On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory

by Stephen Benatar

  “Ah. And I’m sure it doesn’t get much steamier than that.” He nodded towards my nearly empty glass. “Same again?”

  “This time it has to be my turn.”

  But he was already on his feet. “Let’s wait until that novel of yours hits the bestseller lists.”

  “Brad I didn’t say it was a novel.” (Though it was of course.) “I suspect you have this fearful habit of jumping to conclusions.”

  He laughed. “Your own personal adventures then? Less truthful than fiction yet far more imaginative. Come on—tell me I sound like a very poor imitation of Oscar Wilde.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t be so impolite. Why would you accuse me of being that?”

  “Maybe because I jump to conclusions; and maybe because I get the feeling you’re someone who would, almost automatically, keep a person on his toes.”

  “Quite frightening in fact?”

  “No. I think I’d be more inclined to call it …”

  But the right word didn’t come to him immediately; and whilst he was searching for it I swiftly rose and preceded him to the bar. The thing was I didn’t want him to believe I was simply on the take … even if at least to some extent I knew I was. (The proper study of mankind is man was something else I remembered somebody had once said.) We had been talking for longer than it might appear and Brad had already paid for our first two rounds; at least I had sufficient money to buy a couple of Glenfiddichs and still with any luck have bus fare home. (He mustn’t think that I was going to be too easy. I had no intention of letting him get me into bed that night.)

  Yet he caught up with me well before I had a chance to place my order. “… bracing,” he informed me with a grin. “Look. It’s getting late and I haven’t eaten yet. What about you? Let’s transfer this meeting to a restaurant.”

  “I had a sandwich earlier—”

  “A growing boy needs more than just a sandwich.”

  A growing boy did. And anyway that sandwich now seemed a long time ago: before Jonathan had unexpectedly turned up in what was clearly confrontational mood. (Me, I was never confrontational.) I said: “I’ll have to find a cashpoint.”

  “No you won’t,” said Brad.

  Which was absolutely just as well. Having found a cashpoint I could have done little more than merely wink at it and ask it how it did.

  It was then he made his phone call.

  “A mobile?” I said. “Really? Earlier on I must definitely have misunderstood something. Well, well.”

  “I only use it for emergencies,” he told me drily. “Never for quite unnecessary chats.”

  “Yes of course. Naturally. Emergencies …” I said. “Yes.”

  We went to a small French restaurant in a backstreet on the other side of Edgware Road. Brad apologized for its being a little twee—the curtains, tablecloths and napkins were all in different shades of pink although the rest of the clientele were of both sexes and appeared to be quite straight—but he said the cooking was good and he ordered us a delicious meal. At least I have a vague impression of its being a delicious meal but I truly (and very regrettably) wasn’t paying it much attention. I had told him during our fifteen-minute walk, mostly unrained-on, that this time the spotlight would be trained exclusively on him.

  “But I’m not sure I want to be under any spotlight.” This protest came soon after we’d been seated at a table beneath a reproduction of Édouard Manet’s Le Déjeuner Sur L’Herbe—so I’d been informed when I had briefly shown an interest.

  “Well now that is tough,” I sympathized. “I really am sorry.”

  “On the other hand I’m always happy to have one fairly nearby. A spotlight.”

  “Meaning what? That you enjoy the theatre?”

  “Yes!” He seemed pleased. “And I write for it as well.”

  “Really? You’re a playwright?”

  He nodded.

  “And you mean that you’ve had your plays produced? Here in London? In the West End?”

  “And on Broadway. And in thirty capitals or more around the world, including Peking and Tokyo. And not just the capitals. And on the road in America and Canada. And in lots of cities over here—including both Nottingham and Newcastle. Not to mention seaside theatre in the summer and amateur productions throughout the year.”

  “Christ! You’re well-known.”

  “And you must want to say bigheaded.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your name.”

  “That’s all right. You couldn’t place Johnson’s either.”

  “But at least I saw Volpone when I was still at school.” I saw him smile a little but he said nothing. “I might just as easily have seen one of your plays. How many are there? Tell me the names of some.”

  “Not all?”

  “No that isn’t fair: I’m the one with a reputation for keeping people on their toes! But naturally that’s what I meant. Are they exciting and tender and very serious?”

  “And do they explore weighty contemporary issues? Yes. About to the same degree I’d say as Charley’s Aunt.”

  He then quite leisurely ticked off a list of titles; he’d told me there were nine. I wanted to say Yes I’ve seen that—I’ve seen that—I’ve seen that; but no way was it possible; the theatre hadn’t played much part in my experience up till then. What I could say was, “Where Two Roads Meet—wasn’t there a film called that?” Even as I did so this struck me as a bit tactless but I wanted to come up with something knowledgeable and indicative of interest and as relevant as I could manage.

  “Yes,” he said, “that was mine.”

  “But…?”

  “But what?”

  “Wasn’t it American … and big budget … and starring some really top names?” Yet annoyingly, try as I might, I couldn’t bring to mind which top names.

  “Yes but all the same it wasn’t very good.”

  “God I wish I’d seen it though!”

  “It’s done on DVD.”

  I was no longer even thinking about playing hard to get although perhaps there was now more reason why I should have been.

  “And did you meet them, all those famous stars?”

  Thereafter for the next half-hour or so our conversation was entirely movie stuff—American and British—because he’d also had a play made into a film over here. Daisy and Sybella. That too was out on video.

  “I want to see them both!”

  “Well I reckon that could be arranged,” he said. “Only not tonight—not tonight!”

  Why not tonight? My first flicker of doubt. Didn’t he fancy me as much as I’d assumed?

  Uncertainty of course increased not only his attractiveness but my own determination.

  “Are you writing anything at present?”

  “There’s a new one about to go into rehearsal.”

  “With a thumping big part in it for me?”

  “Telepathy! I’d been on the very point of saying keep all your evenings free in anticipation of a long run.”

  And I’d been on the very point of saying: But will you take me to the first night? By then I had inside me in addition to two double whiskies a glass and a half of red wine—all of it being mulled by my heady imaginings of the life he led and by my awareness of some of the people he had met. There’d also been the Cointreau with my coffee. By then too—even though he’d decided for some reason to pay by credit card—I’d caught a glimpse of his plentifully filled wallet. Scarcely necessary indeed, not from the beginning: his shirt, pullover, trousers, shoes—all of them proclaimed Armani; none of them Marks & Spencer. Even had he been dressed in nothing but swimming trunks there would still have been an air of dealing only at the best places. The way he was groomed: the haircut, the cologne, the smoothness of his shaven skin; his hands, his wristwatch—the way that he behaved: his confidence, the casual ordering of Glenfiddich. To place him in a rich man’s world I’d clearly had no need to hear about his plays and films; but at the same time they’d added a beguiling new dimension. And for the moment I th
ought I had his interest. Despite the whisky and the wine and the liqueur I struggled once again to keep him at a distance. I made no mention of the first night and even pretended to have to smother a yawn.

  “God! I’m sorry. I suddenly feel so tired. If you’re not going to give me the lead role in your play I think I should be making tracks for home.” It was now getting on for twelve.

  I noticed again the way his wrists looked. Perhaps absurdly this made me feel a little better about myself. I remembered that I’d already found him physically attractive the first moment I had seen him and that I’d already been responding to his personality very early on in our acquaintance; would have liked him just as much if I hadn’t guessed the condition of his bank balance and if he’d only bought me two singles of Grant’s. Surely?

  “I’ll be picking up a taxi,” he said. “I can drop you off.”

  “Of course. Cricklewood’s in a direct line to Holland Park. By far the shortest route.”

  “I’d be glad of the extra ten minutes of your company.”

  “Then give me a ring next week or whenever you’re free and I’ll give you ten times ten minutes of my company. Or even more if you feel that you can stand it. I’ll take you to a greasy spoon and lead you step by step into such infinite mysteries as the methods of stock control at Price-As-You-Like-It. Plus the lowdown on all the romance that springs up in the checkout queues. Could maybe provide you with the plot for your next play. Forget the Price and you’ve even got a good title.”

  We shook hands before I saw him into his taxi and shut the door on him. It was a long and firm and meaningful handshake (and not far off electric). As the taxi moved away he turned and waved. I liked that; I had always liked people who waved. I didn’t take the bus, I suddenly wanted to walk. After some forty minutes when I was two-thirds of the way home it came on to rain again. Quite heavily. I didn’t mind. In fact I was wearing only a shirt above my jeans and I unbuttoned this right down to my belt. I got drenched and fairly revelled in it. I sang ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ and several other things not at all connected with the weather. I felt wonderful. I had the shrewdest suspicion even then that I’d just met the man who was going to change my life.

  9

  I didn’t tell Richard or Hermione a single thing about my adventure with Katy—not in the end. Thinking about Brad as I walked back up Pack Hill (as when wasn’t I thinking about Brad? It was like the first weeks of our being in love. No, months. Had I ever really stopped?), thinking about those very early days of our friendship/courtship/romance—whatever the proper expression is—I suddenly remembered a time when sauntering along in the sunshine to Leicester Square, a little early for our date, I had caught sight of him in the crowds a bit further on and had naturally broken into a run. But before I reached him he’d begun speaking to a boy of about sixteen who was sitting on the pavement outside an amusement arcade with his back against the wall and a piece of cardboard in his lap: “Hungry and homeless.” Coming to a stop nearby I saw Brad squat down, obviously to talk more easily, then hand the lad a banknote—or what might have been several banknotes—and even more remarkably hand him something else he’d just extracted from his wallet: his business card no less, a brother to the one he’d given me outside the restaurant on our first night. Then after glancing at his watch Brad rose from his haunches and shook the boy’s hand. He headed again towards the Odeon but turned and waved briefly (he waves to all of us I thought). The boy was gazing after him with a rapt expression on his foxy pockmarked face—the ‘foxy’ could be subjective, I simply had no sympathy for losers—yet didn’t acknowledge the wave. I made a quick but effective detour then hurried after Brad. “Are you crazy?” I asked without preamble, without even the least attempt at greeting.

  “Why? What’s the matter?” None too surprisingly he seemed rather taken aback. We stood outside the entrance to the cinema.

  “What’s the matter? Only that you’ll end up with a knife between the shoulder blades—that’s what’s the matter—or a robbed and vandalized apartment! Or at the very least a non-stop string of beggars at your front door! That is what’s the matter!”

  “Oh! You mean that boy just now…?”

  I’d at sometime read or heard that adults didn’t blush or, if there were to be exceptions, only those with the lightest colouring and the fairest skin. But Brad blushed. He most definitely did blush.

  “My God!” I said. “You couldn’t possibly have thought him pretty?”

  “No of course not. What is this? What’s got into you?”

  “Are you in the habit of handing out your card to all and sundry?”

  “I warn you: this is a conversation I’m not enjoying. So shall we put an end to it and go in and see this wretched film you want to see?”

  “You would never have told me would you? If I hadn’t happened to come along at the exact right moment?”

  “Told you what precisely? And no. Why should I have?”

  I was almost shaking in my anger; my humiliation. I hadn’t yet been to his flat, two DVDs to be watched or no, because I’d known full well what would happen the first time I walked into it—my own lack of resolve as much as his—and I’d wanted to delay that scene as long as possible: partly because I really enjoyed being courted (while feeling confident of the eventual outcome) yet even more of course because I’d aimed to keep him keen. But I was naïve. It had never occurred to me that I was simply one in a long line of pick-ups; that sixteen-year-olds on the street were being invited to precede me, follow me, or, if they chanced to turn up at an opportune instant, conceivably join in. Copies of that card were probably circulating all over London. “Damn it!” I cried—and in fact ‘cried’ was the right word, my voice had broken on a sob. “Damn it, I thought that I was special.”

  This time it was him who caught me up.

  “Danny cool down,” he said. “Cool down. There’s normally such a thing as a trial, you know, before the verdict is returned.” He was still angry but at least he was remaining calm. There might have been embarrassment along with the anger: a number of people were turning to stare at us, one or two even stopping, and there was nothing furtive about their interest. “Don’t you want to hear the case for the defence?” He smiled ironically; having partly addressed this question to the passersby—or non-passersby. Successfully. It shamed them into movement.

  I stared blindly at the pavement.

  “What defence? You’ve already admitted you wouldn’t have told me. It’s only because you were caught at it red-handed.”

  “Oh yes? Caught at what?”

  “At bribing and soliciting.”

  “My God! You really are a filthy-minded little pervert!”

  And it should have been funny—believe me it wasn’t—it was now he who turned upon his heel.

  I stayed there motionless for up to a full minute. Still just staring at the ground. I felt numbed, I felt icy, I felt (equally as contradictory) that if anyone bumped into me or stopped to ask me if I was all right it would be enough to set me howling, howling uncontrollably, there in full view. I dragged myself to a bench inside the garden in the middle of the square. A woman and her small daughter were sitting at the other end, companionably reviewing their purchases. I wasn’t surprised when they shortly moved away; no one feels comfortable alongside glassy-eyed dejection. I didn’t know how I was ever going to find the energy to move away. Not until they came to lock the gates at any rate. There just didn’t seem the slightest point. Where was I to go?

  This was my day off. In lieu of last Sunday. It would have been our fourth outing. Our fourth outing in slightly under two weeks. Our first time at a cinema. I’d been wondering if we might hold hands.

  I had taken the bus to Oxford Circus, walked leisurely down Regent Street. It was one of those times when I’d been resolving yet again to appreciate each passing minute as fully as I could. We’d probably have been spending some eight or nine hours together; by far the longest period yet. A full five hundred of th
ose passing minutes. I’d felt rich and didn’t mean to squander.

  And now … nothing. Over. All those dreams of the past fortnight, all those dreams and largely sleepless nights, all those first waking thoughts, all that doubt, those endless replays and those reassuring phone calls, all that fluctuating happiness, that wondrous worrying obsession: concern for someone else’s safety like you never felt concern about your own. All of it now gone. Over. (Except for the obsession and the sleepless nights.) A total waste of emotion and energy and time.

  Totally draining.

  And life had never seemed so empty.

  Nor expendable.

  It must have been the worst hour that I’d ever spent. It felt more like two or even three. I was in hell. And there was no way out; nowhere to go. Could I ever return to my room—in which I’d been so happy when I’d last seen it? To my colleagues at the shop—towards whom I had been feeling so unusually well-disposed when I had last wished them all goodnight? Indeed, to anything I had ever known before the destruction of this eagerly anticipated afternoon?

  “Come on it can’t be quite as bad as that.” He put his arm around my shoulders. I’d hardly registered that anyone at all had sat beside me. Let alone who.

  I had foreseen that I would howl the very moment I was touched. Great racking sobs. Even the notion of my fine and manly beauty being so seriously impaired—not to mention the notion of my fine and manly street cred—couldn’t in any way prevent it. I laid my head against his chest. There went his fine and manly street cred too. It didn’t seem to faze him.

  “I’ll tell you why I wasn’t going to speak of it,” he said. This was after I’d managed to compose myself, had sat up, wiped my eyes, blown my nose and tried to smooth away the damp creases at the front and centre of his shirt. “Nothing was further from my mind than soliciting. I don’t in the least bit fancy kids, not even when they’re manifestly clean, not even when they’re all dewy-eyed and appealing. What I was trying to do was—well merely offer help. Apparently they don’t get any of it from the state, boys and girls as young as that.”