The Guardian Angel

by Liam Livings

  And he was gone in a cloud of Gucci eau de toilette. His bum was pretty sexy in those dark blue jeans, though.

  I started to stand to leave, gathering my work bag from under the chair. I thought about getting home to a long soak in a hot bath, allowing all the stresses and worries of the workday to dissolve around me. Then I caught a glimpse of Bobby at the bar. The back of his head reminded me of Sky—the same very dark, almost black hair, roughly the same build. Nice.

  Bobby, now what’s that short for, I wonder? Robert, Rob, or Paul? I knew a Paul who went by Bobby too.

  I left the table and walked towards the door, bumping into Bobby carrying a tray of shots. “You going already? I’ve got four different flavours of vodka. Looks like you could do with something to wind down.” He smiled, barring my exit as he stood in front of me.

  “I’m not going home with you,” I said.

  “Who said anything about that?”

  “I’m not into that.”

  “Not what I heard.” He handed me a shot then took one himself. “On three, drink, okay?’ There was a pause as I looked into his eyes, so similar to Sky’s deep blue. “One, two, three!” He downed the shot, and I copied.

  The vodka burned in my throat. I felt my body go limp as Bobby guided me gently back to my chair.

  “Tell me all about it,” he said, sat next to me now, his hand on my leg, squeezing my thigh.

  And it was fun. Don’t get me wrong, it was better than fun. He took me back to his flat—a huge loft he referred to as an “apartment,” in Balham. I only knew it was Balham as we passed the Tube station in the taxi. He did that “standing in the road and only using your eyes to flag a taxi” thing. The thing you see people do in films—but he did it, right in front of my eyes.

  He told me what he did, something about a PR company. “I handle the European car clients. Means I get to travel a lot, which is perfect for me. I get to sample men all over Europe.”

  And then he listened to me talking about Sky—but I didn’t tell him Sky’s name. I just referred to him as “the mystery man who was in my life, but I can’t be with.” When I told him about the night we’d stayed up talking, Bobby—“you can call me Bob”—had said, “You had the night. The night where you find out all about the other person and they find out all about you, and then you finish it with amazing, mind-blowing sex so you can’t walk straight afterwards.”

  I said we hadn’t done that, not quite. I explained to Bobby—“Bob” made me think of the children’s cartoon builder, while Bobby was a bit Dallas, but I could live with that—I said to Bobby that we hadn’t quite done that, and he grabbed my crotch and said, “There’s definitely something there, so is there something wrong with it? Your cock’s not broken, is it?” He curled his eyebrows and winked, lasciviously.

  I’d laughed—lascivious hadn’t really worked with me at that point. “Nothing wrong in that department.”

  He made me a cocktail—something about a Long Island Iced Tea with not an awful lot of ice, but an awful lot of spirits.

  “You’re trying to get me drunk.” I smiled at him.

  “Well, so far I’ve not succeeded. You must have had the same glass of wine in the bar the whole time.” Another smile and a lick of his lips. “So I thought I’d find something you actually liked.”

  I sipped the drink, enjoying its burn in my mouth. “How do you know Pat?”

  “I could tell you we met at uni, but that would be a lie. But seeing as you’ve shared, I’ll share back. We met at a Neuro Linguistic Programming course in Dublin. I was sent by work—helping me to use it to sell more advertising, blah-de-blah. She wanted to set up a company using some of the techniques for counselling.”

  “Opposites attract?” I shrugged.

  “We’re pretty similar, actually. After the first day, I was so bored. We were chatting outside, having a cigarette, and I asked her what she thought. By the second cigarette she was telling me what she actually thought, and said it was boring and she didn’t believe it. I said, ‘Do you want to bunk off?’ and we didn’t go back. We went drinking in Temple Bar. Didn’t come back to the hotel until six in the morning.”

  “Where did you take her?” I was hanging on his every word by now.

  “We went to a house party—some bloke we met in one of the gay bars. She copped off with the host’s brother, and I shagged the host in the back bedroom. He thought the party was going badly and needed consoling….”

  “So you fucked the happiness into him?” I was pleased I’d worked out what his game was with me.

  “He didn’t complain.” He sipped his drink slowly.

  “And that’s what you’re planning here with me, is it?” I looked around his perfect apartment: shiny black music and TV equipment filled one wall; black leather sofa with chrome fittings by the opposite wall, where I now sat; a glass table in front of the sofa, with a selection of lifestyle and professional magazines spread evenly over its top.

  He shrugged. “Only if you want to.” He smiled.

  Once we’d established I didn’t have anything wrong with my cock and that I wasn’t that sort of boy, I relaxed somewhat.

  That right there was my biggest mistake.

  He offered me another cocktail. I asked for a long one this time. He said something flirty about something long in response, and I picked up one of his magazines from the glass table.

  He disappeared to the kitchen, which was more of a bar with a shiny pristine oven and unused sink, to make the drink. Music wafted its way around the living room, surrounding me.

  He reappeared with the glass and one for himself, and sat next to me on the sofa, handing mine to me. “Cheers,” he offered.

  “What we toasting to?”

  “Just cheers, how’s about that.” He chinked his glass to mine, and we both took a sip.

  The cocktail was sweet and a bit creamy, a complete contrast from the previous one. It slid down like a little alcoholic milkshake. I took another sip and smiled at Bobby, noticing he’d been looking at me the whole time.

  He moved closer to me on the sofa, leant forwards, and kissed me. Only a little peck on the lips, but the smoothness of his face against mine sent a signal to my groin. He continued to kiss me, and I put my drink down on the floor. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. And he took my shirt off. He took his shirt off. He pulled off his trousers, undid my fly, and took my trousers off. His body was almost completely hairless. He wasn’t hairless down there, but the rest of him was smooth. As he ran into the bedroom, I remembered Sky.

  “Can we have the light off?” I asked as he jumped onto the bed.

  He switched the light off, and I knelt on the bed in the dim light from outside the window.

  Amy called the next day at lunchtime. She screamed, “Who didn’t come home last night?”

  “It’s hardly news. I used to do that sort of thing a couple of times a week.”

  “Not lately, you haven’t. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Well, you don’t need to be,” I replied, chasing some salad around the plastic container.

  “Bobby wants to know if you’re free at the weekend.”

  “Well, Bobby had better ask me himself.” I put on a baby voice. “Has his friend told my friend he likes me?”

  “Lighten up. I was just doing what he asked Pat to ask me.”

  There was a pause, the only sounds my chewing and salad leaves being wrapped onto a fork.

  “So, how was it?” Amy asked.

  “You can’t tell me you don’t know the answer to that already.”

  Her silence spoke volumes. Then “He didn’t give details to Pat. He just said he wanted to see you again and he had a good time.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would I see him again? More to the point, why would he want to see me again? He’s got the notch on his bedpost—and it’s a pretty notchy bedpost, from what he’s told me. Something to rival even my slaggiest of periods, to be honest.�
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  “Pat said… he said….” She paused, obviously working out how ridiculous she sounded. “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t be arsed, that’s why.”

  “Well maybe that’s where you’re going wrong. Maybe you need a bit of being arsed. Maybe that is exactly what your arse could do with at the moment, Richard.”

  “So, no need to go back to Wales with your penniless tail between your legs?”

  “What?”

  “The new job, it’s going well?”

  “Yes. I just check in my real beliefs at the door every day, then pick them up when I go home. Me and Pat share a few little in-jokes. But basically it’s ‘science rules’ all day.”

  I sang the chorus from a familiar song, “She Works Hard for the Money.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I chewed slowly, remembering the night before, remembering him doing things to me I’d not done before with all the other men I’d slept with. Things I wasn’t sure I had a name for but could still remember how amazing they had felt, even now as I sat at work, eating my salad. “He has been texting, I think. I thought he was a bit keen for someone who’s such a player.”

  “So, will you see him this weekend? Go on, you know you’ll love it. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Chapter 13

  Turned out, the worst that can happen wasn’t him boring the arse off me going on about himself or persuading me to have sex again and us ending up as fuck buddies. I think I could have handled that. I’d had friends in that particular box before. It was easy once I got used to it. No, the worst that could happen was that I would have an amazing time, and that he’d continue to be interesting, attentive, and great in bed. Like properly toe-tingling, sweat running down our backs, taking deep breaths and having to stop for rehydration in the middle of sex, amazingly great in bed.

  Yeah, it was that amazing.

  And that would have been great if it was just sex. If we were just fuck buddies. But that’s not what he wanted. Somehow after the following Saturday—which turned into the whole weekend, then it was another weekend, and another, and lunch in the week—he invited me to come to Berlin for a weekend. He had worked the previous week, and so I joined him for the weekend.

  And before I knew it, the worst thing that could have happened, had happened. We were in a relationship. And why was that the worst thing? Because even though I knew I couldn’t be with Sky—him not being a human and us not being able to touch one another were pretty immovable, it seemed—I still felt like I was betraying Sky by being with Bobby. I still remembered the night with Sky like yesterday, replaying our conversations in my head all the time.

  I woke up one morning in Bobby’s enormous “loft apartment,” and he brought a tray of breakfast for us in bed, turned on the TV, and jumped in next to me, swiftly removing his and my underwear in one quick movement. “How is my first and only boyfriend this fine morning?”

  “Well. And what has my first and only boyfriend brought for breakfast?” We had this whole first-boyfriend shtick going on. It was like having pet names for one another but much less vomitous.

  And I knew Sky would be watching Bobby and me together, and steering it in the right direction, giving me good relationship luck. Or so I thought. Until one evening, while Bobby had nipped out to get some wine and a takeaway, having first lit some candles and run me a bubble bath, my head tilted to one side and I woke—lying in the bath.

  Sky looked over his shoulder, then back at me. “Can’t stay long. How’s things?”

  “You know how they are. I feel awful for being with Bobby when I still have feelings for you.” I paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for? Nothing to be sorry about. You know we can’t touch, can’t be together, so why wouldn’t you go out with Bobby? He makes you happy. You are happy, aren’t you?”

  I was. I really was, but I didn’t want to admit that to Sky. I shrugged and avoided his gaze.

  Sky continued. “It’s nice for us to see each other, to talk. Even if we can’t have the other stuff, we’ll always have that night together, these little talks together. That’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Well, then, for goodness’ sake, be happy. I’m happy for you and Bobby.”

  “But isn’t there anything you can do so we can—”

  But he was gone. A cloud of green smoke and the scent of patchouli oil filled the room.

  Despite all my most negative instincts, Bobby completely failed to cheat on me—despite my clear assertions that “No, I really wouldn’t be too upset. Just go on, fill your boots when you’re in Paris/Prague/any other European city.”

  Amy adored him. Pat loved the fact that we were together, and she got all mother hen about it and kept mentioning buying hats for “the big day.”

  And so, with Sky’s blessing—if you can call it that—I allowed myself to lean into my relationship with Bobby, to really enjoy us being together, physically, emotionally, and all the things you want from a relationship.

  Chapter 14

  “Fancy a naughty weekend together?” Bobby asked, a glint in his eye over breakfast at the weekend.

  “What sort of naughty?”

  “Rent a room in a cheap hotel somewhere by the coast and spend most of the time in bed, drinking wine, eating chocolate, and each other. Maybe we’ll come up for air and pick up someone to join us. Dirty weekend away. That sort of naughty. What do you reckon?”

  “I’m not sure about picking someone else up. But just us two, that sounds fun.”

  “I’ll book it.”

  “Where shall we go?”

  “I’ll surprise you. Trust me.”

  A few weeks later, after I’d almost forgotten Bobby had said he’d book it, we boarded a train at Charing Cross with our bags packed. I had spent most of the journey trying to find out exactly where he was taking us.

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll know when you know. All you have to do is trust me.” He squeezed my knee under the table.

  I didn’t have much choice, so I sat back and read my book as the train left the platform. “It’s somewhere in Kent, that’s where this train goes. Unless you’re taking us somewhere in south-east London. Hmm, very glamorous, the delights of Orpington, Pett’s Wood, or Bromley. I can’t wait!”

  “I’m not saying. You won’t get me to say.”

  As the train pulled in to Margate station, he reached for his bag.

  My hand hovered by my bag. “Is this us?”

  “Might be.” He was walking to the door.

  The taxi pulled up outside a tall Edwardian terraced building. Groups of dirty children played in the street. We carried our bags up the steps to the front door, and Bobby rang the bell. After no answer he banged on the door, and eventually an elderly woman answered. She was hunched over, had no teeth, her white hair wrapped in a cloth with wispy bits poking from the sides. Her head cover couldn’t be described as a pashmina; it was nearer to a cloth you’d wipe tables with.

  As we walked into the entrance hall, the smell hit me: a mixture of stale body odour and damp dog. The woman walked around the desk slowly, then sat, opening a lever arch file and shuffling through the papers. She licked the tip of the pen before starting to write.

  “Names?” she asked, not looking up. We confirmed our names then she looked at her file and papers, then said, “You’re down for a double. Is that right for you two men?”

  I was too overcome with the smell and the fact that the whole experience reminded me of something from a Dickens novel to speak.

  Bobby stepped in. “I did order a double, yes. Is that going to be a problem for you?” He smiled and put his arm around my shoulder.

  I half shied away, half stood rigid. This public display of affection was definitely too much for me at that time in that place.

  She looked at me, then at Bobby. “Fair enough. You can do what you fucking well like. It’s your room. There’s two rules: no fucking smoking, and no fucking
spitting on the floors. I have to mop it down here all the time with them fucking immigrants upstairs spitting on the floor all day. Like they’ve got nothing fucking better to do. Well, they ain’t. Still, the fucking council pays their rent on time, so I should be pleased it’s full.”

  She handed me a key, then took it back. “Cash up front, please.” She left her hand out, palm up, fingers wiggling.

  We reached into our pockets and handed her the money. Bobby had warned me to bring cash just in case.

  The woman handed me the key and Bobby the receipt. “Top of the stairs, turn right. Room four. Yours has its own bathroom, so don’t worry about the noises at the end of the corridor, that’s the kids washing in the bathroom. Bye.”

  She left the desk and disappeared into a back room. I overheard her muttering and caught only a few words—“fucking poofs” and “fucking immigrants.”

  Bobby raised his eyebrows and led us up the stairs. “Come on—it’s cheap. And it was meant to be a dirty weekend.”

  I followed, dragging my bag behind me. Not this sort of dirty.

  The room had a double bed in one corner and a tiny bathroom with a shower and sink—no bath, so why they’d bothered labelling the door with a stuck-on brass sign saying BATHROOM was beyond me.

  He unpacked his clothes into the creaky ancient wooden chest of drawers and wardrobe, both of dark wood and having seen better days—probably when Queen Victoria had been alive.

  I sat on the bed, and it creaked beneath me. The floor had what would have once been a bright pattern of swirling red flowers, only now it was more pink with dubious brown stains scattered among the flowers.

  Bobby stood next to the wardrobe. “Aren’t you gonna unpack? I’m done. We could have a coffee or something from the minibar and see what happens.” I recognised that glint in his eye, and normally I would have reciprocated eagerly, but now, I just felt cold, underwhelmed, and as far from sexy as possible.