Wrong Room, Right Guy

by Liam Livings

  Your discovery about your husband's affair means you can have that conversation with him, while also talking to him about how it might be best if you called time on your marriage. If he's had an affair, and you've been thinking about seeing a woman, then it might be best if you left it there.

  Think of this sadness as a new beginning - he with this woman - giving you an opportunity to experience a different side of yourself.

  Here are some websites of organisations for lesbian, gay and bisexual people. Maybe try attending a social group for people who come out later in life.

  Best wishes,

  Mary Martyn

  I read my replies to Clara-Bell, and talked through them before she sent them on.

  She looked up from the letters I'd handed her. 'You know what they say about common sense, Simon?'

  'No, what?'

  'It's not all that common?'

  'Oh. Maybe it's not for me. I'm sure there'll be other bits I can do.' I tried to take the letters off her.

  'No, I say that, because your replies are exactly that, pure common sense. And I expect the people who wrote in could have come to the same conclusion themselves, but often it takes a stranger to point out the obvious to someone. Where did you get all this stuff about sex after a child?'

  'I was watching a morning TV show - one of those magazine shows where they try to cover everything in five minutes, mixed with funny bits about cooking - and there was an agony aunt talking to someone about exactly that. So I wrote it down. Did a bit of googling, and that was the overwhelming opinion. I've just sifted and sorted all the advice into a few paragraphs for that poor woman.'

  'Marvellous. And, what, may I ask were you doing, watching daytime TV, when you should have been working on your magnum opus? What chapter are you up to now?'

  'Seven. But it's awful. Absolutely awful. The main character has made up a lie which everyone's going to see through. It's paper thin, honestly. I was just taking a break from it, just seeing what was on during the day, in case I needed to know, for reference later.'

  'I believe you, thousands wouldn't, but I believe you.' She smiled out the corner of her eye.

  So now, every week Clara-Bell sent me the correspondence the magazine had sent her. I picked a few interesting ones, ones which I'd not tackled before. She said it was important to spread the love about a bit, not to always pick the same issues, or readers wouldn't read the letters. After a day or so of research and writing, I'd have six or seven ready to send back to her to forward onto her editor, Jenny. And every month, I received a generous payment into my bank account. Not as much as my teaching salary - but I wasn't Mary Martyn the agony aunt full time, was I?

  I also had the freelance money from doing the school's website and blog, which I received in dribs and drabs, during the month.

  Which was just as well, because I'd received my last proper teaching salary a couple of months after the first day.

  I had tried to return to school to meet Mr Farnham - he'd been very understanding once he received my doctor's note, signing me off. And at first I'd played along, saying yes of course I wanted to come back, it was a matter of time. I just needed a good rest, time away from all the stress of it all.

  But the longer I was away, the longer I realised I could never go back. Just hearing Lucy talk about her lessons, and recounting the agenda from the last terminal meeting she'd attended, sent my pulse racing.

  So the one time I'd tried to meet Mr Farnham to go through my 'return to work plan' as he referred to it in the very formal letter he'd sent me, the furthest I reached was the car park, where I'd parked my car over two months before.

  I sat in the car, frozen to the seat. I opened the door, but couldn't put my feet on the ground, not that near to the school. I felt if I did, I would somehow be swallowed up by it all, and would never come out the other side.

  I called Mr Farnham - I didn't want to be rude, not this time, for he'd been genuinely supportive trying to get me back to work - I spoke to his secretary, Miss Manning, who must have heard my tone of voice and offered to bring some tea out to my car.

  'No, that's okay. Just to talk to him please.'

  Mr Farnham's voice came on the line. 'Young Simon. Mr Payne, what can I do for you?'

  'I don't think I can. I'm very sorry, but I can't come in to meet you today. I thought I could, but now I'm here, I know I can't. I'm very sorry. You have tried, and I'm grateful, but I just can't.'

  'It's a shame, Mr Payne, a real shame, because you are, by all accounts, a good teacher. The pupils have been asking after you. If you're sure there's nothing we can do? I can send my secretary out for something calming and hot, see if you can come in then.'

  'No. You're very kind. I'll say goodbye and thank you. Do you want me to write you a letter for my notice? How do you want it? It'll have to be from now, I can't come back, I'm sorry.'

  'Send an e-mail, and we'll pay you your notice period. Good luck, Mr Payne. I'm sure we'll hear about your new life through Lucy.'

  And that had been that. I was released into my new life.

  Chapter 18

  And part of my new life was my new relationship with Darren. Somehow, gradually, coffee shop by restaurant by cosy night in, we found ourselves together as a couple. I was so proud of it, of us, when Lucy had come round a few nights ago, I felt a bit embarrassed when I told her we'd not yet, done the deed.

  'What, not even outside downstairs?' She leered at me, enjoying the terminology we'd both shared from our posh secondary school childhood.

  'Inside, upstairs, does that count?'

  'Not for men it doesn't. I could see you're upstairs on a beach, so you'll have to do better than that.' She paused, her eyebrows raised, waiting for my next reveal about the relationship.

  But nothing. 'Nothing downstairs at all?'

  I shook my head.

  'Goodness, you must be having lots and lots of hot baths to reveal the tension.'

  'Morning and night sometimes. This one evening, we'd been kissing on the sofa, like teenagers for a while, and I actually felt myself aching. You know, for release. And do you know what he did?'

  She shook her head.

  'He stood up, said it was late, and he needed to get back to his parents, they'd be worried about him being out.'

  'And how old is this man?'

  'Basically same as me. Thirty two.'

  'I've never heard such a load of rubbish in my whole life. Back to his parents. I don't think so. And you're sure he's gay, you're definitely sure of that?'

  'His ex was called Chris. He's shown me pictures of him. Of them together, holidays, that sort of thing. He's not made that up. Besides, why would he make that up, Why pretend, when he had no need? He could have just given me the brush off and carried on being friendly with the other guys from the group?'

  'Good point. When he comes round next time, you've got to just do the lunge. Get him all excited, then have a poke about in his underpants. He won't be able to resist, no man can. Men don't have a stop button once they're at that advanced stage of proceedings.'

  'Speaks a woman who's found out for herself, obviously.' I winked.

  'I was very late to all this. My time at uni would have been wasted otherwise. By the time we did our PGCE, I'd calmed down a bit, don't you remember?'

  'A bit, but not too much. A bit of a penchant for the lads studying sports studies if I remember rightly. All those rugby thighs.'

  So, with all those rugby thighs in my mind, and lest I do myself an injury from restraint, I had it all planned for that night. The night Darren was coming round mine for the third romantic evening. Only this time, I'd really turned up the romance to eleven out of ten: I filled the living room with candles - every available surface was covered in their twinkling light, at some points I genuinely feared for our safety were we to stray to one side and knock one over; I had a Now That's What I Call Romance compilation on, and had even some oil burners about the place, with various essential oils, renowned for romanc
e, and relaxation. I'd done my research well.

  Darren stood at the door, in a pair of dark blue jeans and a well fitted bright red and white checked Fred Perry shirt, which showed off his gym-goer's body nicely, much better than the tracksuit tops he normally wore. 'What's that I can smell, I'm well hungry?'

  'I've got asparagus as a starter, with hollandaise sauce, from a jar, I tried to make it, but it curdled, so I nipped to the shop. Sorry.' I smiled weakly, taking the bottle of wine he'd brought.

  'Don't apologise. Sounds lush.' He followed me to the kitchen.

  I turned from the fridge and he was standing a few feet from me. 'Hello.'

  'Hello you.'

  'I've missed you, ya know.'

  'Have you?'

  He nodded. 'Just said so didn't I? C'm 'ere.'

  I walked to him and we kissed, standing in the cold air of the fridge, its door still open behind me. His face was smooth and smelt of the aftershave I was by now intimately acquainted with.

  He pulled back from our kiss and kept his hands on my bum. 'I been thinking about tonight all week. And I had a busy week. All day all week. Three different houses. One of 'em made me so much tea I had to tell her to stop it 'cause I was having to have a piss every ten minutes. It got embarrassing. Then the other house, they never even offered me some water. Funny isn't it?'

  'People are funny. You never can tell when you first meet someone.'

  We kept our arms around each other's waist. I felt him against my thigh. He looked at me, smiling, revealing just that amount of teeth so it made my heart do a little jump in my chest. 'What else you cooked? Don't tell me you done oysters, 'cause I've tried them before, they're like a bit of sick that smells of salt. No idea why anyone would like them.' He released his grip and pulled away from me.

  I closed the fridge and moved to the work surface. 'You're safe, that's why I did asparagus. Simple starter, but I thought I was safe with that, you were bound to like it. Fig, honey and prosciutto salad, with torn basil leaves. How's that sound?'

  'Honey and bacon?'

  'Prosciutto actually. Trust me, it goes really well. The saltiness and the sweetness.' And figs were in the top ten aphrodisiacs when I'd googled it earlier that week, along with asparagus, bananas and dark chocolate.

  'Afters?'

  'Baked banana, with dark chocolate, and homemade vanilla ice cream.'

  'You've made ice cream? How'd you manage that?'

  I tapped the side of my nose. The ice cream wasn't the half of the prep I'd put into that evening. The bath during the day, the careful trimming and plucking of various parts of my body hair. I'd even taken the precaution of relieving myself, so when we did finally do the deed, it wouldn't be over too soon. A little tip I picked up from an ex. It usually worked well.

  Darren had stood and proclaimed it 'Pukka grub.' Rubbing his stomach in an exaggerated way, like he had a little pregnancy belly, full of food. He didn't. He still had the six pack he always had - I saw it through his top.

  We lay on the sofa, our stomachs full of the food I'd prepared. He pulled back from our kissing, my tongue aching at this point. 'This is fun eh?' He smiled, then put his hands back on my chest, gently twisting my nipples.

  'Not bad, yeah.' I smiled, pushing my hand into his trousers, pulling at the already straining waistband of his underwear. 'I just can't believe it. We're here. I've wanted to do this since the first time I saw you.'

  'Me too.' He smiled and tweaked back at me.

  'I always told myself you had blowjob lips, but that I'd only really know for sure, once I, you know, knew for sure.'

  He nodded. 'Fancy a dance, my back's hurting like this?'

  'Or we could go to my bedroom, the bed's much softer than the sofa. Much bigger too.' I smiled back at him.

  His teeth glinted as he gave me that crooked smile I was by now getting used to. 'I fancy a dance, don't you. Little dance, it'll be a laugh eh?'

  I untangled my limbs from his, left the sofa and sorted the music. I picked a romantic easy mix. I relit some of the candles as I walked past them.

  Darren stood in the middle of the room, his feet at ten to two, and his arms either side of his waist. He slowly swayed in time to the music. 'My mum loves this bloke, she's got all his albums.'

  'Who is it?'

  He looked at the ground as I walked towards him. Our groins bumped together. 'Michael Bublé.'

  'Standard. All mums like this sort of thing. One year, there was an advert on the TV for this group of men, nice looking, in their twenties, they sang modern opera. This was late November. And I thought, Mum would love that. And at that moment, I bet there were tens of thousands of other sons and daughters thinking exactly the same thing. It's mum music. That's what it's for.'

  He put his hands on my bum and squeezed slightly. He pulled me closer and leant in to kiss me. We swayed to the music. I felt myself stir in my trousers. I also felt him, pressing hard against my leg. Surely now, surely now we'd just get on with it?

  He pulled back from our kissing. The crooked smile reappeared. 'Thing is, I quite like him too.'

  'Who?'

  'Bublé. I think he does all right music. I find it restful, peaceful while I'm working. I put it on, headphones on, and I can just shut the world out. Get on with the job in hand. It's just me and the wall. As one.'

  I sniggered a bit. 'You are joking aren't you?'

  He frowned. 'No I'm not as it goes. I'd have thought you'd be all right about it. I mean, I don't tell everyone about it. I don't go broadcasting it when I'm down the football club at the weekend. I don't flounce in to someone's house and ask if I can put it on their music system. But you, I thought you'd be okay about it.'

  Bloody hell. Raw nerve alert. I took his face in my hands and pulled his head towards me, he'd been avoiding my eyes. 'Takes all sorts. I mean Lucy's really into thrash metal. You'd never think it from looking at her, she's all pearls and twin sets, but no, she loves it. Head banging at the weekend. I gave it a go once, but never again. You just didn't strike me as the sort of man who'd like that sort of music. But it's cool. Honest, I've got awful taste in some things. Like awful taste.'

  'Go on then. Prove to me you're sorry. Tell me your worst. I've shared mine, now it's your turn.' His eyes glinted. We continued to sway to the music, no longer the Canadian crooner. A Frank and Nancy cover by Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidman - very cheesy. It was fromage on toast.

  I racked my mind to plunge the depths of my music taste. I knew Girls Aloud weren't going to cut it, not since NME had given them their blessing. The Saturdays? No, same as Girls Aloud.

  'I'm waiting.' He tapped his foot on the floor loudly.

  'Nothing, there's nothing. It's all too cool for school. All of it. Electro is really in, so all the old eighties stuff I like, that's cool isn't it?'

  He nodded. 'Give me your phone.' He held his hand out.

  I handed my phone over.

  'Pass code?'

  I told him, which half felt like a nice shared moment of intimacy, and half a complete invasion of my privacy. He scrolled through my music. 'Bonnie Tyler - Greatest Hits? You are joking.' He shook his head. 'Bucks Fizz. And not just greatest hits, but you've got their actual albums, there's loads of 'em here.' He looked up from the phone.

  I stared at the floor. The shame threatened to engulf me.

  He laughed. 'C'm 'ere.' He handed me back my phone and started to laugh. 'I didn't think you would give me the phone, but when you told me the pass code, I was well surprised.'

  'You'd exposed yourself, and so I thought it was only fair for me to do the same.'

  He shrugged. 'Fair enough.'

  And we talked about awful music taste, played random songs on one another's phones, and danced slowly to the music, squeezing and rubbing one another's bodies. Somehow our tops came off. The details are fuzzy, but there was something about him getting on his knees and kissing my navel, and working his way up, pushing my T-shirt off. I reciprocated, and in anticipation he removed his to
p to reveal exactly what I'd hoped for underneath: a chest of a man who not only went to the gym a few times a week, but who also based their living on physical activity. He'd done that gym bunny thing of removing every trace of hair, which, now I was looking at it, nibbling it, licking it, close up, I wasn't sure was the best decision. I made a mental note to discuss that with him at another time.

  I had unbuttoned his jeans and was just about to pull them around his ankles, so I could get a better look at him stood in his bright, tight, sculpted, made-in-Australia, cost-about-twenty-quid-a-pair, underpants and he held my hands, stopping me pulling down his jeans. 'No,' he said firmly.

  'Oh. What?' That wasn't what I'd expected to hear at this point of the evening. Maybe a little whimper of pleasure, or possibly an offer to do the same to me - he struck me as a pretty giving sort of person - sex wise. But not a no. I definitely hadn't expected that.

  He buttoned up his jeans. He put his T shirt back on, rescuing it from a crumpled pile on the floor - a place I hadn't anticipated it moving from until tomorrow morning. 'We can't.'

  'Why not?'

  'It's not a good idea.'

  'You're not religious are you? Besides, it all depends on how you read into it. I've met loads of gay guys who are religious as well. It's all fixable.'

  'Not that. It's ... ' He closed his eyes, fell onto the floor and bunched his hands into fists, which he pounded onto his knees.

  'You're in a relationship aren't you? I knew it was too perfect. I just knew it. I knew there'd be something. Come on, what's his name. Might as well get it out in the open. Is it your ex - Chris? If I'm going to be the other woman - man, I want to know what, or who, I'm dealing with.'

  'I'm such a twat. Such a complete twat. How did I think we'd get away with it. I never thought we'd get to this.'

  'Liar.'

  He looked up, wiping his eyes. 'You what?'

  'You just told me you'd been thinking about getting me in bed since you saw me at the group. So don't come the innocent with me. What's his name, this boyfriend of yours. Doesn't he understand you. At least make it original. Or do you have an open relationship or something? Bloody open relationships, they've certainly got a lot to answer for.' I walked to him and started to put my arms around him.