On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory (7 page)

We eventually got to Marble Arch after stopping it seemed at every possible traffic light and every possible request stop. It had begun to rain and of course I hadn't thought to bring my umbrella—I very seldom did, unless it were actually raining when I left home. Therefore I ran and may have reached the pub in something like a minute when normally it would have taken three. As I went in a man was coming out. Our eyes met and held and I was aware of the quickening of my pulse independent of the fact that I'd been running. “Oh hell,” smiled the man. “It's raining anyhow. There's just got to be time for another drink. My name's Brad by the way.”

As it turned out, there was time for another two drinks (each I mean) and there would certainly have been time for several more—Brad phoned the people he was supposed to be meeting for dinner and asked if they'd forgive him just this once if he cried off. Before that however we had already started to get acquainted.

“I'm assuming Danny,” he had said lightly after we had shaken hands, “that you're here on pleasure and not business?”

He was asking more tactfully than others had sometimes asked me in gay bars or clubs whether I was rent; and in fact before my meeting with Jonathan I had occasionally considered such an option—it would have boosted my income no end. But at least sodding bloody Jonathan had saved me from that (he was in many ways a decent bloke; possibly his worst crime lay in being a lot too young for me—he was barely twenty-nine) and for this I must eternally be thankful. I could now hardly believe my wavering self-respect had ever sunk so low.

“Just came in for a drink,” I replied, “and to be with other people.” Which was the complete truth, apart perhaps from my inaccurate use of the singular. For I hadn't even gone there looking for a pick-up. One-night-stands had never been of much interest. This wasn't to say I sometimes hadn't had them; but only when there'd seemed a good chance of their leading on to something more.

“What will you have?” he asked.

He bought us double Scotches—and not merely Grant's or Bell's but Glenfiddich; it transpired that neither of us had ever been much of a beer-drinker. We sat on one of the red crescent-shaped couches, nylon sprayed with Scotchguard, and under one of those huge purification pipes which were now a feature of the place; and since today was Wednesday and the pub relatively uncrowded we had the couch entirely to ourselves. Behind our heads Shirley Bassey quietly belted out the fact that like Frank Sinatra and innumerable others she did it her way; but after a grimace of resignation from Brad and a responsive but not altogether honest shrug of sympathy from myself we instantly forgot about her. “Do you come here often?” asked Brad. He said it perfectly straight-faced yet even so he got a laugh, brief but spontaneous. “Good,” he said. “If you hadn't done that I'd have had to get right up and walk away.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Oh I'd have taken my drink with me.”

“I still don't believe you. And if I did I think I'd be the one who had to get up and walk away. You'd be too frightening. Intolerant. Completely unrelaxable with.”

“Is that a word?”

“Certainly. As of this minute anyway.”

“And if it wasn't before I don't know how the world ever got on without it.”

“I have to admit you don't
seem
too enormously frightening.”

“I hope I'm not,” he said. “I fear that sometimes I don't suffer fools gladly but that's honestly not something I'm proud of and I'm really doing my damnedest to correct it.”

“Tonight?”

“There—and I'd told myself you wouldn't notice!”

“How foolish of you! And I too sometimes fear I don't suffer fools gladly.”

“Impasse.”

“Isn't it a little soon,” I asked, “for strangers to be flirting?” Apparently I already felt quite dangerously at home. I wondered if this was partly an expression of relief. That there could actually be life after Jonathan. Though I knew it was anyway a failing of mine: frequently to come on a bit too strong. I hadn't yet drunk much of my whisky.

“My God!
Which
of us did you suggest was frightening? How old are you Danny?”

I told him.

But like you,” I said, “I hope I'm not. Frightening. That's really the last thing in the world I'd want to be. We seem to have a lot in common.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“What d'you want to know? Born in a village near Nottingham. My mother a teacher, my father ex-RAF. I've three older brothers and two older sisters who've all settled in various parts of the Midlands. None of them gay. Five nephews and six nieces. Are you finding this fascinating?”

“Yes.”

“I'm a big disappointment to my mother and father but nevertheless they love me and I love them. We're a pretty close-knit family all except for me.”

“Why should you think you're a disappointment? Because you're gay?”

“Partly that perhaps. But more because I walked out of university in the middle of my course. They feel I'm only half-educated—and the sad thing is they're right.”

“What were you reading? And where was it?”

“I was reading Law. At Newcastle. But it was a bad choice of subject. I should have switched.”

He waited for me to go on.

“You see, I liked the thought of all that money which solicitors and barristers can rake in. But you can't imagine how dry and dispiriting the actual work was. And when I finally admitted to myself that I was never going to make it—well by then I was just so tired of being with people of my own age. In the main I found them shallow and juvenile even though I was probably equally shallow and juvenile, but in a different way. Have you had enough?”

“No. You give a pretty good impersonation of someone who's a lot more than half-educated.”

“Thank you. But that's only bluff.”

“I see. So what happened when you left university?”

“I came to London to seek fame and fortune.”

“And…?”

“And I'm still working on it. In both departments.”

“Fame?” he asked. “As what?”

“Don't laugh. At the start I had some idea of going in for modelling. Or even acting. Remember I was still only nineteen.”

“I'm not laughing. Not at all. And now?”

“I think I'd like to write. Steamy adventures of a young gay down from the provinces. Tasting life in the big city.”

“And planning to remain?”

“Oh very much so. Didn't someone once say that if you're tired of London you must be tired of life?”

“Yes good old Doctor Johnson. But that was before traffic pollution and mobile telephones and—I think—Miss Shirley Bassey.” (Here I ought to say that Miss Bassey had long since been replaced by Liza Minnelli and Abba, several songs from Abba, and now by another lady—“Jerry Sothern,” said Brad—who was plaintively asking if she'd recognize the light in his eyes/which no other eyes reveal/or shall I pass him by/and never realize/that he was my … ideal? For some reason the wistful quality of the singer's voice or the poignancy of the lyric itself, with all its emphasis on—according to Brad—the haphazardness of fate, had briefly attracted the attention of us both.) “This young gay down from the provinces though: how does he manage to get by?”

“He stacks the shelves at Price-As-You-Like-It. In Cricklewood Lane.”

“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!”