling in her stomach. Everything is whorls and colours. It is all madness and unreason. Swirling, rocking, rising, falling.

  Look, says Colin. I’ve got something.

  He reaches in the zip pocket of his bloodied fleece and takes out a blue velvet box.

  Will you? says Colin.

  The carousel music begins to slow, the horses becoming sluggish, weary.

  She opens the box, inspects the ring that it contains in astonishment. The diamond on it is large. Very large.

  Maybe, says Roxy.

  Colin, tasting blood, smiles.

  * * *

  Leaving the Loftus Road ground with Owen feels strange to Nodge. Fraser is shuttling back and forth to Ibiza for three more days. Nodge doesn’t ask him what he gets up to while he’s away. He left that morning with nothing more than a peck on the cheek for Nodge, who was staying over at his flat to look after Harvey.

  Nodge has said nothing to Fraser about Owen. Not, he tells himself, because there is anything suspicious about him meeting up with Owen but because Fraser, despite being openly promiscuous himself, is also always unreasonably jealous.

  He and Owen walk slowly towards the Bush Ranger along the Goldhawk Road. The game against Bristol City was pedestrian, even after Kevin Gallen scored a penalty in the nineteenth minute and sealed a weary victory.

  Shall we got and get a drink? says Nodge.

  Love to.

  Owen leans over and kisses him on the cheek. Nodge turns away.

  You heard what I told you before. About loyalty.

  Look, it’s the only gays in the village!

  A knot of lager-can-wielding Bristol City fans, having noticed the kiss, are leering at them and shouting. Nodge and Owen ignore the hooligans and carry on walking.

  Nodge takes his Blackberry out to check his messages. Just the normal – Frankie complaining about Veronica giving him a hard time, Fraser wanting to check that he’d fed the dog and taken him for a walk, his sister asking him to babysit his nieces.

  His thinking is interrupted by a faintly familiar voice drifting out of the crowd. Even before he consciously realizes who it is, Nodge feels the muscles in his back knit with tension.

  Love still blooms, eh, Nodge?

  Nodge turns and finds himself face to face with Tony Diamonte, handsome as ever, sinuous, imposing, serpentine. The two of them are rooted to th
e spot for a moment.

  Who’s this geeze? says Tony, casually nodding towards Owen, as if he and Nodge had never fallen out, although it has been four years since he last set eyes him.

  He contemplates ignoring Tony, cannot find it in himself.

  This is Owen. Owen, this is Diamond Tony. An old . . . acquaintance of mine.

  Nice to meet you, Owen. Tony holds out a hand. Owen takes it and Tony crushes his fingers.

  They were crap, weren’t they? says Tony.

  So what’s new? says Owen.

  They have their moments, says Tony. We all have our moments.

  Nodge is still staring at Tony. The money is still on him. He guesses a Margaret Howell shirt. Farhi trousers. And that old Nick Ashley red silk-lined Crombie that he used to wear back in the day. But they all look a bit tatty, a bit tired. The crowd swirls around them, pushing them this way and that.

  It’s good to see you, Nodge. You’re looking well. Fit.

  Haven’t seen you since the golf game, responds Nodge, at the same time looking around for a means of escape. That didn’t go well.

  No. But at least I won.

  You didn’t win. Frankie did.

  Except that he cheated.

  Never proven. The result stands.

  Well. Bygones and all that. How was Frankie’s wedding?

  Few years ago now. Look, Tony . . .

  I wasn’t invited.

  I’m aware of that.

  The pressure of the crowd increases.

  We should get a drink sometime. You, me and the boys. Colin and Frankie. The old crew.

  Nodge says nothing.

  You should come along, Taffy. We used to be great friends, me and Nodge.

  Owen. My name is Owen.

  I’m assuming you’re Welsh. Ow-en. He puts on a Welsh singsong.

  Things change, says Nodge.

  They’ve certainly changed for me, says Tony, his face set in a mirthless smile which Nodge cannot read.

  The weight of the crowd cannot be resisted anymore. They are caught up in two different streams.

  Tony reaches in his pocket and produces a card.

  Take it, he says, the smile dissolving into something more genuine, something like affection. And say hello to Frankie for me.

  He passes the card. Then the river of fans takes him and propels him away, swiftly out of sight, while Nodge and Owen are carried in the opposite direction.

  They are back on the Uxbridge Road before they are released from the grip of the crowd, passing police horses, stewards in yellow tabards, hot dog stands.

  Everyone’s wearing one of those fucking tabards nowadays.

  EU law, says Nodge, still dazed. Health and safety. Like a virus. The world is going to turn reflective yellow.

  So who’s this ‘Diamond Tony’? asks Owen.

  Someone I knew once.

  What was the golf game?

  We all had a game of golf together. It didn’t turn out well. In fact it was the end of everything between us. I don’t want to talk about it.

  He takes Tony’s card out of his pocket. It is decorated with a skull and crossbones and reads

  ANTHONY DIAMONTE

  Pirate Hairdresser

  ‘I’ll come to your home and cut you’

  Good-looking guy, says Owen.

  I haven’t really given it much thought.

  Is he queer? I can usually tell, but I’m not sure about him.

  Standard Alpha male unless he’s undergone a conversion.

  The crowd is still thinning out. They are now approaching the Bush Ranger on the Goldhawk Road.

  I’m sorry, says Owen.

  What about?

  That I kissed you. It was stupid. Especially in front of that pack of bumpkins.

  Doesn’t matter.

  It was wrong of me. You told me it was off limits. It’s just that . . . I find you very attractive.

  Nodge grimaces doubtfully.

  Sure you do.

  But I do.

  Shall we get that drink? I’m parched.

  They enter the pub and go up to the first floor terrace. The tables outside are packed, but inside, it’s reasonably quiet. Owen goes to the bar and orders a pint of Stella and a Diet Coke for Nodge.

  I’m starving, he says when he returns with the drinks. I’ve ordered us a couple of pepperoni pizzas. You’re not a veggie, are you, or anything?

  Nodge shakes his head. He takes a sip of his lager, and checks his watch.

  Do you mind if I sit next to you?

  Very cosy, says Owen.

  The food arrives with surprising rapidity.

  I suspect the involvement of a microwave, says Owen, prodding at the soggy crust with his finger.

  Nodge begins to pick at the salad on the side of the plate while Owen tucks in.

  Not as bad as you’d expect, says Owen.

  I’m not that hungry, says Nodge.

  You weren’t hungry last time we met either.

  So?

  Now Nodge seems irritated. Minutes later, Owen has nearly finished his food while Nodge’s remains more or less untouched.

  I used to have a girlfriend, says Owen. Well, a fag hag really – and for years she would always sit next to me. I thought it was because she liked me. Or was even flirting with me.

  Without even noticing that he’s doing it, Nodge pushes the plate half an inch away from him.

  So she turned out to have an eating disorder. She couldn’t stand people watching her eat. It disgusted her. If she sat next to them, she didn’t have to see them watching her.

  That’s interesting, says Nodge.

  Are you sure you’re not hungry? says Owen.

  Nodge listlessly picks up a sliver of rubbery cheese and chews disinterestedly on it.

  I’m really not, as a matter of fact.

  Mind if I . . . ?

  Not at all.

  Owen reaches over and starts to wolf down the food. Nodge sucks joylessly on his Diet Coke.

  How long have you not been hungry for then? says Owen, cautiously.

  Without warning, Nodge flushes and turns on him.

  What the fuck are you talking about?

  Don’t get angry. What’s the matter?

  I’m sick of you playing fucking mind games with me. Who are you, anyway? Some bloke I met at the gym for five minutes.

  Come on, Nodge . . .

  But Nodge is on his feet.

  This is stupid. I’ve got a boyfriend. I don’t know what I’m doing out with you. I don’t know what I’m doing. Let’s just cut our losses, shall we? See you around.

  Nodge walks out of the bar, leaving Owen staring into the depths of his lager, as if looking for clues there.

  * * *

  Nodge heads back to Fraser’s, still dressed in his blue and white hoops. He can’t let go of the anger, or quite understand where the anger comes from or why it is has surfaced with such force.

  The lights, to his surprise, at Fraser’s flat are switched on. On the sofa, in his boxer shorts, laid out, his perfect body shining in the half-light, is Fraser, Harvey at his feet.

  Surprise, says Fraser, without looking up from the DVD he is watching.

  Pretending to be undaunted, Nodge picks up the DVD box and reads the title.

  ‘Charlie’s Angels’. Really?

  It’s a classic.

  What are you doing here then?

  Flight cancelled. Some kind of terrorist scare apparently. They’ll probably blame it on Muslims anyway, even if it’s an abandoned sandwich box.

  Nodge reaches across and kisses him on the lips. Fraser barely responds.

  Get me a drink, would you, love?

  What do you want?

  A Prosecco would be lovely.

  Nodge goes to the fridge, takes his scarf off.

  Aren’t you going to ask where I’ve been, says Nodge, as he pops the cork and pours the drink.

  No, says Fraser. Though I’m imagining, from the blue and white hoops you’re wearing and the
overpowering smell of communal male sweat, that you’ve been to the ballet.

  It would just be nice if you showed an interest.

  Nodge hands him his Prosecco. Fraser takes it without saying thank you. Nodge goes back to the kitchen, and returns with a beer and a small packet of taco chips. Fraser shoots him a look, and Nodge leaves the packet unopened.

  Can I watch the football results?

  In a minute. So who did you go with?

  Nodge takes a sip of the beer which he does not enjoy. He feels the tightness of his belt at his waist. He feels the pull of his shirt on his stomach muscles with their pad of fat.

  What makes you think I went with anyone?

  Isn’t that what football fans do? Bonding over primitive chants of abuse?

  I saw an old friend.

  Fraser has taken up the remote, Nodge assumes to switch it to the football results. But instead he presses the fast-forward button.

  Do you remember me telling you about Tony Diamonte?

  Who?

  Tony Diamonte. Diamond Tony.

  Vaguely.

  Me and Frankie and Colin and him were all best friends. You remember. And he turned out to be a homophobe.

  Can’t remember.

  And a racist. And a drug addict.

  Is he the one that went bankrupt? The hairdresser?

  That’s him.

  You showed me some photos once, I think. What’s wrong with this fucking thing?

  Fraser is shaking the remote angrily.

  Probably run out of battery.

  Very good-looking guy? Horns and the hand round his neck?

  That’s the one.

  Fraser gives up with the remote.

  You might as well watch your results.

  He lifts himself off the sofa in a single fluid movement. His muscles ripple under his skin. The soft bulge in his boxers. Nodge reaches out a hand and strokes his stomach as he passes.

  I’m tired. I’ve been stuck at the airport all day. Go and have a wank or something.

  Fraser drains what is left of his Prosecco, and disappears into his bedroom.

  Nodge goes back into the kitchen and silently opens the packet of taco chips. He puts one in his mouth and, very quietly, begins to chew. A minute later the packet is gone.

  Ten minutes later he goes to the loo and throws up, closing the door tightly so Fraser will not hear him.

  * * *

  Later that night, when Fraser is in bed, Nodge picks up the phone and dials Owen’s number. Owen picks up immediately.