Out of the Blue (26 page)

“Citronella writes this ghastly column in the Sunday whotsit,” said Lily. “Quite dreadful! That bitch is always
vile
about other women, you know.”

“Really?” I murmured vaguely. But I wasn’t listening to Lily any more. Because by now it seemed to me that something odd was going on. I’m no expert on body language, but something just didn’t feel right. I looked at Will. He’s thin, with short, blue-black hair and a sort of pinched, self-conscious expression. He’s rather exotic-looking I suppose, with staring, ovoid eyes, thick eyebrows, and a curious, waxy sheen to his skin. He reminded me now of a camp version of that TV puppet, Captain Scarlett. That’s what it was, I now realized—he looked somehow synthetic, and fake; unlike Iqbal, I reflected, who’s so warm and real. I adore Iqqy, he’s a lovely guy, but Will gives me the creeps. Standing next to him Jos looked so manly, with his dark blond hair just curling at the nape, and his broad shoulders, and his masculine physique, and his casually attractive clothes—a pale-green linen shirt above a pair of really nice jeans.

“But it was such a
scream,
Faith,” I heard Lily say. “Citronella’s husband ran off with a hairdresser. She was so awful she’d turned the man gay!”

It hadn’t occurred to me that Jos and Will might know each other, but of course it made sense because they were in the same world. Looking at them together you’d have thought they were quite close friends. Yes…very close friends, actually. And now I felt my entrails twist and knot, because Will was standing much too near to Jos. Admittedly the room was crowded, but he didn’t need to stand that close. He was right in his face. Invading his space. He was…yes, he was. He was hitting on Jos, I now saw with a shock as illuminating as sheet lightning. He was coming on to him. You could see it. It was obvious. How dare he, I thought. How
dare
he! And how awful for Jos. How embarrassing, too, I reflected, as my face now burned with vicarious shame. And I was just about to go over and rescue him when I suddenly stopped. Because I now realized that Jos wasn’t backing away. If Will was standing too close to him, Jos didn’t appear to mind. In fact he looked…yes, he looked as though he was almost
enjoying
it. He was staring straight back at Will and he was throwing back his head and laughing. He was…
no
. I looked again. Yes. He was. Jos was
flirting
. He was flirting with a
man
. My skin prickled, and rows of goosebumps raised themselves up on my arms. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to intervene. I wanted to go up to Will and tell him to back right off. But I couldn’t because I felt like an intruder—no,
worse
—I felt like a
voyeur
. And now Will was putting both his hands on Jos’s shoulders, then he reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

“Faith! Faith! You’re not listening to a word I’m saying.”

“Wh-at?” I murmured. “Oh, sorry.”

“Look, there’s Jos, Faith, let’s go and talk to him.” We made our way over to him through the heaving multitude, and I wanted to stop and tell Lily what I’d seen, but she was dragging me along in her wake, parting the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. And by the time we’d got to Jos, Will had disappeared.

“Darling,” said Jos. He flung his arms round me as though he hadn’t seen me for weeks. “I missed you,” he said as he drew me to him. “Now,” he said with a wicked grin. “Have you had enough?” I nodded mutely. “Good. Because I think it’s time we went home.” We left Lily still enjoying the party, then drove slowly back through west London in the enveloping midsummer dusk. Jos lowered the roof of his car, and I watched the sinking sun flare red and gold in the turquoise sky.

“Red sky at night,” said Jos. “Shepherd’s delight. Isn’t that right?” he added with a laugh.

“Oh, er, yes,” I said.

I didn’t feel like chatting, I felt too subdued and was trying to work out what I’d seen. I’d decided to say nothing about it, but now I felt that resolve crack.

“Jos, can I ask you something?” I said as we idled at a red light.

“Anything you like,” he replied. He grabbed my right hand and held it in his.

“Well, that chap you were talking to,” I began as the car nosed forward again. “That chap, Will.”

“Yes,” said Jos. “Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him. He lives with one of our make-up artists, Iqqy.”

“What about him?”

“Well, do you like him?” I asked.

“Do I
like
him?” Jos repeated as we turned left into Goldhawk Road. He seemed surprised by the question. “Do I like him? Er…no. Not much.”

“Then—why on earth did you kiss him?” My heart was banging and my palms felt damp.

“I didn’t kiss him, Faith. Don’t be silly.”

“Yes, you did. I saw.”

“No I didn’t. He kissed me.”

“Well, all right, but why did you let him? You’re not gay. I was…” I swallowed. “To be honest, I was a bit shocked.”

“Oh Faith, darling,” he replied with an indulgent smile. “That’s only because you’re so shockable—and so naïve. You always take things at face value, don’t you? But they’re never quite what they seem.”

“What am I supposed to think when I see my boyfriend kissing a man?”

“Well,” he said as he changed gear, “you’re supposed to think that these days it’s perfectly acceptable for a straight man to let a gay man kiss him.”

“Oh,” I said unhappily. “I see.”

“Just on the cheek, that’s all. I mean, really, Faith,” he added with a smile, “French men kiss each other the whole time. Do you think that they’re all gay?”

“No, of course not. But it’s not the same, because their culture’s different from ours.”

“Oh, Faith!” Jos exclaimed with a huge smile as we passed a red No Entry sign. “Did it make you think that I’m gay?!”

“Well, no, I mean, not really, I was just…wondering,” I added feebly. And at this Jos burst out laughing. But it wasn’t his usual, good-natured chuckle. It was a rather mocking, high-pitched kind of laugh, a laugh I’d never heard before.

“My girlfriend thinks I’m gay,” he exclaimed. He seemed almost tickled by the idea. He thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Oh that
really
takes the biscuit!” Now he was shaking his head and laughing—it seemed to crack him up. And all of a sudden I found myself laughing, too. I guess I was laughing with relief.

“Of course I’m not gay,” Jos said as his giggles subsided. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Not at all. Really. No way. But the point
is,
” he added, “that I have to play the game.”

“Oh,” I said. “What game?”

“Well, in my world, Faith, the fact is that a lot of the guys
are
gay.”

“Yes, but why do you have to flirt with them? That’s what I don’t understand. And you
were
flirting with Will, Jos. I could see.”

“Darling, I flirt with everybody,” he said as we drove under a sign saying “All Directions”. “I like to flirt. Haven’t you noticed? That’s how I get on.”

“That’s how you get on?” I repeated. I felt a twinge of something like revulsion mingled with a kind of contempt.

“That’s how I sometimes get work,” he explained as we turned towards Stamford Brook.

“I thought you got work because you’re brilliant at what you do.”

“Well, yes, up to a point. But there are a lot of good designers, Faith,” he added. “So I have to keep my end up.”

“You what?”

“I mean,” he stumbled, with a giggle, as we turned into Chiswick High Road, “I mean,” he reiterated awkwardly, “that I have to oil the wheels. Now,” he went on, “I’ll happily admit that I know Will fancies me. So I make sure I flirt with him because I don’t want to alienate the guy.”

“Why ever not?” I asked. “He’s not important.”

“Oh yes he is,” he replied. “He’s doing
The Rake’s Progress
at the New York Met next year, and I want to design the set. And if I have to flirt with that creep to get the gig, then, quite frankly, Faith, I will.” Now I found myself freshly confused—for which, I wondered, was worse? Flirting with a gay man when you’re straight? Or flirting with a man whom you don’t even
like?

“Flirting’s essential for business,” I heard Jos say. “I do it all the time. You see you have to make yourself attractive to other people. That’s all I’m doing. Do you understand?”

“Mmm. I suppose so,” I said.

“If you make good eye-contact, use the right body language, then you make the other person feel good which means you can get them on your side.”

“Oh,” I said, faintly. “I see. So it’s just…strategic, is it?”

“Yes,” he said. “It is. And it’s quite harmless. Because the fact is, Faith, that although I flirt with lots of people, I choose to date only you.” We drove on in silence and then drew into Elliot Road. I looked at the house, the window panes flashing crimson in the setting sun. The wisteria which had looked so lovely two weeks ago looked sad and faded now. I made a mental note to dead-head it. And now there was Graham, doing guard duty in the window. Jos saw him, too, and groaned.

“I won’t come in if that’s OK. I’ve got a
Madame Butterfly
meeting at nine o’clock and I’ve got some sketches to rework. In any case,” he added ruefully, “I’m not sure I could cope with Graham.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. I smiled at him. “Really, I quite understand.” In fact I was relieved. For although Jos’s explanation had reassured me, a part of me still felt disturbed. I wanted to digest what Jos had told me, so I took Graham out for a quick walk, then called Lily on her mobile phone.

“Yes, darling?” she said. She was on her way home in a cab. I told her what I’d seen.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said airily. “It’s probably exactly as he says.”

“Yes, but Peter never flirted with men,” I pointed out.

“No,” said Lily. “That’s true. He flirted with women, didn’t he? With rather unfortunate results. Look, Faith,” she went on emphatically, “if Jos says he’s not gay, then he isn’t. Why on earth would he need to lie?”

“Well, maybe he’s got a gay past?” I said. “It’s quite possible, you know. And if he did, then I’m not at all sure how I’d feel about that.”

“Mmm,” said Lily, thoughtfully now. “Well, yes, I see what you mean. And we don’t want him running off with a bloke like Citronella Pratt’s husband did.”

“And the reason why I don’t feel completely reassured is because when we were discussing it in the car, he said this funny thing. He said he flirted with men because he ‘had to keep his end up’.”

“Oh!” she said darkly. “What an unfortunate choice of phrase.”

“Yes.
Exactly,
” I agreed. “And then he corrected himself rather quickly, which made me think it might have been a Freudian slip. And he was so emphatic in denying that he was gay. He said, “No I’m not. Really. Absolutely not. No way,” so I felt he was slightly over-doing the denial. Protesting too much and all that. Lily, maybe Jos
is
gay, but has decided to date women for a while.”

“Mmm. Well, does he ever mention any ex-girlfriends?”

“Not really. I’ve never really wanted to ask.”

“And is he close to his mother?”

“Very.”

“Mmm. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s gay. Does he cut recipes out of newspapers?”

“No.”

“Does he know lots of musicals?”

“Yes.”

“But can he sing all the words?”

“No.”

“Has he got lots of house plants?”

“Yes. Oh Lily, I’m feeling very disturbed—I just don’t know what to think.”

“Poor Faith,” said Lily with a hollow laugh. “I mean, three months ago you were obsessing about whether your husband was being unfaithful, and now here you are obsessing about whether or not your new man is gay. We could do something on it in
Moi!.
” she giggled. “Is Your Boyfriend Gay—Our Top Ten Tell-Tale Signs!”

“Please be serious about this, Lily, I’m worried.”

“OK. Sorry. Look, is there anyone you could ask?”

“Sophie at work might know.”

“Then talk to her,” Lily advised me. “Get her to spill the beans. Because I agree, you’ve
got
to get to the bottom of this. Oops! Sorry Faith—Freudian slip!”

* * *

The next morning I wrote my script in record time, then dashed downstairs to Make-Up just after six, as that’s the time Sophie goes in. As usual AM-UK! was in chaos.

“—where’s Terry’s script?”

“—the psychic granny wants to know when she’s on.”

“—has Sophie gone to Make-Up?”

“—if she’s psychic she should know!”

“—who’s got the hedgehog-racing VT?”

“—oh no! The singing parrot’s gone sick.”

I opened the door of the make-up room. There was no sign of Sophie, but there was Iqbal, looking depressed.

“You’re down early, Faith,” he said as I sat down.

“Yes, I got my script done quite quickly today. How are you, Iqqy?” I added.

“Oh, don’t ask,” he groaned. “Marian’s ill which means I’m frantic, and to be honest I’m not feeling that great.”

“I’m sorry,” I said as he draped the nylon gown round my shoulders. “Have you got a headache?” I enquired disingenuously.

“It’s not physical…” he began as he pinned my fringe back from my face. “I wish it was. I could deal with that. It’s…emotional,” he sighed.

“Oh, dear. Look, tell me to mind my own business, but is there anything I can do?” He shook his head wearily.

“Thanks, but no-one can help. It’s the usual problem, I’m afraid.” I looked at Iqqy’s face in the mirror as he sponged foundation onto my skin. His jaw was grained with stubble and there were bags beneath his eyes.

“It’s Will,” he murmured bleakly. “We had a really bad row last night. He crucifies me,” he went on as he blended the make-up over my jaw. “I mean, I know he’s naughty,” he added. “I’ve always known that. But what I can’t bear is the way he…taunts me. He likes to make me feel bad.”

“Oh, Iqqy,” I said, “you don’t deserve that.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think I do. Oh, hi, Sophie,” he added as the door opened. “I’ll be with you in a tick.” Sophie shut the door quietly behind her and gave me a friendly smile.