He starts walking, his strides taking him ahead of me, as I almost have to run to keep up with him. He’s a bloke’s bloke, like my father. My dad always walked way ahead of my mother, only turning around once in a while to tell us to hurry up, always in an irritated voice. He was always stressed. Always late. Always seemed embarrassed as my mother hurried us along. He’s more relaxed now, all free and retired and enjoying long days of reading the papers on his laptop and pretending he’s still working. He’s not, but I suppose he has earned his lazy days. My parents. They have been good to me, but right now, I’m happy I’m here and not stuck in their guest room feeling like a nuisance over Christmas.
We stop in front of a grey door of one of the converted townhouses, with all the ‘For Sale’ and ‘For Rent’ signs out the front. That is usually a clear sign that these are cold and unloved badly designed boxes that nobody lives in for long. I suddenly dread what we will find inside, perhaps a mould-infested, damp, basement room, with soiled sheets and dirty teacups?
He fiddles with the key, and opens the door, letting me step inside what turns out to be a warm and cosy hallway, leading to a small kitchen with an open-plan area to the side. He has a huge bed, nicely made with blankets and crisp white sheets. A small sofa full of remote controls, and the floor sports a random selection of socks, half-full cups of tea and discarded food wrappers.
He’s my kind of man. It’s warm, clean and lived in, and I happily kick off my shoes and throw myself on the sofa, laughing out loud as the cushions let me sink in. It’s comfortable. I could live here. I could sink into this life, a life where I live with someone like Luca, and spend my evenings on a sofa like this, where he would love me and kiss me, and things would be a little brighter.
But, this is not my life, and I get up, feeling a little stupid again.
“Sit down. I’ll make tea.” He grunts.
“Go shower, get some dry clothes on, and I’ll make tea. You’re soaked.” I say instead, looking at the wet patches on his jeans, his sodden socks and the puddle of water on the floor under the hook where he has hung up his raincoat.
He looks at me like I now have three heads, then he walks off to what I assume is the bathroom.
Not that I can nosey around much in his tiny flat, but I have a good look around his kitchen as I can hear the shower running, and browse his cupboards and shelves as the kettle boils. I have found two clean mugs and teabags, and his fridge houses a bottle of semi-skimmed milk, exactly what I prefer. I can’t find any sugar, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll drink anything right now, because I am still cold from our walk, and my hands are grateful for the warmth of the mugs as I gently stir the milk, making two perfect brews.
I’m probably daydreaming again, because I didn't notice him coming back, but there he is, standing in the doorway wearing... like every piece of clothing he owns. Joggers, jumper hoodie and a dressing gown on top. And socks. Like he is trying to hide inside a mountain of clothes. Or he might just have been really cold, despite the flat being nice and cosy.
“Do you own any more clothes to wear?” I say, and let a stupid giggle slip. “You could fit another coat on top... it’s Christmas, so perhaps gloves and hat?”
“This is not a hookup.” He says briskly, clearly not appreciating my silliness. He walks up and removes the teabag from the first mug. Then the other. Like he’s trying to help, yet his hands are shaking.
“This is not a hookup.” I say, slowly folding my arms over my chest. “This is a cup of tea and a biscuit in your flat. Nothing more, nothing else.”
I don’t know why I am being so sensible and... dare I even think it... adult, in this conversation, but he just stands there and stares at me, as I stare back.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, I’m not going to suddenly jump you and rip your clothes off. I can control myself, you know.”
“I’m not…” He starts, then he sighs and looks at the ceiling, and for a second or two, I think he might burst into tears.
I don’t think I can handle that. This tall man, with his stubbly chin and strong lines, the cropped, dark hair and broad chest. He’s so bloody manly, that my twinkly, skinny self suddenly feels grossly inadequate.
“You are shaking.” I say softly. “I promise to behave.”
“I... fuck.”
He’s going to start crying. He doesn’t. Instead he wraps his arms around me and folds me into a hug, burying his chin in my shoulder and breathing heavily into my hair. He’s taller than me, yet I seem to fit into his frame like a piece into a puzzle.
I don’t know what to do with all that. With the feelings I am bombarded with on the inside, and this man on the outside, holding onto me like I am the last man on Earth? I’m not the last man on Earth, but I might as well be, stuck in this godforsaken town with nobody to kiss me under the mistletoe.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Luca.” I say, trying to make my voice soft and soothing. I like saying his name out loud. I like how it feels when I say it. I like how his cheek feels against my skin as well, soft and full of stubble.
He doesn’t reply, so I go back to chattering.
“I have spent most of my life being an idiot, pretending to be all big and manly and tough and all that shit we have drilled into us as kids. I’m not like that. I cry, and I fuck up and I make more mistakes than I do good things, so don’t, please, don’t worry what I’ll think. Because what I think is not important here. You are upset, and I am here and let’s just be fucking useless and sit down and drink tea and talk about why we are both on our own on Christmas Eve, and how fucking pathetic we could be, but then we can laugh about it, because we are not pathetic or lonely, because your ridiculous sister set us up on a date, and she texted me just now and said we have to watch Die Hard. Apparently a Germano tradition. I’ll be up for that. I’ll even talk along to the dialogue. I do a mean Hans Gruber impression.”
He chuckles into my jumper, his chest jumping with a little giggle. That makes me happy. It’s funny how little things like making someone smile, are suddenly making me feel all weirdly tough and manly. I am taking charge of the situation here. I’m bloody good at this adult thing we’ve got going on here.
“If that’s not good enough...” I push him away, so I can see his face. An uncomfortable gesture that is so not like me. I don’t know why he makes me do it, but suddenly I am filled with a weird caring instinct, for someone I hardly cared about a few days ago.
I shouldn’t have looked at him, shouldn’t have gently stroked his arm, because he is more handsome than I remember, especially when his face is all red and his eyes are full of water, and as he refuses to look at me, turning his face away to stare out the kitchen window.
“If that isn’t good enough, I can pretend to try to sell you some ridiculous rust bucket of a car, and then try to convince you that if we just get my performance specialist in with some magic electronic shit that I will make good commission on, and then if we just paint the chassis in an especially revolting shade of pink? His girlfriend will then most probably give him a Christmas blow job, and not raid his Coutts bank card in Dubai over the January sales.”
“Is that how you pitch your clients? Talking about magic car parts, sexual acts and trips to the sales?”
He’s funny and it’s my turn to giggle, as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I usually try to be a bit more professional.”
I smooth down his dressing gown. Tie the belt a little tighter around his waist. Pat his stomach, and fuck, it’s hard. I bet he’s packing some muscles in there, but this is not the time. Not the place.
“Come.” I say softly and lift my tea off the kitchen worktop. “Come sit with me, and don’t worry about anything else.”
Luca
I have somehow morphed into a child. Not that it’s childish to cry, because us Italians cry at the drop of a hat. My dad has made it into an artform, which has rubbed off on my mother, and all of us kids are masters at the instant run o
f tears and sobbing end-of-the-world expressions.
This was not fake though. I actually burst into tears, because I was just fucking overwhelmed, as anyone would be if you felt as naked and exposed and stupid as I just did. Now? Now I feel ashamed. Embarrassed as I am sitting on my own sofa with my sock-clad feet crossed, my hands still shaking as I am trying to casually drink a nice cup of tea.
“Nice cup of tea.”
That’s me being the master of small talk with the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. He’s prettier close up I decide, because all his delicate features are more rugged, and there is stubble on his chin, and freckles on his cheeks. He’s pretty and wide-eyed, and his hair is still damp from being exposed to the weather outside.
“I shared uni halls with three idiots who couldn’t make a decent cup of tea if their lives depended on it. One even made tea in the microwave, and tried to cook pasta in our kettle. It was a good experience, the uni thing, because I had to figure out how to feed myself a decent amount of food to actually survive, and also, of course, learn to make my own cup of tea, and not spend all my food allowance on lattes.”
“Fair enough.”
That’s all I can say. Damn it. What do people talk about on dates? The ones I have had have all been with guys that I kind of knew, and then we snogged and shagged, and laughed about it afterwards. There were never feelings involved. I never felt this... this stupid magnetic pull like what I am feeling with Andreas Mitchell. And here he is, and he is sitting right here, talking nonsense and being all charming and delightful and my poor little heart is slowly crushing my breath, suffocating any sensibility out of my brain.
“I need to tell you something,” I hiss out, because now I actually feel like I am suffocating. It’s panic, and it’s nothing new, because I sometimes get like this. All overwhelmed and anxious, mostly when I have to fit some godawfully expensive part that will ruin the garage and put Dad and me into serious debt if I fuck it up, or when I have to talk to particularly tricky customers, or apparently, when it comes to talking to Andreas Mitchell? I apparently panic, then too.
“You can tell me anything,” he says, putting his tea down on the floor.
I need to get a coffee table. Or a side table. A stool. Anything. Why the hell do I not own anything to put teacups on? I usually just plonk one on the armrest, hence I have tea stains all down the side of my expensive sofa. And now Andreas Mitchell is staring at me, expecting me to talk.
“My best friend Geoff mans the bar at Eden. We grew up together, discovered we liked blokes better than girls... he was my first…” I snigger at the memories. “We were goddamn awful at both kissing and blow jobs, and never did it again. Instead, he’s my best mate, and I go down and see him at the weekends at his club, just to catch up. That’s it.”
That’s a total lie, and Andreas knows it, because he just stares at me, kind of the way I stare at him, so I feel compelled to continue my bad word vomit of a confession.
“Then I saw you... a few months ago. I just... you know, when you just see something, and you want it?”
“Like a magpie?” He says, “You wanted to magpie me?”
“Is that some kind of new weird sexual thing?” I giggle, because now? Now we are both being utterly ridiculous. He puts me at ease, laughing freely at my weirdness. Like I adore his easy ways. Like he just relaxes into my sofa and makes himself at home as he smiles at me.
“No. But yeah, go on. You wanted to have me. And yet, you turned me down.”
“It’s not the same. You know... when you kind of dream about something? Fantasise about someone? But you know it’s not real, and that the person you are making up in your head is not the real person. You are you, and you are this kind of free-spirited guy, who jumps from guy to guy and it doesn’t affect you, because people just love you. They all want to magpie you. I just don't want to be the guy whose heart gets broken, because... you’re not that kind of guy. You don’t want what I want, and in my head? You are someone different. It’s not real. That’s why... I said no.”
“Bea said you are a big chicken. She said you are so scared of getting your heart broken that you will turn anyone and everyone down.”
“You shouldn't be talking to Bea. She’s full of shit.”
“She’s awesome.” He giggles. I smile and take another sip of my tea.
“So, you crushed on me badly,” he continues, looking deep in thought. “Then you came back and sat there staring at me, every weekend, as I picked up some other bloke to go home with. You should have done something. Gone out there and thrown me over your shoulder. I would have totally gone for that.”
“What? That? That, would have been stalkerish and rude. And dangerous. And I’m not a psycho.”
“It would have been romantic…” He laughs, “In a messed-up way.”
“Yeah, perhaps in porn.”
“Porn is good. It’s not a bad thing.” He says, and he looks serious as well.
“Porn is a fantasy. Just like you and me being together is a messed-up fantasy.”
“Why would you say that?”
He sits up and leans over towards me. “Why would you and I be messed up? You clearly fancy me, and I think you’re gorgeous. What is messed up with that?”
“We are not compatible in any way!” I almost shout, because he is messing with my head, and I have no chill anymore.
“Chill,” he says. Like he can read my mind.
I breathe. In and out. My chest pretending I’m having a full-on heart attack again. I just want this to be over. I want to clear my head of him, so I can go back to life as I knew it. I also want to rip all his clothes off and kiss him until I pass out. That’s a fantasy, by the way. I would never. Ever.
“Why do you say that? You barely know me. You have no idea what my fantasies are, and what I really want out of this.”
True. I should be ashamed of myself.
“I don’t know you. I only know what I see every weekend and it pisses me off.”
“Judgemental and rude.” He says, and takes another gulp out of his tea, before putting it back down on the floor. He spills a bit too, because now he’s pissed off with me, and I don’t blame him. I would be pissed off with myself too if I was him.
I don’t know what to say. I have nothing more to tell him, because I’m definitely not telling him about what I do to him in my fantasies at night. When I punish him for choosing all those other men, and make him cry and beg for……
He stares at me.
I’m starting to think we might both be messed up, and that this might be… He interrupts my chaotic thoughts and sits up straight, waving his hands about with more gusto than my dad.
“I have a great life. I have a fun job, that I am really confident at, and I like the people I work with. That’s a lot to be thankful for, I know that. I can afford to pay for a flat that isn’t full of damp and cockroaches, like the one I lived in at uni. Talk about the incentive of doing well on your exams. All I wanted was to live somewhere that didn’t constantly smell of bleach and cheap insect sprays.”
“I bought this flat,” I interrupt, waving my hands around as well. “Because I wanted to live in a house with no clutter. That took all of two days, before I had stuff all over the floor and my kitchen looked just like the one at my parents’ house. It’s not easy living on your own. You have to do everything, and sometimes I’m just too tired to be bothered to hoover, or eat, or pick up crap off the floor. My parents don’t care, they just live with dust and dirt and stuff everywhere. I wanted something different, but instead I have ended up living just like they do.”
“Perhaps, that’s a good thing. Being too obsessed with stuff. I still wipe down my kitchen with bleach every day, praying that the Chistleworth cockroaches won’t find out where I live.”
I giggle. He smiles.
“I probably want all the same things that you want. I want a partner that will love me to death, treat me like a queen and fuck me senseless... but I also want friendsh
ip, and laughter, and great cups of tea. I want to be able to sit down and watch crap TV, talk about stupid customers, and hopefully, have family around us that adore us. That’s what I want. I also one day want a dog, and a nice car, and I want someone to go on holiday with, and then maybe buy a house with a garden, where I can do really crap attempts at growing tomatoes. My dad tries to grow tomatoes, but he keeps forgetting to water them, and they all die. If I could successfully grow tomatoes, I would perhaps get a tiny amount of respect from Dad. He thinks I’m a loser, because I haven’t set up my own company and joined a gentlemen's club in London. Instead, I live in a shit town and flog cars. “
“Your dad is an arse.”
“No.” He laughs. “He’s just a misguided bloke, whose parents sent him to boarding school when he was five, and then installed a load of crap values into him. He doesn’t mean to be condescending and mean. It’s just the way he is.”
“What would he think of me then? I’m neither of those things.”
“If you were my boyfriend?”
“I prefer partner. Sounds much more grown up.”
I blush. I’m at it again, letting my brain daydream of things I shouldn’t even consider.
“I would be proud of you if you were my partner. I think you’re lovely. “
I blush even more.
“I know we don’t know each other,” he says. “I know this is not a hookup, or a proper date, or whatever. I know this is weird, but it’s Christmas, and to be honest? Right now, I would rather be here with you, than anywhere else.”
“Where’s your family then? Wouldn’t you rather be at home?”
“Spain. Holiday home. My sister, Nina, is finding her inner chakra or some shit in India. I didn’t want to go to Spain. My parents didn’t ask. I don’t really fit in with their expat friends and little tapas parties and all that. I fit in here. I like it here. I don’t have to prove myself. I can just exist and…” He stops and looks at me with a snort. “I fuck up, a lot. I mess around with guys, and I sometimes scare myself how little I think of myself. I know that is an issue, and it’s something I am trying to fix.”
Ship of Fools Page 6
