Home Stretch

by Graham Norton

  ‘It wasn’t me really. It was Finbarr and Luke did all the work. I don’t know what time they must have got out of here last night. Oh, there’s Shane, I have to talk to him, will you—’

  ‘Away you go. Have a great night. All of you.’ Bill turned to leave, unsure of what else might be appropriate to say on such an occasion. A gay wedding. Had he ever thought he would live to see the day?

  Bill might have been perplexed, but Finbarr was truly shocked that this day had come. Over the years he had never stopped looking for the one, but his commitment to the dating game was similar to the way he approached most areas of his life. Effort suggested he cared and that way lay failure and disappointment. Nobody had lasted more than a month or two. Having spent so many years swatting away unwelcome attention it had begun to chip away at his granite cliff of confidence that perhaps he wasn’t capable of having a relationship now that he felt ready for one.

  When he first met Luke, it had not been promising. He was a mature student who had left his family business, a chain of high-end homeware stores, to do a masters in art history at Trinity College. They had met through the exhibition at the National Library. Luke knew the archivist and had been on hand to help during the installation. It was as if Luke was actively afraid someone might find him attractive. He hid his tall thin frame inside oversized corduroy suit jackets, while thick curtains of hair fell to hide his pale face. Finbarr instantly dismissed him as some sort of sexless geek. The first hint he had that Luke might be something else was one morning when they arrived together and without warning Luke began to do an impression of Jack, the small boy from the movie Room.

  ‘Good morning, door. Good morning, lamp. Good morning, exhibition. Good morning, marriage equality.’

  Finbarr laughed and Luke glanced at him shyly and smiled. As the morning went on, they found themselves kneeling together as they assembled the support poles for the exhibition stands. Finbarr was humming a song by The Weeknd and suddenly Luke joined in singing, ‘I can’t feel my face when I’m with you, but I love it.’

  Finbarr rocked back on his heels and laughed again. ‘Nice voice.’

  ‘Why, thank you very much.’ Luke tucked a lock of hair behind an ear and looked at him. He had high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. His face reminded Finbarr of a portrait he loved in the National Gallery next door; he thought it was by Goya. The two young men began to chat and learn about each other’s lives. Finbarr was surprised to discover that at thirty-two, Luke was older than him, but he was also knowledgeable and funny, talking about all sorts of things from new movies to obscure books. By lunchtime Finbarr had a strong sense that he would develop feelings for this man. They ate their sandwiches together, went for a drink after they had finished for the day, and had been more or less inseparable ever since.

  Finbarr had assumed that there would come a day after the first couple of months when he would grow bored or meet somebody new to tempt him away. But every day when he woke up he found he was as happy as the morning before to find Luke on the next pillow. After six months Finbarr gave up his room in the flat he shared and moved in with Luke, who lived in a smart two-bedroomed apartment in Rathmines that he freely admitted had been bought for him by his parents. After Luke got his MA in art history, he was lured back to the family business with the ego-boosting job title of brand director and an appropriately generous pay cheque. While this news pleased Finbarr, he soon grew tired of friends rolling their eyes or giving knowing looks, as if it was inevitable that he was dating someone with money. While he was happy to admit that it was indeed a part of the attraction, he failed to see how that was a bad thing. He noticed that none of these friends observing him from the moral high ground were going out with some hot homeless guy, but he would never say such a thing out loud. He just laughed off his reputation as a kept man, never attempting to defend himself. He could have pointed out that he hadn’t given up his job; in fact he was working harder than ever because he occasionally did freelance jobs for Luke. But what was the point?

  Getting married had never been part of the plan. One Sunday evening they had decided to walk out to the Poolbeg Lighthouse. They were about halfway along the South Wall, heads down against the wind blasting in from Dublin Bay, and Finbarr was silently cursing his boyfriend and his big ‘let’s go for a walk’ idea. He could tell that Luke was saying something but it was hard to hear him with the wind rattling through the hood of his waterproof jacket. Finally, Luke tugged at his sleeve and brought the walk to a halt. His face peered in at Finbarr. ‘Well?’ His voice was raised against the storm and the surf.

  ‘Well what?’ Finbarr sounded mildly irritated. This walk was going to take long enough without stopping for no good reason.

  ‘Were you not listening to me?’

  ‘Not really. The wind. This hood. What is it?’

  Luke shook his head and smiled. He spoke slowly and clearly.

  ‘I am asking you, Finbarr Coulter, if you would like to marry me?’

  A gasp of surprise and then a wave of certainty that Finbarr had never thought he’d feel. There was not a hint of doubt in his mind as he looked at the man opposite, with the long unkempt hair dancing about his face, and the dark eyes that had only ever showed him kindness and love.

  ‘Yes.’ Yes, he did want to spend the rest of his life with this man.

  Luke’s eyes welled up and they kissed each other as the wind and spray pummelled them from either side.

  Now here they were, ten months later in matching suits, greeting guests as they arrived at the garden centre. It probably wouldn’t have been Finbarr’s first choice as a venue, but Luke was a devoted Tolkien geek and fell in love with Shane’s new café. The tables were all named after various locations in the books. Finbarr had drawn the line at the suggestion of fancy dress. ‘I want to be able to look at these wedding photographs in years to come and not be embarrassed.’

  The invitations had been printed on mock parchment, with a pen and ink drawing of Luke and Finbarr above some elvish script that declared them ‘The Lords of the Rings’. Connor had howled with laughter when he had opened the envelope. He wasn’t going to let Finbarr forget this in a hurry. That boy must really love Luke to send this out to all their friends and family. Connor had happily accepted the invitation. It was a good excuse to head back to Mullinmore and see his family again, though he did wonder how the town was going to react to an actual gay wedding. The invitation was a plus one, but Connor thought it best he go alone. He was still technically single (he felt a semi-regular Grindr hook-up didn’t qualify as a relationship) so to bring Tim or a friend would just have confused his parents. Besides, he was flying using Tim’s air miles so asking for two seats might have been pushing his luck.

  It was Ellen who suggested that he ask Linda: ‘Even if she doesn’t want to come, she’ll appreciate being asked.’ Connor had sent her an email assuming that she would decline but in fact the response was an enthusiastic yes. It seemed that Linda had finally begun to turn her life around. She had discovered that one of the taxis in town was wheelchair-friendly and the mere thought of not having to rely on her parents had spurred her on to go out. She had been to see Ellen and Shane in the bungalow and went to the Historical Society once a month. Her life was hardly a social whirl but even those few outings gave her things to talk about with her mother. The atmosphere in the house had shifted, lightened.

  At the beginning of August, about five weeks before the wedding, Connor was enjoying his first beer on his balcony. He still lived in Nyack but now rented a small one-bedroomed apartment in a new development. He missed the grand old house, but this was in a better part of town, had both heating and air conditioning and, on nights like this one, a better view of the Palisades stretching away towards the city. His phone rang. It was Finbarr. He immediately assumed it was going to be something to do with the wedding. As he answered he was trying to think of reasonable excuses for refusing to make a speech or even raise a toast.

  ‘Uncle Connor?’<
br />
  ‘Hi, Finbarr. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good. Luke has agreed that we can wear shoes, so that’s something.’

  Connor chuckled. ‘Is he calling you his “precious” in the vows?’

  ‘Shut up! The invitation was as bad as it’s going to get. He’s really normal, I swear. You’re going to like him.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ It was sweet. Connor could tell that his nephew was completely besotted by this Luke. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

  There was a worrying silence.

  ‘Mmmm. Something’s happened and I just wanted to let you know. Give you a heads-up, I suppose.’

  ‘Right.’ Connor wondered what on earth this piece of news could be.

  ‘It’s Daddy. He asked if he can come to the wedding.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know. I know. I told him about it, and he asked if I wanted him to be there and I couldn’t really say no, could I?’

  Connor thought that was precisely what he should have said, but instead replied, ‘Of course. I understand. How does your mother feel about it?’

  ‘She’s OK. She understands.’

  Connor wondered if she really did.

  In fact, when Finbarr had broken the news to Ellen, she had only asked one question. ‘Is he bringing anyone?’

  Her son had looked surprised, as if the thought of his father having a new partner had never crossed his mind.

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

  Ellen had nodded, hoping that she looked unconcerned. Inwardly she was relieved. At least it meant Martin wasn’t going to upstage Finbarr and Luke with the revelation of some shiny new life he had acquired in Britain. She watched her son scrolling through emails at her kitchen table. Should she tell him everything she knew about Martin’s life? No. What was the point? If his father ever decided to be open or honest then it was his decision. Ellen was not going to be the messenger who was shot. She had had enough of being painted as the baddie in dramas that had nothing to do with her. She had already had this conversation with Shane, and he agreed.

  Shane’s face had been a perfect mixture of fear and confusion, quickly followed by relief, when he had come home four years earlier to find Ellen sitting with a handsome man, sharing a bottle of red wine. His girlfriend’s eyes had glittered with a hint of mania when she saw him and announced, ‘This is Gilles. He’s an old friend of Martin’s.’

  Earlier that afternoon, when Ellen had invited Gilles in from the doorstep, the truth had emerged fairly quickly. Her visitor had asked all the right questions, clearly not wanting to cause too much upset – ‘Are you still married?’ ‘Where does Martin live now?’ – and Ellen had done her own detective work: ‘Were you friends in Dublin?’ ‘Was it the Hilton you stayed at?’

  Martin and Gilles had met on a website. Gilles had not known he was married. He had known he was a doctor and he remembered he had spoken about his practice in Mullinmore. The Frenchman worked for a finance company in Paris and had made frequent business trips to Dublin. Soon, seeing Martin became a regular part of those visits. Gilles blushed and looked away into the corner of the room as he spoke. His accent was charming, giving his story an air of romance it really didn’t deserve. In an effort to use the English pronunciation, when he said Martin’s name the ‘i’ became an elongated ‘e’. Ellen thought it made the controlling prick she had been married to sound feminine and exotic. She found herself feeling sorry for the man in her front room. A fool who had allowed himself to develop feelings for Martin Coulter, in the belief that he was capable of returning them.

  ‘I thought that Martin was my boyfriend. We talked of a life together. I was moving to Dublin to be with him.’

  Ellen just listened, trying not to let her face betray any shock or surprise. Perhaps she didn’t feel either of those things. Maybe this was the story she had been waiting to hear all along. She sat very still as if any sudden movement might spook this timid creature that had unexpectedly found itself in her house. Ellen needn’t have worried. Having begun to share his story, Gilles felt compelled to continue.

  Martin had suddenly been very keen for their new life to begin. He had called Gilles and told him that he had moved to Dublin and that he was waiting for him. The Frenchman shook his head and laughed softly at his own foolishness.

  ‘I ran. I came back to Dublin as fast as possible, but Martin was already gone. I called, sent emails, but nothing. I found the number for his clinic here, I think. I left messages. My heart, it was broken. You understand how stupid I felt?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Ellen confirmed with feeling. She understood only too well.

  ‘I went home. I tried to forget. I even changed jobs so I would have no trips to Dublin. Finally, I met someone else. We are still together. We are happy.’

  Ellen smiled. ‘Good. That’s good.’

  His story seemed at an end, but Ellen still didn’t know why he was sitting in her front room.

  Gilles exhaled and gave an exaggerated shrug, like someone doing an impersonation of a French person. ‘So now, these years later, I’m back in Dublin on business and I’m thinking about Martin. I thought finally he might be able to see me, to explain what happened, so I hired a car and …’ He indicated Ellen. She was what he had discovered.

  Glancing at her watch, she asked, ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

  Gilles’ face suggested he thought that was an excellent suggestion.

  ‘Red OK?’

  ‘Yes please. It’s very kind of you.’

  When she returned from the kitchen, she was holding two very full glasses. She had deliberately chosen the new ones with the different-coloured stems. Was it wrong that she wanted her ex-husband’s ex-boyfriend to notice, to admire them?

  ‘It’s not French. South African, I think,’ she apologised.

  ‘Santé!’

  ‘Yes. And to you,’ Ellen said uncertainly.

  Once she was settled back in her chair, she felt she should try and fill in some of the blanks for this man.

  ‘All I know is that Martin is in Southampton, in England, working. We’re divorced, finally. I can’t really tell you anything more.’

  ‘Did he talk about me? How much did you know about this side of his life?’

  A sip of wine. ‘Nothing. He never spoke of anyone else. I didn’t even know he was in Dublin. I know that makes me seem very stupid, but …’ How could she explain it? ‘But I just wasn’t curious. Our marriage, it wasn’t what you might imagine. Now …’ She thought about her life with Shane. ‘Now, I understand how unhappy I was but at the time I didn’t, not really.’

  Gilles nodded as if he understood. Ellen wondered if he did.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think you were very lucky,’ she said.

  A raised eyebrow. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A lucky escape. You had a lucky escape.’

  Gilles laughed. ‘Yes. Yes, now I think this too.’

  There was a click at the door and then in walked a startled Shane.

  If someone had asked Ellen years before how she would feel if she discovered she was married to a gay man, she would have said that she’d feel humiliated and betrayed. Oddly, when it finally happened, what she felt was vindicated. She wanted to tell everyone the truth about Martin, so that they might understand the oddness of her marriage and how its failure had nothing to do with her. It was Shane who had talked her out of any mass announcements. He had no desire for Martin and Ellen’s old life to take centre stage again. ‘What’s the point, love?’ he had asked her. ‘We’re happy, aren’t we? So, just leave it.’ She knew that he was right, and she stayed silent.

  Afterwards she thought of Connor. If Martin had known about him, had her brother known about Martin? Had they ever? No. Surely not. She wondered if she should ask Connor, but without airing her suspicions, not even to Shane, she had decided not to. Just to ask the question would be forcing her brother to lie and then she would never know the answer, not really, and that wou
ld be worse, wouldn’t it? She had heard enough, learned all she wanted to about the marriage she had survived. She had Shane, and finally there was a second chance for her with a man who actually cared about her and their happiness.

  Now, here she stood, clutching Shane’s arm. Everyone was gathered in their wedding finery, making a fuss of the happy couple, but some eyes kept darting to the door. Was that him? Would he have changed very much? When he did finally appear, it was behind a group of people so that there was no grand reveal, just a man looking older than his years, stepping away from some other bodies. His hair had thinned considerably, really it was more like the suggestion of hair, and the skin of his face had begun to sag. Connor found himself staring for a moment, shocked to see how the years had turned Martin into a faded version of his father. Even his dark suit looked old-fashioned and ill-fitting. It was Aisling who had rushed up to him with a squeal of ‘Daddy!’ Ellen caught Connor’s eye and they smirked at one another.

  Connor wondered what she thought of her daughter. Her hair was so blond and heavy with extensions that it looked like a wig. The dress she had chosen was a pretty shade of cornflower blue, but the shoulder straps were biting into the extra flesh she had gained following the end of her engagement. She had discovered that Philip, the ex-rugby player, didn’t fully understand the concept of monogamy. In fact, it seemed he hadn’t understood it with every woman under forty who worked for the firm. Aisling had comforted herself by keeping the ring and treating herself to desserts. It had also helped that his parents, out of embarrassment she assumed, had given her a bright red Mini Cooper. It was astonishing how a new car could help you move on.

  Ellen felt guilty for preferring this version of her daughter; or maybe it was that after Aisling’s humiliation, she felt more connected to her mother. Whatever the reason, the two women found they were closer than they had been since she was a little girl. Aisling had even, voluntarily, spent a few weekends in Mullinmore, staying in the bungalow with her mother and Shane. Ellen felt there might be hope for her daughter now that she seemed to understand that there was more to life than collecting shiny things and party invitations. When she heard Aisling enthusing about her new car, however, she did think that her daughter might still have some room for improvement.