Role Model

by Becky Black

  “Talk to me,” Paul said.

  “It was the same as usual. Darkness. This heavy weight over me, crushing me slowly, and…petrol. Yes, I remember, this time there was petrol. I was soaked in it.”

  Paul shivered. A couple of years ago a scrap yard owner he was bothering about buying dodgy scrap cash in hand had tossed petrol on him and threatened to flick his lighter if Paul didn’t piss off. It had probably been about a cupful of petrol. Ruined his jacket and that’s all. But he still recalled the stench of the stuff and the bone-melting terror of being so vulnerable so suddenly.

  “Don’t talk about the details,” Paul said. “Let them fade. Real sensations make a dream fade. Put a light on. Touch something. Yourself.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Paul giggled slightly hysterically, suddenly aware of how that sounded. “I mean, rub your arm or ruffle your hair or something.” An appealing picture, him all tousled in bed. Touching himself…. He derailed that thought instantly. This is not a fucking booty call. Concentrate. Drew needed comfort and reassurance, not a perv sleazing on him.

  A clinking sound distracted him. “I hope you’re not hitting the bottle,” Paul said.

  “Just having a drink of water. The light’s on and I ruffled my hair and I’m…well, I’m sort of rubbing the hairs on my left leg with my right foot.” He laughed, as hysterical sounding as Paul had been a moment ago. “It’s working. You’re right. Physical sensations.”

  “They bring you back to reality. Now we can talk. About whatever you want. Did you get a suit for the award yet?”

  Drew sighed. “I’ve got an appointment with a tailor to be measured.”

  Lucky bastard. The tailor, Paul meant, getting his hands on Drew, measuring Drew’s inside leg…. He cleared his throat. “Good. Believe me, the difference is incredible.”

  “Wear a lot of tailored suits, do you?”

  Not so many these days. “Send the bill to me.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll put it through as expenses.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I’m serious. I suggested you get the suit. This is all part of the story. I’ll get my boss to sign off on it.”

  “Paul, I’m not hurting for money. I’m not saying I’m rolling in it, but I do fine. I can afford to buy my own suit.”

  “The offer stands. What about a date?”

  “That you can back off about.” He sounded irritated. Which was good, really. Pulling him away from the dream, the terror.

  “There must be someone at the hospital who at least fancies a free trip to London, even if he doesn’t fancy you.” Which was hard to imagine. “Someone nice looking.”

  “All the cute ones are taken.”

  “You’re not.”

  Silence on the other end.

  Paul bit his tongue. “Ah, so come on. I’m sure you know someone.”

  “I’ll sort it. Stop nagging me. Shit, it’s like a family wedding.”

  “I hear that,” Paul said with a sigh. All those relatives asking if he’d be next. Not bloody likely, he wanted to say. Instead he smiled weakly and said he had to meet the right girl first. What a damn coward he was.

  “Your family live close?” Drew asked.

  “No,” Paul said. “Devon. In a village.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m hoping to go back south again eventually,” Paul found himself saying. “You know, get a job on one of the nationals.” If he ever had the nerve. If he ever got over the fear they’d eat him alive down there.

  “That’s what all you journalists dream of, is it? The only way to hit the big time.”

  “It’s not the only way. There are others.”

  “Like?”

  “Sometimes you’re the man on the scene when a big story breaks on your doorstep. One day you’re reporting on the local council’s changes to bin collections. The next you’re filing the first on-scene report from a town the whole world is watching because a 747 fell out of the sky. Or a man walked into the local school and started shooting.”

  “That means part of you is waiting, is hoping, for something terrible to happen. You’re waiting for this town to be Lockerbie, or Dunblane.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘hoping.’” That seemed harsh. “But bad news is the biggest news of all.”

  “Then why are you pursuing my story so much? That had a happy ending.”

  “Two people are still dead. It’s morbid. But that adds an edge to the story.”

  “And would it have been an even bigger story if Lily and I had died, too?”

  Paul didn’t answer right away. After a moment, Drew spoke again. “Sorry. I make you sound like a ghoul. I’m okay now. I should let you go back to sleep.”

  Like that’s going to happen.

  “Okay. You, too. Get some rest.”

  Drew rang off. Paul looked at the phone until it timed out and its screen went blank, leaving him in pitch blackness again. In the darkness he answered Drew’s question. Admitted it softly to the shadows.

  “Yes. It would have been a bigger story.”

  * * * *

  The next Friday, Paul checked into a budget chain hotel in Manchester. He could afford a better hotel, but he wanted the anonymity. He left the room at nearly 10:00 p.m. and headed straight for the place he always came to when he had these monthly “weekends away.”

  Canal Street. The gay pubs and bars. He never dared go to any of the scene bars back home. Not that there were many. Two pubs that put a rainbow flag out. One monthly gay night at their one nightclub. He’d never been. The town was too small to dare.

  Here he was anonymous. Just another guy looking for a guy to spend a night with. He usually found one. He scrubbed up okay when he made an effort, had a good head of hair, and he was still young, not quite thirty yet. The time would come eventually when he couldn’t be sure of pulling. When he’d go back to his hotel room alone most weekends. If he wasn’t such a coward, he could find someone to be with long term. Someone who’d stay with him as his hair grayed and his waistline thickened. Most people sowed their wild oats, then found someone who could put up with them, maybe even loved them, and settled down. Paul might never have that. He tried not to think about it. There was time. He’d figure something out. People did. They had back in the old days, when the consequences were worse. Yeah, he thought as he passed the Turing statue, poison apple in hand. And a lot of the time they didn’t figure it out.

  He shook away the morbid thoughts as he approached a pub. Once inside he would lose himself in the press of bodies and for a night forget the other Paul, the public face. Be the real Paul. A noisy group spilled out of the door when he opened it, laughing, shrieking, singing, and…oh fuck!

  “Paul?”

  Drew. In the middle of the crowd of people. Laughing and singing, too, until he saw Paul and stared at him, stunned. Paul had two options. He could blank Drew, walk inside, like it was a case of mistaken identity. If Drew mentioned it next time they spoke, Paul would deny he was there. Or he could turn and walk away.

  He didn’t get the chance to do either as Drew grabbed his arm. Drew’s friends swept around them, trapping Paul inside the group. They milled around, having a loud conversation about which bar to go to next. But it was muffled to Paul, unable to look away from Drew’s shocked stare.

  “We need to talk,” Drew said. He turned to one of the others. “I’ll catch up with you. Text me where you go next. Gotta have a chat with someone.” They moved on, some giving Paul and Drew curious glances, perhaps wondering what they were to each other. Others shoved past, not even noticing. “Come on,” Drew said, hand still on Paul’s arm.

  He steered Paul back into Sackville Gardens, past the statue again. Paul didn’t look at it. They found a bench, and Drew pretty much dumped Paul onto it.

  “What the hell is going on?” Drew demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re gay?”

  “Could you not tell?” That was always good to know, that he’d got under the radar o
f another gay man without being detected.

  “I thought for a while…you pinged the gaydar a bit. But then I thought you couldn’t be. Not after you sat there and told me to take a man as a date to the awards. Told me I should be a role model and didn’t say anything about why it might be important to you, too. That’s blatant bloody hypocrisy.”

  “I can’t be out. Journalism is full of macho bullshit. It would be even worse if I did eventually go to a national title.”

  “Well…get a job on a paper where it doesn’t matter. Get a job on the bloody Guardian or something.”

  “I wish it was that easy. Journalism is all I ever wanted to do. It’s not even something I do, it’s who I am.”

  “Gay is who you are, too. Is your career more important than that?”

  “Yes.” The answer came with no hesitation. It made Drew stare at Paul anew, then shake his head and mutter disgusted-sounding words.

  “You can’t understand,” Paul said, getting angry. “It’s so much easier for you in the NHS.”

  “Oh, you think that came easy? You think one day someone waved a magic wand and poof!” He made an explosion gesture with his fingers. “Suddenly the NHS was all gay friendly and everyone came out? That’s not how it happened. Men and women worked for it, for years. Nobody voluntarily gives rights and equality to us, Paul. We always have to fight to get them and to keep them.”

  “I don’t think I’m brave enough to be a pioneer.”

  “But you expect me to be one.”

  “Well, we know for sure you’re brave.”

  Drew snorted, shook his head. “It’s a different kind of bravery. It’s not about doing one stupid heroic thing like I did. It’s about risking your career, risking violence, and doing it day after day, and maybe never living to see the change in your own lifetime. That’s what I call bravery.”

  “I…I’m sorry. I don’t have that in me.” Paul spoke so quietly Drew had to lean close to hear. “I’m a coward, and I always have been.”

  Drew looked at Paul narrowly, and his face softened from the anger and disappointment. He looked more sympathetic, and to Paul’s astonishment, he reached out and took one of Paul’s hands. It was a supportive, brotherly sort of gesture, but still it sent thrills of both excitement and terror through Paul. Drew was touching him, holding his hand. Drew’s strong, healing hero’s hand in his. And in public. The terror was extreme. Paul never did this. Never even walked up Canal Street holding the hand of a man who’d agreed to come back for some alone time with him.

  The fact two guys about three feet away from him on the bench were apparently giving each other tonsillectomies using only their tongues wasn’t the point….

  He couldn’t recall what the point was, because his head seemed to be full of bees, his brain buzzing and vibrating. Drew’s voice brought him out of his haze of pleasurable terror. A gentle voice. A kind one. Probably the same voice he’d used for scared and trapped Lily the night they met.

  “This is about more than the job, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Drew waited for more, but Paul…shook his head. No. Not here. Not now. It was too much, too intense to talk about here. Drew didn’t press. Drew sat with Paul, still holding his hand. Eventually he spoke, voice a bit more matter-of-fact.

  “Okay, so we can’t sit here all night. What do you want to do now?”

  “You won’t mention this to anyone, will you? Back home I mean? At the paper?”

  “No. It’s not my job to out you. But how about you be honest with me from now on?”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good.” He slid his phone from his pocket and read a message. “My friends are in Via. Want to come with?”

  He shouldn’t. The others would want to know who he was. Some of them might be from the hospital, might know him. The more people who knew about this, the bigger chance of it getting back to the office. But it was horribly tempting too. To go around with a friendly group, instead of prowling around like a sad and lonely creep with only a pickup on his mind. It sounded so…normal. He should write the night off and go back to his hotel room and hope he hadn’t lost his career tonight. But for one night he wanted to feel like a normal person, out for fun with friends. Not like a man carrying an invisible weight on his back.

  “Yes,” Paul said. “I’d like to come.”

  * * * *

  It was two fifteen in the morning. The clubs would still be open for a while yet, but Drew’s group was flagging. Most were nurses, paramedics, junior doctors, Paul had learned over the last few hours. They knew how to party, but they worked shifts, too and never got enough sleep. So once they had a few drinks in them, they started to droop. The group had already thinned out, some heading back to their hotel. The hard core were in a bar, at a corner table. Paul looked at Drew beside him and got a drowsy smile in return.

  He did look very appealing all sleepy like that. His hair a bit mussed up. Paul couldn’t help but think of how good it would be to have him lying in bed, naked and mussed and drowsy. Not from drink, but from sex. He leaned closer, to talk. The music wasn’t loud in here. It was more a chill out, end-of-night bar. So he had to lean close to Drew’s ear but didn’t have to yell into it.

  “You’re so beautiful, Drew.”

  “Knock it off,” Drew said.

  “I’m not kidding. I’ve wanted you for a long time. I wish I’d had the guts to say something.”

  Before he could say anything else, Paul leaned in to kiss him. Drew didn’t push him away, as he half expected. Instead Drew raised a hand, touched Paul’s face, his jaw, fingers running over the whiskers starting to come through. Was anyone looking? Nobody cared, did they? The bar was full of people kissing. Why should Paul feel as if he had a big target on his back? He didn’t want to open his eyes. He had the insane fear that if he did, everyone from the paper would be standing there looking at him. And then it would all be over. But not until he opened his eyes.

  He rested his hand on Drew’s knee, under the table, out of sight. Stroked the knee, the outside of the thigh, not going too high, not yet daring. The seams of the denim under his fingers gave him little thrills of sensation. He found a rivet and swirled a finger around it.

  He broke the kiss; he had to speak. He moved back, looked into Drew’s face. Drew looked surprised but pleased with the kiss. His smoother skin was a little rasped and reddened by Paul’s beard growth.

  “Come back with me to my hotel,” Paul said, barely above a whisper.

  “I….” Drew looked at him for a long time, touched his face again, and Paul hoped to be drawn in for another kiss. But then Drew shook his head. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Because of the story? Drew, all that’s left of that is me covering the award ceremony.”

  “I don’t go out with closeted guys. I’m sorry.”

  Paul moved back, taking his hand off Drew. “I see.”

  “I’m not saying it’s wrong to be closeted. You’ve got your reasons. It’s your choice. But this is mine. I won’t volunteer for all the crap that goes with that. Not even on a part-time basis. I’m sorry.”

  Paul rubbed a hand over his face. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. All of his choices were wrong if this was what they’d brought him.

  “It doesn’t have to be more than tonight,” he said. “Just a bit of fun, right?” He tried to laugh, make his tone light. Drew didn’t buy it for a second.

  “You want more than that from me.”

  “I’ll take anything I can get from you, Drew McGregor.”

  “That’s not how I do things. I’d be taking advantage.”

  He was welcome to take full advantage. Paul had to get out of here. He started to get up. Drew caught his arm. “We’re still friends, Paul.”

  Paul turned away but at the last moment turned back.

  “If I wasn’t in the closet…would you?”

  “Yes. You’d get a chance.”

  All my choices are wrong.

  *
* * *

  He didn’t dare try to see Drew again. He sent Drew an email the next day, apologizing, saying he’d been drunk and promising to keep his distance. Drew replied, saying it was fine, forget about it. They spoke on the phone a few times. The kiss, Canal Street, it was never mentioned.

  Five weeks later Paul arrived in the early morning at the railway station with his gear for a weekend in London. He found Drew and his parents already on the platform.

  “Did he get a nice suit?” Paul asked Drew’s mother, Pat. Drew muttered about being nagged.

  “Oh, yes,” Pat said. She patted the suit carrier laid carefully over the bench beside her. “I went with him. He looks ever so handsome in it.”

  No date in sight, though. Drew was giving him a look Paul interpreted as a challenge to make something of that, but Paul could hardly mention it in front of the parents.

  On the train they found their seats around a table, and everyone settled in, Drew messing about on his phone, his dad, Frank, with the morning paper. But Pat did plenty of chatting to Paul—about Drew. As if she wanted him to know all about her boy. How well he did at school, in class, and at sport. How proud they were of the job he did and especially of the heroic actions he was being honored for that night. Drew took all this with long-suffering patience, looking up now and again from his phone and rolling his eyes at Paul, saying “She’s exaggerating” or some other protest. Frank stayed behind his newspaper but chuckled sometimes.

  “I’m going to get a coffee,” Drew said after an hour, getting out of his seat. Paul had to stand to let him get by, smelling the scent of his aftershave and shampoo as he passed so close, feeling the warmth of him. The hairs on the backs of Paul’s arms prickled up, and he gulped. “Anyone else want anything?” They all wanted coffee and snacks, so it seemed natural for Paul to volunteer to come along to help him carry.

  “So,” Paul said as they waited in the queue in the buffet car. “You didn’t bring a date, then?”

  “Didn’t I?”

  Paul frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “Never mind,” Drew said. “And stop interrogating my mum for stories of me as a boy.”