Other Halves

by Nick Alexander

  “Oh. It was only because she was worried about you.”

  “All the same.”

  “Well, I promise I won’t tell her anything else. OK? About time I showed a little solidarity with the sisterhood.”

  “Not sure about being in the sisterhood. But thanks.”

  “So what steps have you taken? Other than posting a faceless pic on Grindr.”

  “None really. I’m seeing a shrink. That’s helping a bit.”

  “That’s good. And dates?”

  I shook my head.

  “You been out at all?”

  “Out?”

  “Pubs, clubs. Gay ones, I mean.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Wow.”

  I sipped at my beer. “I don’t think I’d have the nerve to be honest.”

  Tristan sighed. “Would it help if I took you?”

  “Took me where?”

  “We could meet up in Soho or something. I could take you to a few gay places. Just for a drink.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “That’s nice of you Tris’ . . . But as I say, I’m not sure I’m ready, really. I’m not sure I ever will be.”

  Tristan laughed. “Ready for what? It’s just like here.” He looked around and wrinkled his nose. “OK, it’s like here, but without the football on the telly, without Sacha Distel on the sound system, without the pensioners, and without the kids. Other than that, it’s identical.”

  “Sounds OK when you put it like that,” I said.

  “So let’s do it.”

  I half-smiled. “Maybe. Some day.”

  From that point on, Tristan and I became Grindr buddies. We exchanged messages regularly, and that felt good. Having a friend in cyberspace made the whole experience feel that much less threatening.

  Tristan would ask me who I was talking to and make witty comments about the profile in question; he would ask me repeatedly if I had “taken steps” yet, endlessly amused by my invented euphemism. He also attempted, tirelessly, to convince me to go out with him in London, and it took under three weeks before I capitulated.

  It was on the first Saturday in February that Tristan rang my doorbell as arranged. He had been attending a business meeting in Guildford, and was to drive us both into the city.

  I opened the door and noticed, perhaps for the first time, how very good-looking he was. Perhaps I somehow hadn’t allowed myself to see him that clearly before.

  He was wearing a sleek, blue checked suit over a light blue shirt with a cutaway collar and a blue striped club tie. The overall result was entirely traditional, and yet, each of the ingredients, the shirt, the tie, the suit, the overcoat, the cufflinks being so visibly expensive, he looked outrageously dandy as well. “Wow!” I said. “Now I feel totally underdressed.” In an attempt at avoiding beige, I had opted for blue: jeans, a denim shirt and trainers.

  “Work gear,” Tristan said with false modesty. “But it’s always good to go out in a suit. You get to meet all the suit sluts.”

  “Suit sluts?”

  “Everybody likes a man in a suit, Cliff.” He stepped into my flat and looked around. “Nice pad,” he said.

  “So do I need to change then?” I asked, closing the door.

  “No, you’re fine,” he said, giving me the once over. “Maybe lose those if you can.” He nodded at my feet.

  “No trainers?”

  “Not those trainers anyway. What are they? Tesco trainers or something?”

  “Not far off.” I crossed the lounge and entered the bedroom, then slid open the wardrobe door. “Brogues?” I asked loudly.

  “Yeah, brogues are quite in,” Tristan commented, his voice shockingly close behind me – he had followed me into the bedroom. “Especially if they’re a bit knackered.”

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t wear a suit or something? Won’t I look a bit ridiculous next to you?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Better this way. We have all the bases covered.”

  I stooped to pick up the brogues, but Tristan pointed at the wardrobe and asked, “What about those? They’re cool.”

  “The boots?”

  “Yeah. They’ll get you noticed. Full cowboy combo. You’ll have ’em queuing”

  “Aren’t they a bit too much?” I asked. I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to be noticed.

  “A bit too much what?”

  “A bit too much . . . dodgy.”

  Tristan laughed. “When you’re going to a place where everyone’s already accepted the fact that they’re a bit dodgy, you have to adjust your whole concept of dodginess.”

  “Are you serious though? Should I wear them?”

  Tristan nodded. “Put ’em on. Let’s have a look.”

  I swapped my trainers for the boots and then stood and looked at myself in the mirror. “I look like James,” I commented.

  “Yeah,” Tristan agreed. “But that’s no bad thing, believe me. They make your arse look good in those jeans too.”

  As Tristan drove us into London I became more and more anxious about our night out, but Tristan either failed to notice my silence or pretended not to. He chatted incessantly during the entire journey about Jill and Pascal, her French boyfriend, and how amazing it was that they were still together when neither of them could string more than three words together in the other’s language, about the staffing problems he was having at his Brighton restaurant, about a guy called Steve he had met two weeks ago who just might be boyfriend material . . . He just didn’t stop. Even so, by the time he pulled into the car park on Lexington Street, I had broken out in a nervous sweat.

  We walked as far as Compton Street then Tristan asked, “So where to start? That’s the question.”

  “Don’t ask me,” I said, looking at an all male group of smokers standing outside a bar opposite. They were clearly giving Tristan and me the once over.

  “Comptons? The Duncan? G-A-Y?”

  “Maybe not G-A-Y,” I said. “At least, not just yet if that’s possible.”

  “A pub or a wine bar?”

  I shrugged. “Pub? Maybe?”

  Tristan laughed. “You look like you’re about to faint or something,” he said, fiddling with his tie.

  “I feel a bit that way.”

  “There’s only one thing to do then,” Tristan laughed. “Jump right in.”

  “You won’t abandon me will you?” I asked, as he linked his arm through mine and started to march me across the street, past the group of staring smokers, and through the door into Compton’s.

  “Of course I won’t,” he said. “I remember exactly how scary this is.”

  The pub was packed with Saturday-night revellers, and in truth, with the exception that there were very few women present (I counted three) it truly did feel much like any other London pub.

  Tristan and I ordered pints and then moved to an area beneath the stairs where there was both standing room and a table for our drinks.

  “So what do you think?” Tristan asked, undoing his overcoat. “It’s not too scary, is it?”

  “It isn’t,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t stop me being terrified.”

  “Of what though?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea really.”

  “It’s busy. Happy hour,” Tristan said, sipping his drink. “It empties pretty quickly once happy hour is over.”

  “I see,” I said, reaching for my pint and noticing that my hand was trembling.

  Tristan laughed. “Relax, won’t you? You look like you’re waiting for the dentist. Or euthanasia.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

  “Then drink more or something. I can’t, I’m driving, but there’s nothing to stop you getting blotto. I’ll make sure you get your train home. I promise.”

  I downed my pint quickly, and then made good progress with the second one, and did start to feel a little more human. I studied the men around me and kept asking myself the question over and over: am I like them? There we
re guys in suits (though none as chic as Tristan), and guys in jeans. There were bald, bearded men packing a few extra pounds, and skinny camp boys who moved like John Inman. But none of them looked, to my eye at least, much like me.

  Once he had fetched me a third pint, Tristan headed for the toilets, leaving me momentarily alone. This increased my stress levels exponentially, but as the only alternative was to follow him to the toilets or beg him to stay, I forced a fake smile and watched him go.

  A guy with a crew cut in a black leather jacket immediately took his place at the table. He smiled at me. “. . . Like your boots,” he said.

  I felt myself breaking into a sweat. “Thanks,” I muttered, glancing down.

  “I’m into boots,” he said, stretching his leg out so that I could see his own beautifully polished motorcycle boots.

  “They’re nice,” I stammered.

  “I wish I had worn my cowboy boots now though,” he said with a wink.

  “My, um, friend told me to wear them,” I spluttered, already grimacing at just how gauche I was managing to sound.

  “He was right,” the man said. “They’re hot.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, deciding that it was best to keep my idiot splutterings to the bare minimum.

  “So where’s your friend?”

  I nodded towards the far side of the room. “Gone to the loo.”

  The man nodded. “Is he your boyfriend then?”

  “Oh, no. No! He’s just a friend.”

  “Right. Good.” He smiled broadly at me, then held out his hand. “Peter.”

  “Um, Fred,” I replied, shaking it.

  “You live in London, Fred?”

  “Surrey.”

  Peter nodded. “I live just around the corner.”

  I cleared my throat nervously. “That’s nice,” I said, groaning internally at my inability to make conversation.

  “It is actually,” Peter said. “D’you want to come and see?”

  “No, I . . . I can’t. As I say, I’m with a friend.”

  At that moment, I saw Tristan heading back through the crowd. He spotted Peter talking to me and started to divert to the right, but I waved and beckoned him over.

  “Tristan, this is Peter,” I said when he arrived.

  “Hi,” Tristan said, shaking his hand.

  “Nice suit!” the man said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Can I get you two boys a drink?”

  “No, we’re just about to, um, go somewhere else, aren’t we?” I said, sending Tristan my best begging stare.

  “Yes,” he said, seamlessly getting my drift. “Sorry. But nice to meet you. And thanks for the offer.”

  Once outside, we continued our way down Compton Street, which, at eight in the evening, was now crowded with people, mainly men.

  “So what was that about?” Tristan asked. “Was he not your type?”

  I shrugged.

  “He wasn’t bad. Looked pretty fit to me. Nice smile . . .”

  “I know.”

  “So what is your type?” Tristan asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I have a type.”

  “But you didn’t fancy Peter there?”

  “I’m not sure I fancy anyone, to tell the truth.”

  “Are you actually gay?” Tristan asked. “Or are you still trying to work that one out?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “Maybe you need to suck it and see,” Tristan sniggered.

  “Maybe,” I agreed. I wasn’t really listening to him. I was too busy analysing my feelings about Peter, about Tristan, about Compton’s, about the street. Jenny said that sometimes, when you don’t know what you’re thinking, it can help to note the physical sensations in the body, and I was trying to do that now. But the only feeling I could identify was an enormous ball of fear in the pit of my stomach that was wallowing in beer, making me want to puke.

  “So, another bar?” Tristan was asking, pausing briefly outside another venue.

  “I’m pretty hungry actually,” I said, glancing up at the sign above the door. “Could we just go get something to eat?”

  “Sure, I’m hungry too actually. There’s a tapas place down here if that works for you?”

  “Tapas sounds great,” I said, relieved that at least I wasn’t going to have to stride through the doors of G-A-Y.

  The tapas restaurant was friendly and efficient. We took the last free table and I did my damnedest not to stare at the couple to my right – two forty-something men clasping hands across the table, staring dreamily into each other’s eyes.

  Of course I knew that gay couples existed, and as they were on home turf here I accepted that their behaviour was absolutely fine. But again and again I felt the need to sneak a peek as I asked myself, Am I like these people? and If I am, would I ever have the courage to do what they’re doing?

  Tristan chatted easily about food and the restaurant trade and then Jill and Pascal. He asked after Luke, wanted to know what we had done for Christmas . . . It was easy and friendly but all the same, by the time we left the restaurant, all I wanted was escape.

  Though I felt incredibly grateful for his efforts escorting me on my first adventure in Soho, just as after a session with Jenny, I was left feeling suffocated, left gasping for the mental space required to analyse my own feelings, or perhaps the space to not have to analyse anything further at all.

  Tristan offered to take me to another bar but accepted readily, happily even, when I insisted that I wanted to go home. He had had a hard week himself, he said. He wanted to get back to Brighton.

  And so we awkwardly hugged, promised, dishonestly I think, to do this again, and went our separate ways – he into the car park, and me back down Compton Street towards the tube station.

  As I walked past Compton’s, the strangest thing happened though – I ducked back inside. I wasn’t quite sure why I had done this, but it felt right, it felt as if now the taboo of entering the place had been broken it might be easier to find out what and where and how I wanted to be if I was alone, unaided, unseen. I had been craving, I suddenly realised, anonymity.

  I bought another drink at the bar and returned to the exact same spot under the stairs. I could see Peter on the far side of the bar chatting to a man in one of those fleece-lined denim jackets. I watched them together, and sipped my drink and started to do what in Tristan’s presence I had been unable to do: I started to imagine going home with him.

  I watched his gestures, his easy manner, his confident smile; I studied the fluid way he held himself, the opposite of my own rigid gait; and I started to feel attracted, I began to feel aroused.

  I went to the toilet, and admitting to myself finally that I wanted to speak to him again, that I wanted, very possibly, to go home with him, just to see what would happen, I returned to my drink.

  But he had vanished. I scanned the room and saw the guy he had been talking to now installed at the bar alone.

  I stepped outside to see if Peter had joined the smokers, and then, realising that this particular boat had been missed, I grinned in relief and not a little amusement at myself, and started off, once again, in the direction of the Underground.

  I felt happier though, as if something had perhaps been resolved. I felt comfortable, here, alone, walking along Compton Street in my boots. I may even have swaggered a little.

  NINE

  Hannah

  Without James, and more and more frequently finding myself without Luke either, the house felt like a black hole that might swallow me up at any moment. I started to hold my breath when I woke up in the mornings so that I could listen to the eerie silence; I started to hesitate before stepping over the threshold when I got home at nights.

  The school asked me if I could work some extra days to cover for one of the other secretaries away on maternity leave, and I jumped at the chance. Unsure of what the future held, I felt I needed the extra money, but even more than that, I needed the distraction.

&n
bsp; It wasn’t only that without James, I was forced to face up to the family life I had given up when I broke up with Cliff, but also the fact that in contrast with my technicolour adventures with James, every other part of my life seemed like monochrome.

  Whether it was my job at the school which, though unchallenging, I had always managed to enjoy, or listening to my friend Jennifer complain about the builders, or entertaining my sister and her new French boyfriend for dinner, I was unable to sum up any real enthusiasm. I felt increasingly like an actor in my own life, feigning interest in those around me, going through the motions of normal life – a normal life that suddenly didn’t interest me at all.

  I knew, through Jill, that Cliff was seeing a shrink, and I wondered from time to time if I didn’t need to see someone myself.

  The ninth of February was Luke’s friend Peter’s birthday, and as it fell on a Saturday when Peter’s dad was working, I took both boys to Thorpe Park for the day.

  I was so desperate by that point for any sense of connection with my life that I anticipated the trip for days in advance, turning it, in my mind, into a pre-visualised cliché of family bonding with my son. The reality, when it came to it, couldn’t have been more disappointing. Luke’s attention, at twelve, was with Peter and Peter alone; his attitude to me was one of barely disguised disdain.

  The boys wanted to go on all of the most terrifying rides, and only on the most terrifying rides, which reduced me to a lonely figure standing on the tarmac, shivering against the chill. I felt as if I had been reduced to a taxi driver to and from the park, a credit card to pay for everything, someone to hold the camera while the boys swung upside down, and a parental figure to be ignored on the way home.

  When we got back to Farnham, I dropped the boys off outside Peter’s place – his mother was taking them out for pizza. “Cheers, Mum,” Luke said as he slammed the door and ran across the road.

  I gritted my teeth and drove away. I would wait until I had closed the front door behind me and only then would I let myself do what I had been wanting to do all day: bawl my eyes out.

  The following Monday, during a quiet moment at work, I phoned a divorce lawyer to book an appointment. He couldn’t see me until the Friday, which gave me plenty of time to realise that no matter what he said, there were no good solutions here. The best-case scenario was that I could take Luke wherever I wanted whenever I wanted, but that was so unreasonable, so cruel towards Cliff, that I couldn’t see how I could possibly go through with it even if it were possible. The worst-case scenario – that I wouldn’t be able to leave at all – didn’t bear thinking about.