The Friends We Keep

by Jane Green

  sixteen

  - 1992 -

  Topher eased his eyes open and looked at the clock. It said 3:32, and for a few seconds he was completely disoriented. Was that 3:32 in the morning or in the afternoon, and if it was in the morning, why was there daylight visible through the bedroom blinds, and could it be possible that he had been asleep for a day and a half?

  Of course not, he realized. Last night was the usual danceathon at Club USA, doing lines in the bathroom that kept him wide awake and dancing until the early hours, getting back to his apartment sometime around ten. In the morning. Shit! Wasn’t the audition for that soap today? Jumping out of bed, he grabbed his planner, letting out a sigh of relief that he’d got it wrong, the audition wasn’t until tomorrow, as he gratefully crawled back into bed and sank against the pillows. He couldn’t go out tonight. This audition was for a major role in a long-running soap, and Topher’s agent had said that not only was he perfect for it, they were excited to meet him. He would not fuck it up by going clubbing tonight. No way, no how, because even when he would tell himself he was only going for an hour, a quick drink, it always seemed to turn into an all-nighter.

  At least he was alone, he thought. No one to get rid of, nothing to regret on that front. So much of the New York gay scene had been decimated by AIDS, the ones who were left were determined to squeeze every last inch out of life. Topher was among them. He was young and pretty, and although decidedly not into one-night stands, or casual flings, he loved being admired, and no one was a better flirt.

  He needed food, he thought, a sudden craving for one of Maggie’s perfectly pale homemade French omelets. He hadn’t spoken to Maggie much, nor Evvie, which would be ridiculous if not for the fact that Evvie’s modeling career had taken off and she was hardly ever in New York. When she was, they would try to get together, but the clubs and bars they frequented were not the same, although Topher was still always surprised that they didn’t see each other more.

  There was a diner on the corner, but Topher didn’t want diner food; he craved homemade. He could be in and out of Gristedes and back home cooking in twenty minutes. He pulled on sweatpants and sneakers, threw on last night’s T-shirt, and gave his teeth a cursory brush before grabbing his wallet and taking the elevator downstairs, running his hands through his hair in a bid to make himself more presentable.

  “Afternoon, Topher,” said Louis, the doorman, grinning. “Big night?”

  “Always,” said Topher, raising a hand as he passed him.

  In Gristedes he pushed the small cart around, trying to figure out what he wanted. Eggs, naturally. Emmental. Mushrooms. Spinach. Garlic, because why not. Sourdough bread. A Viennetta as a treat. He’d try not to eat the whole thing.

  He was aware of someone close to him, and looked over to see a man peering into his cart.

  “That looks like a delicious seduction dinner,” said the man, who was a little older than Topher, and extraordinarily cute.

  “Hardly. It’s my hungover-from-too-late-a-night-at-Club-USA recovery breakfast,” laughed Topher.

  “You need more greens,” said the man, looking into Topher’s eyes. “And more protein. In my book, bacon makes everything better.”

  “Bacon!” Topher laughed. “How could I have forgotten the bacon?”

  “I’ll get it for you,” the stranger said, turning toward the refrigerators. Topher watched him walk. Nice butt, he thought, smiling when he realized the man had turned and caught him looking.

  “I’m Larry,” said the man when he got back. “This bacon is the best.”

  “I’m Topher. I guess you must live in the hood?”

  “Next block. I’m pretty sure you do too because I’ve seen you around before.”

  “One block east.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. How do you feel about inviting neighbors over for breakfast?”

  “You’re forward,” Topher said, acting surprised.

  “You can’t ever be forward with neighbors. I’m just being neighborly. Also, I’m a very good cook. I could help make the job easier. I’ll bring my Sunday papers.”

  “You’re sure you’re not a serial killer who picks up young men by pretending to live in their neighborhood?”

  “This is who I am,” said Larry, bringing a business card out of his pocket and handing it to Topher, whose face lit up as he read it.

  “You own the Muscleman gym? I love that place. I wish I could afford the membership.”

  “Let’s talk about special rates over breakfast,” Larry said with a grin, taking Topher’s cart and insisting on paying for all the food, before they walked side by side back to Topher’s apartment.

  * * *

  • • •

  I never do this,” said Topher as they sat down to perfect omelets made by Larry, who had also made himself right at home, opening all the kitchen cabinets to find the pans, whisks, and spoons.

  “You never invite strange men back to your apartment? Come on. Do you think I was born yesterday?”

  “I don’t invite them back for breakfast. Or is this lunch?” Topher looked at his watch. “I guess it’s pretty much dinner. The early bird special.”

  “I don’t usually get invited to cook in strange men’s apartments, so we’re equal.”

  “You invited yourself,” said Topher, who was astonished at how easy it was to be around Larry. He was twenty-nine, six years older than Topher, a Penn graduate who spent his first few years working in finance, until he made enough money to buy a failing gym, which he then turned into Muscleman, the hottest gym in the village.

  “I did. I’ve seen you around and I wanted to meet you, and what better way to get to know someone than over a meal. Eat your spinach.” He nodded over at Topher’s plate, and Topher did as he was told.

  “So . . . no boyfriend?” Topher asked, wondering why someone as clever, cute, and accessible as Larry might be in a position to come to his apartment on a Sunday afternoon, seemingly with no other plans or commitments.

  “He died,” Larry said simply. “It’s okay. It was two years ago. I’m trying to get on with life, but no one serious since then, no.”

  Topher presumed, as was always presumed when someone gay died before their time, that it was AIDS, but he didn’t want to ask. Not that it would change his view of Larry; half his friends were positive. It had become a fact of life that was not shocking to Topher and his friends; it just was.

  “You?” Larry asked.

  “Footloose and fancy-free,” said Topher. “And happy that way,” he added, just in case Larry had the wrong idea.

  After lunch, they washed up together, idly chitchatting in the kitchen, all the while Topher realizing he was finding Larry more and more attractive.

  “Newspaper time.” Larry put coffee on as if he belonged there, then went to the living room, sinking into the sofa, feet on the coffee table as he unfolded the Sunday Times. “I’m really sorry,” he said to Topher. “You’re welcome to fight me for it, but I always start with Style.”

  “I’ll make do with Arts,” said Topher. “Just this once.” He hesitated, not knowing where to sit, until Larry patted the sofa next to him. Topher sat down, aware that their legs were touching, but Larry didn’t turn and kiss him, or move a hand to his crotch as Topher thought he might.

  Instead, Larry just sat there, completely comfortable, as he immersed himself in the paper. Topher read his own section of the paper, inching his upper body slowly toward Larry’s, until soon, he was leaning on him. He looked over and met Larry’s eyes. Larry smiled at him, then went back to the paper, and Topher felt his whole body relax as he leaned into this newfound friend with a contented sigh.

  seventeen

  - 1992 -

  Sometimes, when Topher showed up for an audition, everything was wrong. He couldn’t always put his finger on it, but it would start the minute he rolled out of bed. He felt up
tight, out of touch with himself, and nothing went his way.

  And then there were other days, like this, when he woke up feeling great, full of energy, excited about life, knowing that he would charm everyone he met that day, that life would go his way.

  What Comes Around was one of the most successful soap operas of the decade, and Topher was in the lobby of a small television studio in Midtown, right on time, waiting to be called in to audition.

  There were three other men dotted around, all of them looking over the same script, all of them there for the same audition, all of them good-looking men, roughly the same age. The part was for Rip Wallington, the long-lost son of the wealthy patriarch of the Wallington clan, a boy who had been banished to England but who was returning to steal his father’s secret mistress and create general havoc on the show.

  One of the men sitting there gave Topher a smile. He looked familiar, and Topher wandered over.

  “You’re here for the part of Rip?” he asked, sitting down.

  “We all are. Did I see you at the Jungle last week?”

  “Friday night?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you did. Great bar, right?”

  “I loved it. I’m Alec.”

  “Topher.”

  Just then the door opened and a woman stood there looking at a clipboard. “Topher Winthrop?”

  “Nice to meet you. Good luck.” Topher smiled at Alec as he stood up, knowing he would bump into him again, and recognizing that Alec was giving him that look that said under different circumstances, had they had more time, Alec probably would have suggested they meet.

  It was a good audition. Hell, maybe it was the best audition Topher had ever had. He had never imagined himself on a soap, so he wasn’t particularly attached to the outcome. He wasn’t nervous, felt confident, and read beautifully. Although the script wasn’t particularly humorous, there was one line that made Topher laugh, and he played it for humor, bringing a laugh out of everyone in the room.

  “You were fantastic,” said the girl with the clipboard as she led him back out. “They loved you!”

  “I’m sure everyone here is fantastic,” Topher said conspiratorially.

  “Not like you. You would be a perfect Rip. Good luck.”

  She called Alec in, and as he walked past Topher, he muttered, “Jungle this Friday?”

  Topher just smiled. Under different circumstances he would have agreed, but there was something about Larry that he couldn’t get out of his head. He didn’t want to play the field or complicate things. He wanted to see whether there could be something with Larry, whether he was as good as he seemed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Over the next couple of weeks, he and Larry fell into an easy routine, meeting after work for a quick bite to eat at a neighborhood restaurant, or Larry cooking Topher dinner at either of their apartments. After three weeks, Topher started to worry that Larry wasn’t attracted to him, that he had read this all wrong. He assumed it was perhaps the start of a beautiful friendship, the easiest one Topher had ever had, but not more, because Larry hadn’t made a move.

  And Topher, who had spent his life avoiding intimacy, avoiding being touched, found himself craving Larry’s touch. He had thought about kissing Larry, or reaching over and placing an unsubtle hand on his crotch as they sat together after dinner, but the prospect of rejection was one he couldn’t handle. And so he waited.

  Topher’s agent finally called, bubbling with excitement. Topher had got the part of Rip Wallington! They had known from the minute he walked in that it was him, and they wanted him to come in on Monday and meet everyone.

  Topher was thrilled to have steady work, even as he hoped he wouldn’t remain a soap actor forever, rather that it would be a stepping-stone to greater things. But still, it meant a modicum of fame, which was exciting, whichever way you sliced it.

  He phoned Larry to tell him the good news, and Larry immediately suggested a celebratory dinner that night. But Topher was tired and in need of a night at home, so Larry came over instead, to cook something suitably celebratory.

  It was lobster. They were alive when they arrived, in a polystyrene box with ice, carried in by Larry, who immediately filled a huge pot with water and boiled it. Topher offered to plunge the lobsters, but much to his mortification instead dropped one beast on the floor when it unexpectedly moved a claw. It scuttled into the corner as Topher shrieked and climbed up on a stool.

  Larry laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. “I wish I had a camera,” he said, wiping the tears away as he helped Topher off the stool. “I’ll put the lobsters in the pot.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be a problem. God knows I watched our housekeeper cook enough lobsters when we were up at the Vineyard, but I just couldn’t do it. I’m too much of a wuss.”

  “A very cute and talented wuss,” said Larry affectionately, retrieving the lobster and plunging it into the boiling water with no compunction whatsoever. Topher watched, impressed, wondering, hoping, that he and Larry would become more than friends sometime soon.

  It happened that night. Topher was washing up after Larry had cooked dinner, the two of them puttering in his tiny galley kitchen, when he became aware of Larry standing behind him. They weren’t touching, but there was something different in the air, a heaviness as if time were standing still. Topher’s breath caught in his throat.

  Larry didn’t say anything. Topher felt the heat emanating from Larry’s body as his own body started to respond. Slowly, and gently, he sensed Larry moving closer, before feeling Larry’s soft breath on his neck, and then, like the softest of buttery kisses, felt his lips in the same place. Topher didn’t move. He stopped washing the bowl he had been holding, setting it down gently in the sink, not moving, his entire being focused on the feel of Larry’s lips on his skin.

  All he could hear was the sound of his own breath echoing in his ears; all he could focus on was the feel of Larry’s mouth on him. He turned as if in slow motion, and they stood, foreheads touching, breathing heavily, Larry not moving, not doing anything else, until Topher couldn’t stand it anymore, and leaned forward until his own lips were on Larry’s. And then they were kissing, as Topher felt his entire body turn to liquid gold.

  Larry stayed over, and in the morning Topher was woken up by the sound of Larry laughing, his head appearing over the wall of pillows Topher had erected once Larry was asleep.

  “What the hell is this?” Larry said, tossing each pillow, one by one, across the room. “How did the Great Wall of Pillows appear once I was sleeping?”

  “I’m sorry.” Topher was embarrassed. “I don’t like to be touched when I’m not expecting it.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind last night.” Larry grinned over the one remaining pillow.

  “I definitely didn’t mind last night.” Topher’s stomach lurched as he flashed back to Larry’s face above him, dipping down to lick his ear. “Maybe it’s a sleeping thing,” he lied. “I’m weird about suddenly finding an arm or a leg touching me while I’m asleep.”

  “Noted.” Larry flung the last pillow to the end of the bed. “I’m not in a rush. I like you.”

  “I like you too.” Topher felt a flush of pleasure.

  “I mean I really like you. I want to take this slow. I’m in no rush. If you don’t want to be touched unexpectedly, I won’t touch you. We don’t need to erect the Great Wall of Pillows every night.”

  Every night? Topher couldn’t stop smiling as he exhaled in relief at finally finding someone who seemed to understand him so well.

  eighteen

  - 1994 -

  It was Maggie’s first day at her new job, and she had no idea what to wear. She had worked in corporate PR where black was the order of the day, but she was certain that her boring little black suits wouldn’t be chic enough for Les Jolies, the French cosmetics
company she would now be working for. She was leaving corporate PR for consumer PR, and not for just anyone, but for one of the biggest cosmetic companies in the world. For the first time she would be exposed to the magazine industry, and the glamorous beauty editors who worked there.

  She was terrified of getting it wrong. Fashion had never been her thing. The black suits she was able to get away with for years had been an enormous relief—like wearing a school uniform (which she had also loved). She had never needed to think about it—a black suit, a collared shirt, and sensible low heels.

  A tour of her new office after she had accepted the job showed how wrong that would be in this world. It was like the cast of Friends had met the catwalk. Maggie’s heart sank when she realized how she would have to start dressing.

  Since then she had hit Joseph (for the expensive stuff) and Miss Selfridge (for the non-), and her work wardrobe now consisted of some jewel-tone crushed velvet bootleg pantsuits, with a few strappy dresses to be worn over silk T-shirts.

  For her first day she had decided on a burgundy velvet suit with a black strappy camisole underneath (no one would ever see it was a camisole, for Maggie was determined never to remove the jacket, no matter how hot it got), and a black velvet choker. Her hair had been newly cut into choppy layers à la the “Rachel.” This morning she had styled it just like Rachel on Friends, hoping that she could scrape it back in her usual bun by the end of the week.

  She felt both glamorous and like something of a fraud. She’d even bought a burgundy lipstick to match the suit, and every time she caught a glimpse of herself in the darkened window of the tube, she thought she looked like a clown.

  She was wrong. Within twenty minutes of walking into the office, five people had come up to her and complimented her on the suit, asking where she got it from.

  “Your desk is here,” said Linda, her boss, who marched through the office at a rate of knots, despite her four-inch heels. She led her to a small cubby with a blank wall facing her. All around, her fellow executives had decorated their cubbies. Their own walls were sophisticated and glamorous, covered with photographs of models, shots of beauty products, and inspirational messages. Maggie spotted Evvie on four different walls, and smiled to herself. This was clearly a sign that she was in the right place.