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Neil smiled icily and retreated to the far corner of the room where the two Steves were busy sampling the cocaine they’d purchased from Fernando at a special introductory price. David, of course, was already seated with them.

John glanced at his watch: 11:25
A.M.
Shane still hadn’t shown up, and they would have to leave soon if they were to meet up with Martin as planned. This was typical of Shane. Punctuality had never been his strong point. God knows how he managed to hold down a career as a flight attendant. It was a wonder he ever made it to the airport in time for takeoff. John wouldn’t have minded him being late today, only Shane had ordered enough E’s to keep him rolling for the next forty-eight hours, and John wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of carrying them around on the off-chance that they might bump into one another on the march. Then again, he could just locate the banner for the Long Yang Club Asian gay group and wait for Shane to make an appearance, as he invariably would. And if they didn’t meet up, there were bound to be plenty of people around who would be more than happy to take any surplus pills off John’s hands. It wasn’t even as if the police were a particularly heavy presence at Pride these days. They were too concerned with community relations to be seen searching people for drugs, today of all days.

John slipped into the bathroom and took the bag of small white pills from out of his toilet bag. Then, pausing to check his hair in the mirror, he popped a pill into his mouth, drained his glass of champagne, stuffed the bag down his sock, and returned to his guests.

“Right, everybody,” he said, checking his watch. “Half an hour till take off. Time to go.”

Caroline was draped across the sofa, half watching the television with the sound off and flicking through the latest copy of
Vogue
. She was feeling marginally slimmer and just a little light-headed from lack of food and sleep. That was the problem with coke. One line was never enough, and before you knew it you were lying awake for hours staring at the ceiling. She must have finally drifted off around 3:30
A.M.,
which would account for the dark circles under her eyes. Still, that was what makeup was for. If there was one thing Caroline knew about, it was makeup. She had spent years researching the subject, seeking out the best products, and learning how to apply them with an expert touch. It amazed her, the number of women her age who clearly didn’t have a clue where beauty products were concerned. It wasn’t as if there weren’t enough magazine articles on the subject or salesgirls eager to lend a helping hand in the hope of picking up a decent-size commission. Yet you still saw women walking into fancy bars, or sitting down in posh restaurants, looking for all the world as if they had climbed into the tumble dryer with the contents of their handbag and simply hoped for the best.

Her own handbag was packed with what she considered the essentials for a night out—lipstick, mascara, blusher, compact. Not forgetting the little Tiffany pouch she used to carry her coke. She liked to tell people that she was just popping into the ladies’ room to powder her nose—inside and out. If one of the girls accepted the invitation to pop in with her, then more often than not they would emerge quite some time later with dilated pupils and a whole new face. Caroline could never resist the opportunity to give a girl in need a quick makeover, least of all when they were locked in a stall and already beholden to her. Luckily for her, most people were so familiar with the various makeover shows that dominated the TV schedules, and so used to the idea of a complete stranger stepping into their life and telling them how to make their house/garden/self more beautiful, they accepted her advice in the spirit in which it was given. Somehow, she doubted whether Pip would be quite so keen on the idea of letting another woman loose on her face. In fact, she would be almost certain to take offense. Well, that would liven things up a bit after dinner. . . .

An image on the television caught her eye. A man dressed as a nun was walking hand in hand with another man in leather shorts. Behind them, two women dressed in rainbow tie-dyed dungarees with matching purple spiky hair were holding up a banner that read
SURVIVORS OF LESBIAN ABUSE
. Maybe, but they were still victims of lesbian fashion, Caroline thought as she reached for the remote control and turned up the volume. A man’s deadpan voice announced that it was “a big day for Britain’s homosexual community.” (He didn’t really pronounce the second
o
in “homosexual,” so the word actually came out as “homasexual.”) Of course, Caroline thought, it was Gay Pride. Suddenly she was transported back to the Pride festival she had attended five years ago. She had gone along with Martin to show moral support. It wasn’t the best day out she ever had. She couldn’t understand why anyone should be expected to stand around in a muddy field watching Dannii Minogue and eating veggie burgers, simply because they happened to be gay. And for someone whose previous exposure to the gay scene had led her to believe that gay men were either naturally better-looking than straight men or at least knew how to make the best of themselves, some of the sights Caroline witnessed that day had come as rather a shock. For every well-groomed, handsome man who caught her eye, there were a dozen more who wouldn’t have looked out of place at a stag night in Swindon, not to mention a few who appeared to derive some perverse satisfaction from making themselves as unattractive as possible. The odd facial piercing she could just about cope with, but there were people walking around looking as if they were held together with staples.

The combination of bad pop acts, bad weather and a perfectly reasonable aversion to self-mutilation meant that Caroline’s first Gay Pride was also her last. Martin did try to coax her along the following year, but once he picked up on her lack of enthusiasm, the invitations soon dried up. Of course for the past few years, he’d had Christopher for company. Given that this was no longer the case, Caroline did feel a tiny bit guilty that she hadn’t suggested to Martin that she tag along this year, if only on the pretext of helping him cope with his father. Still, if she couldn’t be there in person, she could at least be with him in spirit. Perhaps she would even spot him on the television. Leaning forward on the sofa, she stared intently at the screen as a steady stream of colorfully dressed people paraded past, many of them waving into the camera or blowing whistles as they went by.

Then she spotted him. It wasn’t Martin, but it was someone she knew. Or at least she thought it was. She couldn’t see his face, not properly, but she recognized the hat instantly. It was a cowboy hat, the exact same cowboy hat Graham had worn the night she went around to his flat and they had the best sex they’d had in weeks. And now here it was again, bobbing along at a Gay Pride parade. Right, she thought. Damn Graham and his temper. Damn his feeble excuses and his mysterious telephone calls. Damn his fancy friends and their posh dinner party. And damn his bloody cowboy hat. Tonight there was going to be a showdown.

Eight

M
artin and his father
arrived at Hyde Park just in time to see the tail end of the march disappear down Park Lane. The sky had finally cleared, and the sun was glinting off the polished heads of the gay skinheads and the drag queens in their sequined costumes as they snaked their way into the distance. Even from this vantage point, the cacophony of cheers, screams and catcalls was enough to drown out the sound of the traffic, edging its way slowly around Marble Arch. Martin spotted a man selling whistles, the kind that came on a fluorescent string you hung around your neck and were molded out of cheap plastic—pink of course. These days no gay event was complete without them, which was fine for those gay people who liked nothing better than to produce high-pitched noises at regular intervals, but a complete pain for everyone else. John always referred to them as the kind of whistles that were so shrill, they could only be heard by dogs and homosexuals. Martin usually found this funny, but thinking about it now, he wondered if it perhaps contained an element of self-loathing, and was therefore an inappropriate thought to have running through one’s head on Gay Pride Day.

“C’mon, son,” his dad urged, snapping him out of his dilemma. “We’d better hurry up or we’ll miss all the fun.”

“Are you sure about this?” Martin replied. He cringed as he caught sight of a drag queen hobbling toward them, dressed as Ginger Spice in a tiny Union Jack dress and enormous platform boots, swinging a bottle of champagne and blowing kisses at the tourists gawking down from the upper deck of an open-topped bus. “We could just go back to the flat if you like. Or I could show you around the museums or something. Or how about one of the art galleries? We could go and have a look around the Tate Modern. Or there’s the London Eye of course. Maybe we could get tickets if we’re quick. I can always meet up with the others later.”

“Nonsense,” said his dad. “I can take in the sights anytime. And I didn’t come all this way just to go poking around some museum. I’m not as old as you seem to think. I told you I wanted to come on this march of yours and I meant it. And there’s no need to feel embarrassed on my account. I know you don’t all want to dress up as women. This isn’t the first Gay Pride I’ve been to, you know.”

“It isn’t?” Martin felt his stomach churn. What if John was right? What if his father had come to visit him with the express purpose of revealing that he, too, was gay? What if he had been leading a double life all these years? What if that was the reason his parents had split up? It was all too awful to contemplate.

“Hell no,” his dad went on. “A mate of mine took me to the Mardi Gras in Sydney a couple of years back. We had a great time. I’ll say one thing about your lot, you sure know how to throw a party. Some fella we met there gave me one of those Ecstasy pills. It was just like old times. I haven’t been so high since Woodstock.”

Martin struggled to take all this in. His father had been to Mardi Gras? Who was the “mate” he referred to? And what exactly was the nature of their relationship? And he had taken Ecstasy? What happened then? Did it turn him into a sex-crazed monster? Did he wake up in the morning lying next to some strange man, with no idea of how he had got there or what he had done the night before? These were the questions that raced through Martin’s mind as he ran to keep pace with his father, and they took their place with stragglers at the back of the march. What he actually said was: “You were at Woodstock?”

“Not exactly,” his dad said, smiling. “Your mother wasn’t very keen. I did see the film, though.”

“And you went to Mardi Gras in Sydney?”

“Yep. And I had a stall at our local Gay Pride down in Brighton last year. Where do you think I bought this badge?” He pointed at the badge with its
PROUD TO BE AN EMBARRASSING PARENT
lettering. Martin wondered if his father had any idea of just how embarrassing this reunion was turning out to be.

“Anyway, enough about me,” his dad said, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out what looked suspiciously like a joint. “When am I going to meet these friends of yours? And what about that fella you were with at our Emily’s christening? Nice-looking chap. Christopher, wasn’t it?”

Martin forced a smile. “It’s a long story, Dad. I’ll tell you all about it later, okay?”

His father lit the joint, took a long drag, and sighed contentedly. “In your own time, son. In your own time. Now, which banner shall we march under?”

John was coming up on his second E of the day. It was several hours later and he was suspended in some strange underwater world, surrounded by shoals of shiny, saucer-eyed fish. This was very odd, since only moments ago he could have sworn he was in the Trade tent at the Pride festival in Finsbury Park. The march itself had been a blur. He hadn’t seen Martin or his father, nor had he spotted Shane, and somewhere along the way he’d lost track of the two Steves. He still had his bag full of pills, though, and he was pretty certain that Neil and David were in here somewhere, but he couldn’t remember when he had last seen them. Was it ten minutes ago? Or an hour? He really couldn’t tell. Everything seemed to have gone into slow motion, and yet time passed so quickly. He felt weightless, as if his entire body had gone to sleep, and at the same time every nerve was tingling to the beat of the music. It echoed inside him like a pulse, pounding out the distance between his last clear memory and his present sense of where he was and how he was feeling. Nothing else mattered. Time and pleasure were measured in beats per minute.

Someone brushed against him and shivers of sweaty excitement shot through his naked torso. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Fernando. A strange face grinned back at him. “I wish I had some of whatever you’re on, mate.” John replied by lifting his arms high above his head, closing his eyes, and smiling happily. There didn’t seem much point in actually saying anything. What could he say? What words could possibly describe how he was feeling right now? How did that Madonna song go again? “Words are useless, especially sentences.” It sounded so stupid at the time, as if she’d written it when she was sitting on the toilet or something, but suddenly it all made complete sense. It was easy to mock Madonna, but that woman knew what she was talking about, even if nobody else did. Apart from him, of course. He knew exactly what she meant. In fact, he had always known, right from the very beginning. He just hadn’t realized it until today. “Only when I’m dancing can I feel this free.” That was what this was all about! The lights, the music, the energy generated by all these people dancing together, all these men with their shirts off! It was all about freedom! It was all about being yourself! It was all about the freedom to be yourself by dancing in a room full of people who all looked exactly like you! It was all about . . . Pride! Of course! He understood it all now! He just had to get it all straight in his head; then he would find Fernando and tell him, and then he would understand it all, too!

He opened his eyes. God, it was strong, this E. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so mashed. Or so thirsty. He reached into his back pocket for his bottle of water. That was funny. He was sure he’d had it a minute ago. Maybe it had dropped onto the floor. Or maybe someone had stolen it. He looked around at the heaving mass of muscles, of glistening chests and waving arms. Biceps were the new pecs. He had to try to remember that. Dancing on E was all about Pride, and biceps were the new pecs. It was amazing how clear everything had become. And there were still hours to go, and plenty of pills left. If only Martin would show up soon, then he could share this with him. And his father, if he wanted. There were enough pills for everyone. Except David. He could buy his own drugs for once. Fernando would probably still have some left for sale, and if he didn’t, he would know someone who did. Maybe he should go and look for him. Hang on a minute, though. What was this song? Some screaming diva singing about how life was a bitch and how men needed to be kept on a firm leash? He loved this one! He would just dance to this song; then he would go and look for Fernando.

Suddenly a bottle of water appeared in front of John’s face. He grabbed it and drank the entire contents in one gulp. “Where have you been?” said a familiar voice. It was David. John could tell that he was agitated. His eyes were enormous, and he was grinding his teeth, causing untold damage to hundreds of pounds’ worth of dentistry. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” David said. “We’re sitting outside with Martin and his dad. You have to come and meet him. He’s a real scream. Oh, and Fernando said to tell you he’ll be back shortly. He’s gone to get more supplies. And, well, I hate to ask, but I don’t suppose you’ve got any coke left, have you?”

John thought for a moment. David really was the biggest drug whore ever. On the other hand, he had just given John a bottle of water. In gay clubland, people fell head over heels in love on the strength of such gestures. Or should that be “heels over head”? John smiled to himself and dug his hand into his pocket. “I haven’t got coke,” he said. “But I have got something better.” And with that, he handed David a pill.

Caroline took a stab at her crab salad with sweet chili dressing and smiled across the dinner table at her hosts—Pip in her annoyingly girly Laura Ashley dress, Jeremy in his ridiculous embroidered waistcoat. “This is really lovely, Pip,” Caroline said in the same honeyed tone of voice she normally reserved for balding male business associates and very young children. “I don’t know how you do it. You must be so proud of her, Jeremy.”

Jeremy, who was in the process of filling up everyone’s wineglasses with a “simply marvelous” Australian Chardonnay he had ordered from the
Sunday Times
wine club, hesitated for a moment before casting his wife a slightly nervous look. “I am,” he said. Then, with a little more conviction: “Very proud.” Pip smiled bashfully and began moving her food around her plate.

Graham was beginning to sense that something was seriously wrong. He knew that Pip and Jeremy weren’t exactly Caroline’s favorite people in the world. In fact, for some time now he had suspected that she only ever agreed to spend time with them in order to keep him happy. She was never rude or outwardly hostile. And she was an extremely good conversationalist. In fact, it was one of the things that first attracted him to her. She could talk to practically anyone about virtually anything, and you were never really able to tell whether she was enjoying herself as much as she appeared to be. Caroline could turn on the charm better than anyone he had ever met. Far from seeing this as a sign of shallowness, he regarded it as a measure of her eagerness to always make the best of a situation, both for her own sake and for other people’s. It wasn’t just good manners. It was the advertising executive in her, and at times like these, it was a quality he appreciated more than he could say.

Still, there was something about her behavior tonight that didn’t seem quite right. There was that dress, for a start. He knew Caroline was never one to just throw something together at the last minute. She always spent time over her wardrobe, and was always immaculately groomed. Even so, a backless black sequined sheath with a plunging neckline did seem a little over the top for an intimate dinner party with friends. And why she had felt the need to dress it up even further with a chiffon and black feather wrap was quite beyond him. It looked like the kind of dress Diana Ross would refuse to wear—on the grounds that it was too vulgar. And was he just imagining it, or did Caroline’s breasts seem even more voluptuous than usual? She couldn’t have a Wonderbra on under that dress, could she? Whatever it was, it was clearly having the desired effect. Jeremy had barely taken his eyes off her cleavage all night.

Then there was all that talk about his and Jeremy’s university days. Caroline had never expressed much interest in his time at university before, yet tonight she had steered the conversation back to it over and over again, first asking Jeremy about the time he and Graham had first met, then making some very strange observations about the sorts of things young men might get up to and the kinds of emotional attachments they might make when they first find themselves living away from home. What exactly was all that about? He knew Caroline hated hearing about his ex-girlfriends as much as he hated hearing about her ex-boyfriends. Why would she want to drag up the past now? It wasn’t even as if he’d had that many girlfriends at university. In fact, there had only been the one, and she hadn’t lasted very long. He was far too shy around women in those days. Normally, he preferred to skip over the details of this chapter in his life. It was embarrassing, admitting that he had gone through university with barely a single shag under his belt. But under the circumstances, he was glad that Jeremy had responded to Caroline’s prying by pointing out that Graham’s university days were not quite the orgy of womanizing she imagined. Hopefully, that had satisfied her curiosity and assuaged any nagging doubts she might have. Maybe now they could continue with their dinner in peace.

Graham’s hopes were dashed the very next instant as Caroline put down her fork and gazed across her crab salad into Jeremy’s eyes. “So tell me, Jeremy,” she said, cocking her head to one side in the style of a concerned daytime television talk show host. “When did you first realize that Graham was gay?”

Martin was beginning to think that going to Gay Pride with your father wasn’t such a bad idea after all. True, the day hadn’t started off too promisingly. His father’s inquiry after Christopher had sent him into a gloomy mood for much of the march, and try as he might, he couldn’t get used to the idea of marching alongside a member of his own family, least of all one who made his relationship to you known to all and sundry with the aid of a frankly tacky badge. But by the time they had got to the park, Martin’s mood had lifted considerably. This was mainly due to the vast quantities of dope his father encouraged him to smoke as the day went on. It was years since he had been this stoned, and he had forgotten just how relaxed it made him feel. He wasn’t even embarrassed when, just after Steps had finished performing on the main stage, his father turned to him and launched into a long, rambling speech about how proud he was, knowing that he had a son with the courage to be true to himself in the face of so much adversity. The truth was, Martin didn’t feel courageous at all, although it did strike him that there was a certain amount of courage involved in sitting through the kind of acts Gay Pride threw at you every year. But just having somebody say it made him feel good about himself in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time.