12. Buying a motorbike

Henry

At the breakfast table the next morning my mother told me for about the sixth time in less than 24 hours that she was very proud of me.

"Why did you never tell me how you felt about my candidacy for the elections?" I asked.

She regarded me for a long moment. "You are wont to please others, Henry," she said. "I was afraid that if I would interfere you'd feel torn between Alistair and Glynnis on the one hand and me on the other." She took a sip from her coffee, "I wanted you to do what you wanted, not anybody else. I realised of course that it would be difficult for you to figure out what you wanted, especially because you weren't used to think about your own needs."

"Daphne... Daphne was of great help," I said.

"Yes," my mother agreed slowly. "Daphne, and her friend Ian."

I stared at her, puzzled at what she meant.

"You are going to see him again, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes. In fact, he's collecting me later this morning. I've decided to buy a motorbike and he's going to advise me."

"That's wonderful!" she said heartfelt.

She didn't elaborate and I left the breakfast table quite bewildered as to why my mother took such an apparent liking to Ian.

At five to eleven (I was watching the clock) Percy knocked on the door of my study to announce that Mr. Wallace was here to see me.

I instantly took to the hall. Ian was facing me when I got there.

"Hi."

"Hello," I said awkwardly, without understanding why I couldn't sound more pleasant. After all, I was pleased to see him.

"Are you ready to go?"

I was. I had been for the last hour and a half.

Outside at his motorbike he hesitated.

"What's the matter?"

"I would let you ride," he said, "but I've already located a few dealers, so..."

"Riding in pillion is perfectly fine with me," I assured him.

It turned out to be not exactly true. Putting my arms around Ian's waist to prevent myself from falling off his motorcycle was awkward. Regardless of its practicality and in spite of the layers of clothing involved, the gesture was intimate. I worried what he might think of it.

We visited a couple of dealers. Ian did all the talking. And all of the decision making. All I had to do was indicate which one I liked best when a number of bikes were pointed out to me.

I watched Ian's bargaining with the same warm distraction I had felt last night, when he searched the internet. I was impressed by his negotiating skills, I noticed yet again that he had a beautiful profile, I listened to his soothing voice and I saw the impact of his winning smile.

"... nice of you to help your father pick out a motorbike," I heard the salesman at the second dealer we visited saying.

"He's n— yeah. Thanks," Ian replied.

We bought my motorcycle, a black Suzuki Bandit, at the third and last dealer. From a salesman who neither threw me stealthy glances conveying that he was wondering where he had seen me before without finding the answer (like the first one we met), nor thought that Ian and I were biologically related.

That I couldn't pay for my motorbike and take it with me straight away was a disappointment, though.

"I'm sorry, sir," the salesman said. "We only accept bank drafts. And your bike must be checked a last time before it's ready to go. You can give me a call on Wednesday next week."

Outside the dealers' showroom Ian suggested a picnic in Bushy Park to cheer me up. He first went to a supermarket to pick up some cans of soda and pastries while I was allowed the honour of guarding his bike.

At his return he told me, "Get on. You ride."

It was a 15 mile ride and I greatly enjoyed it. I wasn't dependant of anyone else (read: Stanley) for my transport and I was faster and more agile than most road users. I also had an unusual intense sensation of speed. The sound of the engine was loud and a cool wind was blowing against me on this hot August day. But above all, riding in pillion was Ian who over the course of less than three days had become my best friend. My only friend.

When we arrived at the park we took a short stroll, Ian carrying a plastic bag with our provision. After a while he suggested we sit down under a tree and have our picnic.

We ate and drank without saying much. At some point I felt I had to break the not entirely comfortable silence.

"This is nice."

"Yeah." He gave me a small smile. "Yeah, it is."

"I'm glad you want to be my friend."

He didn't respond and I felt a sort of panic wash over me.

"You don't want to be my friend?" I asked. "Is it... is it the age difference?"

"No," he said. "It's not the age difference. At all." He looked at me intensely and I was suddenly reminded of the expression he wore on Daphne's coming out party.

"O."

If I ever thought I didn't need to have an opinion on Ian's attraction for me, I now knew that this was a misconception.

"Yes," he said. "Very much 'O' indeed. Do you want to go home now?"

"No."

I didn't know what I wanted, but that much I knew.

Ian

I knew it was stupid while I was doing it. To lure Henry Dashwood into kissing me was the surest way to spoil our budding friendship.

He'd said he wanted us to be friends. If I played my carts right, if I spent time with him, gave him the opportunity to get to know me and realise that he was queer (if he was indeed) he would perhaps fall in love with me too.

I had to be patient. I had planned to be patient. But the moment we sat down on the grass, I knew I couldn't bear to be his friend. He was so close, so incredibly gorgeous, and I had fantasised about it so many times before. I just yearned to kiss him.

I knew that if I did, the chances of Henry being struck by lightning and to fall on his knee and propose to me were very slim, while the scenario of him freaking out and running 15 mile back to central London was more than likely.

And yet I couldn't help myself.

I wasn't so stupid as to force myself upon him. I just looked at him, knowing he could read my desire, and I held back.

It was Henry who bridged the gap, a mere 10 centimetres, and I knew he would do so when I saw his expression turn to utter helplessness nanoseconds before I felt his lips on mine.

They were warm and soft and delicious.

We were kissing. It was great, but it wasn't enough. I pressed my tongue against Henry's lips and he instantly complied, opening his mouth.

Jesus Christ. Dear lord in heaven. He was hot, and slick. And hungry.

It was all I dreamt it would be, but real. He was making noises. He was putting a hand on the back of my neck to keep me where he wanted me. I let him. I enjoyed it. I even enjoyed the awkward wetness of Cowper's fluid in my pants, because that was reality too.

At some point we broke the kiss to come up for air. Henry was looking bewildered. Not disgusted, but not happy either.

I hadn't reckoned with this. While I was kissing him, two possible scenarios had lingered in the back of my mind. When the kiss ended Henry would a) forcefully reject me or b) passionately declare his love to me. I found that the third scenario was even more agonising than the first.

"Henry," I said softly. "Do you w—"

"I hadn't realised," he said in a daze, as though he hadn't heard me.

Of course. I was looking at a man struggling to come to terms with his newfound proclivities and the outcome was uncertain. Maybe he would get stuck in self-loathing; maybe he would accept his homosexuality. But even if the latter turned out to be the case, to enjoy kissing a bloke who happened to be me was something altogether different than to fall in love with me.

"Henry..."

This time he looked at me, his expression so sad that I would have given anything to erase our kiss and go back to where he'd said he was glad I wanted to be his friend.

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yes," he said. "I think I do."

We walked back. I tried not to, but I couldn't help frequently glancing askance. Most of the time Henry seemed distracted, but once in a while I was rewarded with a small, sad smile.

"Would you be able to concentrate enough to ride it?" I asked when we arrived at my bike.

He nodded and I gave him the keys.

From his style I could infer how he was feeling. To the park he had been riding fast, taking his turns quick and cheerful. Now his pace was considerably slower and more cautious.

I was in pillion forcing myself to enjoy having my arms around Henry, as it could very well be the last time.

When we arrived at the manor we got off my bike and Henry took off his helmet. He seemed to want to say something to me, so I took off mine as well.

"There's... there's one thing I don't understand," he said. "Your friendship with Daphne, was that...?" His voice trailed off and he didn't need to finish his sentence.

"When she came to Great Britain's Grand Hotel looking for a place to sleep the television was on and you were announcing your candidacy for the elections," I told him. "'That's my dad,' she said and I grabbed my chance. As her friend I would have the opportunity to be near you."

I didn't inform him about my initial motive to befriend Daphne—wanting to see her father fail because I thought I hated him—as that was completely irrelevant now.

"So you never were in love with her," Henry said.

"No. The fact that I used her doesn't reflect well on me, but I can't make it look any better. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry that I've made you feel uncomfortable about..." Now I trailed off feeling I didn't need to finish my sentence.

"There's no need for you to apologise," he said. "It was as much my doing as..." He stopped, looking away awkwardly. Then he gave me that familiar sad smile. "Thank you for your help in the purchase of my motorcycle."

"You're welcome."

"I... I'll call you."

Sure he would. But I told myself not to count on it.

When I rode off I thought it was almost funny: the stark contrast between my happiness this morning at the prospect of spending part of my day in Henry's company, and my foal mood right now. The day I helped Henry to buy a motorbike had turned out one of the most depressing days of my life.