50 Reasons to Say Goodbye (15 page)

I giggle.

“They're worse than the English,” she adds.

When she leaves, her stool is taken by a guy: balding head, clipped hair, stubble, square chin, bold eyebrows. A sort of young Bruce Willis; he asks me where I'm from.

“How does it feel to be in the most beautiful city in the world?” he asks.

“People keep saying that,” I say, “but who decides these things? Who decides that Sydney is better than
Barcelona, or Rome?”

He gets up. “Winging pom,” he says, as he moves away across the bar.

I get maudlin and push through the crowd to another bar.

A guy comes up and speaks to me. “Hi! You're cute,” he says.

I grin. I start to breathe again.

He says, “Having fun?”

I try to look lit-up and enthusiastic. Then I let my features drop; I shrug. He looks so disappointed that I force the words out. I say, “Yeah, sure, it's great!”

He says, “There's a sauna next door. My boyfriend is waiting.”

I smile uncomprehendingly. “You better get going then,” I say.

He smiles and leans in until his face is almost touching mine. “I thought you might come too?” he says.

I smile. “Nah, you're alright thanks,” I say.

He laughs.
“No?”
His voice is incredulous.

I grin at him; I shrug. “Sorry, yeah, I mean, yeah, the answer is
no
.”

He blows through his lips and shakes his head. “Crazy planet!” he says.

I bite my lip and frown.
“Crazy planet?”

He shrugs, already turning away. “Yeah man,” he says. “Like
you
refusing
me!
”

I feel homesick and utterly miserable, so I decide to go back to the hotel.

I stand in the midst of the international gay-fest waiting for a taxi. The crowd is diminishing and I imagine that they are all going to the party. I wonder how they got tickets.

The sign shouts at me.
And you thought you were gay.

And I wonder. Sometimes I really do.

“Time to move on,”
I decide.

At the hotel I open my wonderful book:
Night Letters
by Robert Dessaix – a Melbourne man, please note.

I nod to myself as I start to read. “Tomorrow Melbourne!” I say quietly.

The night before it happens, we sit up till the early hours. We're talking out the big stuff in the garden and then, as the temperature drops, in the little purple lounge, sitting on the floor around bottles of beer. God, destiny and free will – it's years since I have discussed this stuff. It takes me back to my college years.

Owen's Australian wife gets bored with us and turns in at the beginning of the evening. She lives with the certainty that Buddhism is the only true religion. From that perspective she can't see what's to argue about, which seems fair enough. Faith, you've either got it or you haven't.

Owen moves with increasing difficulty to the fridge for more beers and in the alcoholic fog, lanes are explored and then abandoned simply because we forget which way we're going.

But in the morning when I awaken, I remember my problem.

I have been arguing that The Universe, The Force, or God for those who prefer, does not control what happens to me – I believe in free will.

And if God or the Infinite, or the System, is up there simply answering my own prayers, satisfying my own desires, creating the universe that
I
believe in, then why am I still single? Why am I so lonely? Why is my life so far from how I had hoped?

I have never really prayed, but this morning, as I wake up, I do. Not to any particular God – certainly not a mean judgemental man with a beard – but sticking to my theory of a benign force, I send out a call into the universe; I ask it for help.

I say, “I am sad and lonely. I need someone to share
my life with. I need someone I can consider attractive, someone who makes me laugh, someone to build a history with. I'm sick of going on holiday on my own.”

I send it into the universe and forget about it.

We rumble out of Melbourne to St Kilda on the tram, wander along the seafront, and then take seats in a café. The gentle summer sun bounces off the walkways. People loll around on every available inch of grass or beach while roller-blades energetically thrust past.

I watch a man jog along the promenade past us, and pause speaking momentarily, almost unnoticeably. For an instant his body has filled my mind.

He's tall, with dark short hair, rounded friendly features. He has a square jaw, jogger's thighs.

He trots by, and Owen and I continue talking, planning our journey south along the Great Ocean road. We order coffee.

The jogger speed-walks past in the other direction, and as he does so, as I turn my head to follow him, to fully appreciate this vision, he glances back. His brown eyes look puzzled, a half frown creases his forehead – I pause again but for longer.

Owen smiles at me knowingly. “What have you seen?” he asks.

“Oh nothing,” I grin.

The coffees arrive. I drink and wipe the froth from my mouth.

The man walks past
again,
but this time looking at me with a nonchalant half smile on his lips. He heads off to the left towards the car park and my heart sinks. Giving up any attempt at conversation, I strain to watch him go.

And then, it happens and it is magical. He pauses, puts on his t-shirt and freezes, maybe thirty seconds in all, visibly deciding what to do. Then he turns back and starts walking towards us.

As he sits at the table next to ours, my heart starts to race; it feels terrible, the same way it felt when I met Robert, like a heart attack. I change seats to be able to
see him better.

Owen asks if I'm OK – he's trying to talk to me, trying to tell me about a gallery in Canberra, but my mind is racing. Something tells me, something within me knows. This man is The One. He has been produced by The Force in response to my plea for help.

I try to think of a way to introduce myself, but my mind is a blank, everything seems cheap, stupid, obvious. It remains blank as he orders – his voice, smooth, rich, Canadian, I decide – and as he eats: oysters and salad, devoured with pleasure.

My heart's still racing. Between oysters he's glancing directly at me, his eyebrows raised into an amused question, a question not from him but from life:
“So this is what you wanted, will you now act?”

I need to pull myself together.

I go to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water, but as I come out he's there, filling the doorway, smiling crookedly, waiting.

I try to speak. I actually open my mouth but nothing comes out.

“Like a tap in a derelict house,”
I think.

He nods at me, his mouth also open, his eyes huge and brown in the shadow of the interior.

I close my mouth; I smile.

He's nodding, encouraging me – but nothing comes, not a single sound.

We stare at each other in silence.

The tension is unbearable and at the same instant we are both overcome by it; he stands aside and I walk past.

Owen gives up trying to talk to me and frowns at me in concern.

Dejectedly I watch the man pay his bill, leave a tip, put on his baseball cap, and for the last time ever he walks past me.

He looks sad, as if life has let him down. He walks to the car park, and then, with a final glance backwards he disappears behind the wall.

And I think,
“The universe never lets us down. We do that
all on our own.”

I stare at my computer screen – the image is terrifying: an over-inflated version of Sylvester Stallone in Speedos. I stare at it, try to decipher my own feelings. In a strange, contradictory way I find it sexually thrilling but physically repulsive at the same time. I imagine the look on the guy's face when I take
my
kit off.
“No!”
I say to myself.

I click on reply:
… so really, if you're looking for another guy like you, well I'm afraid it isn't me …

I sigh as I click on
send
– he sounded so nice in his first email, I had quite been looking forward to seeing his photo. Still, I tell myself, the ad will bring other replies.

My phone rings almost immediately. “Hi it's Alan,” says a self-assured voice.

“Alan?” I say. “Sorry
…
I
…
” This doesn't sound like the Alan I know.

Alan laughs. “I sent you my photo, the body-builder
…
” His voice sounds polished and professional, like someone from TV, or a family doctor.

I frown. “Oh, look
…
Alan
…
How did you get my number?”

“It was at the bottom of your email,” he says. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn't have called?”

“No, I'm sorry, it's fine,” I say, already turning off the automatic signature in my email software. “I didn't realise I'd left
…
Anyway
…
”

“Look, I can call you back another time if you prefer.”

“No it's fine, really.”

“I just wanted to explain, about the body building
thing.”

I grin. “So that really
is
you?”

Alan laughs. “Yeah, I'm afraid so. It scares a lot of people off, which, as you can imagine wasn't the idea at all. I just wanted to speak to you so you'd realise that I'm not some kind of dumb beefcake.”

“I never thought you were,” I say. It's a lie of course.

We meet in a bar in Cannes.

The sun is setting over the blue Mediterranean; the light is warm and orangey.

Muscle man is already there when I arrive, only he's tiny – he never mentioned his height: a sort of pocket-sized action man. He's wearing a heavy sky-blue shirt; his physique is perceptible beneath it.

He looks tanned and healthy.

He grins when he recognises me and stands. He smiles broadly and shakes my hand – a firm, comfortable handshake, much like my doctor's.

I sit down and break into a grin.

“What?” he asks, his eyes flashing in amusement.

“What do you do for a living?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Now that's straight to the point.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, it's not
…
I just have an idea. Since the second I heard your voice actually.”

He smiles on one side of his mouth. “So, guess!” he says.

“Doctor?”

He laughs.

“That far off then?”

Alan shakes his head. “No exactly right, I'm a G.P.”

I clap my hands together. “Huh!” I say. “I knew it.”

“And you presumably work as a clairvoyant?” he laughs.

We talk about bodybuilding, sport, the gay scene, Internet. He's charming and intelligent and personable. We talk about holidays and camping and motorcycles.
He smiles a lot and his eyes half close when he does – I like it.

The waiters are stacking chairs so we move next door to the pizzeria. We order food and a carafe of rosé.

We talk about religion and Alan tells me he was brought up as a Muslim. “But it seems to me, that anyone intelligent, well they're going to realise that any religion claiming to be The Only Truth is almost certainly going to be wrong, I mean, just with the number of religions and the law of probability,” he says. He raises a finger to his lips. “I hope I'm not offending you,” he says.

I shake my head. “Not at all,” I say. “I mean, I believe in something, but I can't bear most religions. Being gay I can't really see how anyone can
…
It just doesn't strike me as compatible.”

Alan gulps at his water. “Thank God!” he says.

We laugh and talk about racism, about his childhood in Morocco. He tells me about his ex boyfriend. He says he has never loved anyone that much before.

“I doubt I ever could again,” he admits. “We're really close now though, it's as though we were never anything but friends. Weird, after nine years as a couple.”

I say, “Wow! Nine years.”

I tell him that I have a friend at work who is also a bodybuilder. “Maybe I should introduce you two,” I say. “You never know.” I wiggle an eyebrow.

Alan nods. “Oh,” he says. “So I wouldn't
…
I mean
…
you wouldn't, personally
…
?” He shrugs.

I blush slightly. “Oh, I don't know, I mean
…
”
What do I mean?

“You're nice, it's maybe a bit early for me to know,” I say.

Alan smiles at me, places a hand on my arm. “Sorry,” he says. “That was unnecessary. Of course.”

“No, all I meant is that Xavier absolutes fantasises about going out with another muscle man. He'd
definitely
go for you.”

“Personally,” says Alan, “I find
you
quite attractive, but introduce me to your friend by all means.”

This time I
really
blush; I can feel it. I hate that about myself, it always strikes me as such a feminine trait.

“You're blushing!” he says, pointing at me.

I love it even better when people point it out.
Like I didn't know.

Our pizzas arrive and I am happy for the distraction. “Have you had many dates – by Internet I mean?” he asks.

I shrug. “Maybe five. I mean I've gone to meet about five of them. I got lots of replies, but they were mostly weirdoes.”

Alan nods, forks pizza into his mouth.

“Actually some of the ones I
did
go and meet turned out to be pretty strange too.”

Alan smiles at me. “Tell me. I need the warning. I've only just started.”

I sip at my wine; I laugh. “Oh there are so many. I could tell you about the Egg Man! He was funny! But I'm not sure that you'd want to know. It's a bit far out. And a bit gross.”