Five + years ago...
You check your reflection in the window of the café in the centre of Dublin and toss your hair back before walking in. You push your sunglasses to the top of your head and look around.
'Looks like a male version of you, Nikki.' Paddy, your mate, had said when describing who you were about to meet.
'Thanks, Paddy,' you responded drily.
'It's a compliment. He's a smooth operator. Good-looking bloke. Nice dresser. Slick. Suave. You'll see what I mean.'
Not for the first time you wondered about Patrick in a 'which way does he swing' kind of way. On paper he is a pussy magnet, constantly surrounded by women. But you pride yourself on your gaydar and there are times when it goes through the roof around Paddy. When he talks about Brendan Brady it seems to alarm the way it does when you see a picture of Elton John.
"Nicola?"
You turn around in the café to see a tall, lean man in a sharp suit, open collar shirt and nice shoes. He has a moustache. Your first impression is that it's a misfire in an otherwise very nicely put together package.
This must be Brendan Brady.
You immediately see what Paddy meant about how Brendan is a male version of you with his blue eyes and dark hair. He has a primal edge about him that you have been said to have yourself. It attracts you to him instantly.
"Yes, but people call me Nicole or Nikki." You extend your arm out, palm down. "You must be Brendan."
"The one and only." He says, voice like nectar over gravel, as he takes your hand.
You order coffees and sit in a corner of the establishment.
"Paddy thought we might be good for each other." He says.
You smile and take a sip. "I guess we will soon find out."
He raises an eyebrow.
"So..." You say. "I hear that you co-own a successful club in England."
"We were doing alright. I have sold my half of the business now."
"Why?"
"Conflict with my business partner." He says slowly. His eyes look dead when he says that.
"Is that why you moved back home?" You ask.
A tick starts off in his cheek. He says nothing for a while, just stares at you. The blankness in his eyes is disconcerting.
"No." He finally offers.
There is something in how rigid his back suddenly goes and how stilted that word is that makes you know that this is uncomfortable subject matter.
"Family. That's why I came back." He says. "Two boys."
"Wife?"
"Ex."
"Sorry."
"I'm not."
You grin slowly and toss your hair to one side. "Well then neither am I."
You wink at him and normally that is enough to have the guys eating out of your hand but this man physically leans away from you and grips his cappuccino mug tighter before downing it in one. You frown. It is almost as if he is repulsed by your not so subtle flirting.
"You want to open a club." He says one hundred percent business.
You try to not feel rejected and reply. "Yes."
"Do you have any experience?"
"Some." You pause for effect. "My father is Vincenzo Manzoni so..."
He raises a surprised eyebrow. "Paddy did not mention that."
Your father is big money. He owns several businesses in Dublin from restaurants, clubs, laundrettes, property, even a nursing home or two. He is prolific. Over the years rumours have built up over where some of his money comes from but he has told you time and again,
'There will always be haters, Nicola. People who want to get you down. Prove them wrong.'
And you have. You have risen above what many men have assumed just by looking at you; that there is little between your ears. You studied business and law at university while working your way up in your dad's most successful nightclub so that by the time you graduated with first class honours, you were running it independently at the tender age of twenty-one. Now three years later and with responsibilities in two more of his businesses you are getting frustrated.
You want to set up your own business; prove to yourself that you can go it alone.
"I prefer not to be seen as daddy's little girl." You say.
You take out a file from your work bag, place it on the table and slide it over to him. "I think you'll find that my plan is flawless."
He grins as begins to read.
He looks at you after a few minutes. "You don't need me." He says clearly impressed.
"Oh, yes I do." You say, leaning back. "I need contacts and I need someone who can bring in the muscle if necessary."
He grins. "Well then. You have found him."
"Thought so."
XOXO
Just over two months later your dream is about to come true. You are a week away from opening VIBE, an exclusive Dublin nightclub.
"Brendan!" You shout as you walk into the club or bombsight, as you call it. It still looks like a building site but you have beeen reassured that the work left to do is just 'cosmetic'.
"Good morning, daddy bear!" You sing song.
It is still fairly early. The workers should be coming in any minute to get started for the day but Bren and you get together every morning for a meeting to work out your schedule for the day.
"What?" Brendan's voice sounds distant; urgent and muffled. "Niks?"
You smile because only he and Declan call you that.
He is in the office so you head towards the back of the club.
You have two things on your agenda. Maybe three. Number one. You need his opinion on the lighting in the bathrooms. You want it to remain ambient, dark and intimate but the interior designer, Solante, (one word like Madonna) is arguing that it will make punters worry about cleanliness and hygiene. Number two. You need to have breakfast. You bought some buttery croissants and fresh filter coffee to share with Bren. Number three (this is the one you aren't sure is going to happen). You are going to see if he is finally going to say yes to going out for some dinner or a movie or something that resembles a date.
You approach the office and try the handle. It is locked. You frown.
"Just a second." You hear Brendan say.
A moment later one of the electricians, a slight young man with floppy light brown hair and clear piercing blue eyes steps out of the office looking flushed and flustered. He barely makes eye contact with you and rushes past while rubbing his lips with the back of his hand.
"'Scuse me." He mutters.
You frown at him and enter the office to find Brendan pouring over work papers and scribbling figures frantically with his left hand.
"I brought breakfast." You say and lift the pastry bag in your hands. Your brain tries to process what is going on.
"Sorry the door was locked." Bren says without looking up, "Tim wanted to know what we wanted to do about the lighting in the bathrooms."
You stare at him. "Who's Tim?"
He points at the door with his pen without looking up.
"Oh." You say. "Weird. That is what I wanted to ask you about."
"I think Solante is right. We have to keep the lighting bright but we can change the walls. Use warmer notes. Make it look like our lavs are dripping with opulence."
He is right so you nod. Why is he not looking at you? Like he has something to hide.
You look at the cluttered desk and spot something on its edge. You walk up to it and you eyes widen in shock as you pick it up.
It is an empty condom packet.
You both look at it until Brendan snatches it out of your hands and throws it in the bin. You stare at each other for a long awkward moment as you brain does the maths.
You turn towards the open door of the office where you crossed paths with the cute diminuitive electrician a minute ago and then back at Brendan.
He starts shaking his head in anticipation of what you are going to say; already denying it.
You whisper, feeling hurt, even though Brendan never led you on. Never flirted. Never touched you inappropriately. Never gave you the eye.
You should have known.
"You fucked him?" You ask crudely.
Brendan stands up and rounds the table, trying to reach out to you. "No."
"Liar." You say, with a torn voice.
You look at him. How could you have not seen it before? You, with your gaydar. Your faulty, useless gaydar.
Brendan is gay.
XOXO
After slinking away into a corner to lick your wounds for a few days, you approach him.
If anything Brendan is more embarrassed than you are. He is old school; one of those blokes that still has issues with their sexuality. Not in a 'total denial way'. He is more 'I am not going to London Pride or protesting for equal gay rights'. He doesn't advertise his sexuality or discuss it but he doesn't hide it either. You discover that it is no secret to anyone who knows him; his ex-wife, his sister, his children, Paddy.
When you approach him days after you find out you tell him that you are fine about it. That it is no big deal. That your disappointment came out of hoping that things might have developed romantically between you.
He accepts your hug and lays a big fat kiss on your forehead afterwards.
"Next time don't fuck our staff, yeah?" You say cheekily and you are surprised when he almost smiles and grunts back.
XOXO
Brendan has a type.
You notice it almost straight away. For one, you are in no doubt that he continues to fuck Tim the electrician right up until work at the club is finished, which is a couple of weeks after VIBE's opening night.
Then Brendan breaks things off with him. You know because one day, a few weeks later, the distressed lad comes into the club dressed in regular clothes desperately asking one of our bartenders for Brendan. Brendan struts up to him and, with a venemous tongue and icy glare, tells him to fuck off and never come near him again. The icing on the cake is barring the kid from the club indefinitely.
You ask Brendan why he is so vicious but he shuts you down and tells you to mind your own business. You see a new side to him that day. A side you do not like at all.
Tim paves a path for others like him over the next few years. Young men all with similar characteristics; slim, brown-haired usually blue-eyed, cute, with a paradoxical mix of vulnerability and toughness.
They all meet a similar fate to the electrician; with an expiry date of between one day and one month.
You wonder whether it is a fetish of some sort for Brendan. Whatever it is doesn't leave him satisfied. It is almost as if he is searching for something every time he picks up one of these lads but doesn't find whatever it is he is looking for so he moves on.
XOXO
One day, maybe five or so months after meeting Brendan, you walk into his apartment, using his keys. It is incredible how quickly trust has built up between you. The plan is to watch a film together.
When you don't see him in the living room, you make your way to his bedroom.
He is sitting on his bed with an open parcel by his side. On it is a note with a simple message,
Brendan,
All this is finally behind me.
S
Gripped in Brendan's hand and stuffed under his nose is a black item of clothing. He inhales the material and lets out a shaky breath. On closer inspection you see that it is a t-shirt. It looks far too small to fit him. Chez-Chez is emblazoned on it and you could swear that there is stuff on it. Something congealed. You shudder as you think it might be blood. Not that Brendan seems to notice as he buries his face in it.
Wasn't his old club called Chez-Chez? That must be its uniform. You wonder who it belongs to.
Belonged to.
"Brendan." You say softly when he doesn't acknowledge your presence. He doesn't look up.
There is something else near the parcel. A plain gold crucifix.
You walk up to it, pick it up and inspect it.
"Leave it." He says. His tone is so laced with grief that you drop it into his open hand immediately. He kisses it gently.
"Bren, what's wrong?" You ask as you take in his blood shot eyes. You have never seen him this emotional before.
"Get out, Nicola." He hisses.
"But the cinema?" You say, and you know you sound lame.
He grabs your arm at the elbow firmly and drags you towards the front door flinging you out. Your pride is hurt more than you body when you land on your butt and the door slams shut.