Chapter Nine: Dinner
Gethin got ready for the evening out almost mechanically, wash and a shave, trying not to let the ghost of Jonathan Blake haunt him from the bath, not jeans tonight, not for dinner, even though it wasn't a date. Just plain dark trousers, a shirt with a bit of colour in it, not too much. Nothing that could look tempting, enticing, as if he was leading anyone on.
They'd even arranged to meet at the venue so there was none of that 'I'll pick you up' business, and he'd every intention of splitting the bill; it felt wrong, somehow, to set such strict rules in place even before the night started, but what else could he do?
He should never have agreed in the first place, that's what. Except it was a good chance to clear the air, and with Ivan going away soon, Gethin would be able to relax, knowing he'd have a bit of a breathing space.
Even so, the evening started off okay, Tube and a short walk to the restaurant, finding it to be not just a restaurant but somewhere offering 'entertainment' too, whatever that meant, and Ivan outside waiting, pacing, looking as if he'd been there a while, very smartly dressed, dark overcoat, pristine white shirt showing.
'Been here long, have you?' Gethin asked.
'No, not long. I did have a drink in the bar across the road. I hope you like this place, they have an act on later just for St David's day, that's why I suggested it, to celebrate with you.'
Oh. Sounded like Ivan had put too much thought into this for it just to be to talk and clear the air. Maybe he should say no, let's go and eat Italian, at least get to ogle the waiters...
Instead, he shrugged.
'Shall we go in, then?'
Corner table, out of the way which meant you could only see an edge of the little stage, but never mind, Gethin hadn't thought there'd be entertainment anyway. Good food, bottle of red, chatting, him watching every word, possibly reading too much into the simplest of remarks, already regretting this when Ivan set down his cutlery, refilled their glasses, and fixed Gethin with his cool stare and a lift of the lips that was almost a smile.
'So. You were going to tell me the whole story of your little escapade with the transvestite.'
Gethin had been hoping not to have to, really, but at least he'd had chance to think the salient points of the story through, to rehearse, almost.
'Let's start there, shall we? See, not actually a transvestite, I don't think, so much as an actor doing a drag act between other work...'
He went on with the story as he'd told it to Peter, with a touch more detail; the menacing air from thepolice, and the fact that he'd been put in mind of one of his older relatives seemed worth mentioning... that his guest had slept on the sofa...
'But you have a spare room!' Ivan interrupted.
'Yes. Wasn't planned, you see, he fell asleep before I called a taxi so I just threw a blanket over him and left him there. On the sofa.'
'Just like you told to Peter and he told to Gordon...'
And Gordon had obviously told Ivan. Gethin shrugged.
'Ah, you think I have been spying?' Ivan said. 'And what right have I?'
'More that I don't see why you care. Anyway, I don't mind what you do with your spare time.'
'No, I know you don't... Well, about this, I hear Luke saying, he from the bookshop is not to be trusted, he will seduce away one's boyfriend. But, he said it when his boyfriend was not there. And says it to everyone, not only me. So I think it is not as he says. I am willing to believe you are being truthful. Luke is young, perhaps does not know what to do to keep a partner happy.' Ivan paused to sip his wine. 'Not like those of us with a few, just a few more years' experience.'
Ivan leaned back in a 'what do you say to that?' sort of way and continued with his meal, leaving Gethin simmering with anger he didn't dare vent – no, Ivan had no right, but if Gethin said so, it led the way into a much deeper conversation about why did it matter what Ivan thought, when Ivan didn't matter to Gethin except that he was a friend... but friends didn't need to explain stuff like this, not usually...
'When do you have to decide about that job in Europe?' he asked instead. 'Not at risk of losing the chance, are you?'
'I have a day or so, it is no problem. So, at what point do I say, happy St David's Day?'
'Don't worry about it.'
'And what celebrations are there? Besides the drinking of stout?'
Gethin tried not to glower, letting out a long slow breath before he trusted himself to answer.
'That's St Patrick, later in the month. He's the Irish one.'
'Good,' Ivan nodded. 'I had stout in the pub before, I do not think I like it.'
'Well, no need to have it again.'
A silence settled over the table, uneasy, on Gethin's part. What Ivan was thinking, or feeling, Gethin could not have said, nor did he particularly want to guess. But usually Ivan was the talkative one, filling up the silences as if they were something to be covered, hidden, overwritten.
Besides, he had said when he suggested this meal that he wanted to talk.
Let him do the talking, then.
'I worry about you, this thing with Luke,' Ivan began eventually. 'People may think badly of you for it. You may be alone when you don't want to, because of him.'
'Doesn't matter, not looking for anyone.'
'I see. Because, I know you said, friends... but will you think? While I am away, I will miss you, even if I am busy, even if I find other friends. So, if you cannot find anyone...'
Gethin shook his head, protest more than refusal.
'Please, Gethin, do not say no, not yet. Only, if you do not say yes, I can accept that. Will you do that? Will you let me have a little hope?'
'Hasn't got anything to do with if I can find anyone else or not,' Gethin said. 'It's just not a good time now.'
'Wait, then. When I come back, see how you feel then, how it seems to you?'
Activity at the stage area, relief as Gethin realised he didn't have to answer but could instead crane his neck to see the act... not quite sure what to expect, but then the manager announced a special turn for St David's Day, and:
'...Heeeeere's Phyllis!'
And with a clatter of deliberately awkward heels, a person in a black and green dress, elaborate evening gloves and a tottering, teetering red wig took the stage.
Oh, God.
Jonathan bloody Blake, of all the stages in all the venues in London, it would have to be this one, wouldn't it?
But suddenly the fact that the stage was half hidden from view was almost a relief; it meant that, in turn, Gethin was shielded from the stage.
"Phyllis" was funny, though, engaging, with an accent that was perhaps meant to be Scouse. She talked about 'docker heels', made a few jokes about expectations of being a Liverpudlian, then moved on to discuss an aunt from Anglesey who lived the good life...
'Well, actually...' (acksherley, it sounded like) '... she's from a little place called Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. Only no-one can ever say it... and she only ever gets really big letters – you can't fit the name on postcards, or...'
Perfect. Gethin hid a smile. Phyllis had said it perfectly.
'Where's she from?' someone in the audience asked, causing a smatter of laughter.
'Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. Why? Do you know her? Anyways...'
Gethin shook his head in awe. Absolutely spot-on, twice, he'd met someone from there once, apparently even the locals shortened the name...
'I know,' Ivan said quietly, confidingly. 'It is disappointing, I thought it would a proper performer, a singer, perhaps...'
'What?'
'You, shaking your head...should I say 'sorry'? But from what was said before, I am surprised you mind.' He lowered his voice. 'Though, I think, I am relieved you do not approve. Persons like that, they give gays like us a bad name...'
'What? No, I don't...'
'It is demeaning, and unpleasant...'
'But, it's...' Gethin shook his head, this time in astonishment at Ivan's attitude. 'How is it different from you?'
'What? I do not ever wear a dress!'
'You wear work clothes, though. Penguin suit, black tie, shiny shoes. To go and play at your concerts.'
'I like my formal suit. It is not bad to like shoes that shine, to dress with care...'
From where Gethin was sitting, it didn't look as if Phyllis had exactly just thrown together her outfit.
'Anyway, why shouldn't people dress how they want?' Gethin pressed on. 'Him, as much as you?'
Ivan shook his head.
'I do not understand! I thought I knew you, a little, by now...'
'Shush. He'll hear. And, trying to listen.'
Ivan subsided, a frown on his face, fingers toying with the stem of his wineglass. From the continued flow of talk from the stage, it didn't seem as if their exchange had carried far enough to distract "Phyllis", who was now talking about the high life in Llanfair P.G. as lived by her relative: 'Chapel on Sundays, Bingo Tuesdays, Jumble Sale Sat'days, honestly, it's just one mad social whirl, it's a wonder she finds time to go down the pub...'
It made Gethin smile, remembering the original conversation, and that got him thinking about the cawl he'd had for lunch, how amazing that this very same person had made it for him, and he'd been at a loss, knowing he'd not be able to say thank you.
Not that doing so tonight was likely; he'd spotted a silly bleached mullet near the stage: Luke was in the audience, too.
Could the night possibly get any worse?
"Phyllis" finished to applause, a wink at someone in the audience and a half-threat, half-promise to '...deal with you later, cheeky...' and Gethin could relax again, knocking back his wine.
Ivan refilled his glass instantly, and Gethin was aware of a vague annoyance; he was quite capable of pouring his own wine, but it dawned on him that Ivan had always done so when they'd shared a bottle over a meal and only now did he wonder if his friend had always had him down as a potential partner, no matter what he said, and, worse than that, had already decided what Gethin's role within that partnership might be.
No. Just... no.
It made him more determined than ever to back away, even if it did hurt Ivan's feelings. Better sooner than later, get it over with.
Probably.
How, though? Just because he worked in a bookshop didn't mean he was always good with words.
'Ivan, it's not going to work,' he said. 'No point waiting until you get back, I know already. Sorry.'
Ivan sat a little bit straighter, laid his hand on the table close to where Gethin's own hand rested. At once, Gethin took hold of his wine glass, an excuse to move his hand away.
'Ah, so you have been thinking about it? Well, that is good...'
'No, you're not listening. It won't work. You need to look for someone else.'
'I see. Is it because I do not like transvestites?'
'It's not about liking or not liking, it's about respecting other people's choices.'
'And you are my choice, how are you respecting me?'
'It's different, and you know it.'
'Sometimes, still, your language...' Ivan shook his head. 'English is not easy. I am hearing you wrong, I think.'
'I think you're not hearing me at all. Look, sorry, you're...' Nice, he'd been going to say, but he wasn't really so sure, now, judgemental and disapproving of Jonathan's "Phyllis" as he'd been... 'You'll be perfect for someone, but not for me.'
'But, as friends, yes?'
Gethin shook his head.
'I thought tonight was as friends, and it hasn't worked out. I don't see how we can.'
'Because between us things are too intense for friends, yet you do not see it should be more.'
'No, not that. Because things aren't intense at all. Not for me.'
'There is a saying, 'in denial', I have heard it.'
'What you don't realise is, it's you who is, not me. Sorry. Shall we call it a night, then?'
'No... not if you are saying, no, not ever. Another drink first? What would you like?'
'I'll go to the bar, Ivan. My round, what are you having?'
It was a relief to escape from the table and cross the crowded room to get to the bar. There was a row of people waiting for drinks, but Gethin inserted his shoulders into a narrow space and waited until he could get served. White wine for Ivan, and, just to be awkward, he ordered himself a pint of stout.
Two people on his right were served and backed away from the bar at the same time, and he moved up into the empty space, vaguely registering there was someone at the end of the bar as his order was taken.
'Hello!'
And he thought he heard a delighted laugh in the voice as he looked across into the happy, smiling face of Jonathan "Phyllis" Blake, now in regular man's clothes and devoid of wig and makeup. He felt his own face lift and knew he was grinning back.
'Jonathan, hello. Loved the act.'
'Good.' Jonathan slid himself along the bar towards Gethin, not too close, not encroaching, but so no-one could get to the bar between them and interrupt the conversation. 'I was a bit worried I might have impugned half your relatives, you know... glad to know you're still speaking to me...'
'Of course! And your pronunciation was perfect.'
'I will admit, I practiced for hours.'
Gethin's drinks arrived and he had to find money, accept change.
'Um... by the way, thank you,' he blurted. 'The cawl.'
'You're welcome. I like to cook.'
'It was perfect,' Gethin said, 'spot on, only sorry I missed you delivering it.'
Jonathan smiled and nodded, but there was a distance, suddenly, as if he'd backed away, and Gethin turned to see Luke halfway across the floor towards them.
'Thank you again, Jonathan. Goodnight, now.'
And then Luke was in his face, shouting and pushing about keep away from his boyfriend, Jonathan apologising over the bleached head and then trying to calm matters.
No point replying, responding, it would just make him angry and if he kept the lid on his temper, it would be over sooner... Gethin picked up the drinks and backed away, to walk into Ivan who didn't have the sense to keep out of it but instead put himself in front of Gethin with protective drama and thrust a hand out to keep Luke back.
'Leave him alone,' he said. 'He is with me.'
'What? No, I'm not!' Gethin protested, dragging Ivan's shoulder to spin the musician round to face him. 'No, I'm not, I'm really not.'
He backed away and downed half his pint, just for something to do that wasn't going to be shouting or violence, and with a last shake of his head, headed for their table to grab his jacked and throw the money down for his share of the bill.
'Gethin, what is wrong?' Ivan's voice, plaintive now. 'I am helping.'
'Actually, you're not,' he said, his voice ugly and hard with the effort of keeping his temper under control. 'See you around, Ivan. Good luck with the tour.'
And he stalked out into the night towards the tube and his journey back to his flat alone.
Which was exactly what he'd planned all along.
