50 Reasons to Say Goodbye (16 page)

I realise that I didn't actually meet the Egg Man via Internet, but decide it's not important; it's a great story.

“The who? Is it an S&M story or something?”

I shake my head. “Might put you off your pizza though.” I glance at his pizza. It has egg on it.

Alan laughs. “I'm a doctor. You can tell me!”

And so I tell him the story. “Imagine!” I say, “Sliding an egg into your partner's arse without asking! Jesus!”

“And you didn't like having an egg
…
You know?” He nods at me, wiggles his eyebrows. It's not the reaction I was expecting.

I frown. “Well, the actual experience of it was OK, because I didn't know. It made up for his
tiny
dick anyway.” I raise a little finger to show him what I mean.

He nods at me. “So you
did
like it.”

“Well it couldn't have worked anyway, I was leaving for Sydney the next day, he was moving to Paris, and
anyway, anyone who does that has got to be a bit strange really, don't you think?”

Alan nods and gulps at his wine.

I lean in towards him. “He actually said he couldn't come otherwise,” I tell him.

Alan shrugs.

I grit my teeth.
“Maybe Alan likes having an egg up his arse. Maybe it's his favourite sexual practice,”
I think.

“Of course, that wasn't the only problem,” I say, trying to worm my way out. “He was a bit of a jerk in other ways too.”

Alan puts down his fork and scratches his head.

“And he had like
no
sense of humour,” I lie, shaking my head.

Alan carefully folds his napkin and places it on the table. He stands, very slowly, very rigidly.

I frown at him; he doesn't look well. He pulls a banknote from his pocket and places it on the table under the ashtray.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I have to go.” His voice is rigid, icy.

My mouth falls open; I wrinkle my brow. “Did I say some
…
” I start to ask, but he has turned his back and is already walking away.

I stroke my beard. I stare at the sky for inspiration.

Alan walks twenty meters, and then pauses. When he turns to look back at me, I nod encouraging him to return.

He walks robotically back to the table, crouches beside me and stares into my eyes.
“Do doctors nut people?”
I wonder.

“Listen,” he says.

I nod.

“Ben
– that was his name?”

I open my eyes wide and bite my bottom lip. I grimace and nod.

“So the
Egg Man
does have a name.”

I nod again; my teeth ache with embarrassment. His
voice has started to lose its calm – started to rise in tempo and pitch and volume.

“Ben, or the
Egg Man
as you call him, is
the
most beautiful person I have ever met.” His eyes are watering; his hand is shaking. “You have no right to insult him. What do you think you're doing? Going around telling people about that stuff! Don't you think he might
mind
in God's name?”

I nod childlike, grind my teeth.

His voice breaks, wobbles then finds itself and comes rushing out banging around the terrace. “Jesus! If you had the chance to have that wonderful man in your life, and you let him get away, then you are the most complete
jerk
that I have ever met!”

I stare at my plate and nod. “Sorry. I didn't
…
” I say. But he's gone.

I look at the banknote fluttering in the breeze and glare at the woman beside me. She's staring at me.
“What?”
I shout. She looks away.

I pull my own banknote from my wallet, slip it under the ashtray, and stand.

It's a long way to go for sex – that's the general opinion of most of my friends. And it's true that it will end up being expensive sex too: the hour-long plane journey alone is costing me over a thousand Francs.

But of course we aren't really talking about mere sexual fulfilment here. As W. H. Auden said,
All promiscuity is the search for an ideal friend
, and Louis could just be my ideal friend.

He's tall, brown and handsome, he surfs the Atlantic waves in the summer, and cycles along the coast in winter. He has a good job, makes me laugh, and looks devastating in his motorbike gear.

His face isn't very clear on the photo he sent, it's true – but he has an important job, and I understand that he doesn't want semi-pornographic photos (his motorcycle pants leave little to the imagination) circulating to all and sundry.

To punish him, I have sent an equally vague photo of myself, taken before I shaved off my beard.

His emails have been more and more enticing as the three weeks since we first chatted have gone by, and as I board the plane I'm trembling with excitement.

He has managed to make me laugh out loud telling me how his new secretary at work fancies him, and he has already given me an erection telling me about the wonderful open-air sex he had with his previous boyfriend during their camping holiday.

He's picking me up from the airport on his Suzuki (I have already imagined my legs clasped around his thighs) and we are heading off to his place in the country (yes this man has an apartment in Bordeaux as well as a house near the coast).

Saturday, we will walk along the sand dunes and eat
in a little seafood restaurant he knows at the edge of the ocean. In the evening he's going to show me around Bordeaux's nightlife.

Sunday we're going on an all day outing with the local branch of the gay motorcycle club – so a long way for sex, but maybe not too far for a long weekend with an ideal friend. And if for some reason it doesn't work out, well, he has a spare bedroom.

As I come out through the barriers I see him. He's not tanned but this I can forgive, this is January after all. As I approach I see that he's beautiful, his blond hair has grown and is pulled back into a ponytail, it suits him wonderfully. As I walk toward him he sees someone beside me and runs past sweeping her up in his arms. This leaves me feeling confused.

Then I
really
see him – the man in motorbike leathers.

Louis is paler than in the photo – this I can forgive, this is January.

Louis is fatter than in the photo – at least twenty kilos heavier.

Louis is older than in the photo – late forties rather than mid thirties.

Louis is uglier than in the photo – no he's not ugli
er
, he's
ugly
. His skin is pitted and yellow tinged.

He walks towards me tentatively, he isn't sure about my identity and I am frozen.

“Mark?” he asks me holding out a hand.
“C'est toi?”

I am panic-stricken. I have the seed of an idea, just an acorn of a plan, but it seems so mean
… Would I dare?

He grins at me, his teeth are brown and uneven, his lips are pitted and rough.

Now we are face to face, I look him in the eye.

“Hi!” I say in my thickest American twang. “You must be Michelle's husband
…
She didn't tell me you were a motorcyclist! Hey I hope you're not intending to take me anywhere on a motorcycle! I've never been on
one in my life!”

Louis frowns at me.

“I'm sorry,” he says. His accent in English is thick.

“Is Michele with you?” I ask.

“I think you
…
Someone else.” He waves a hand in the air as if this will help explain and shuffles past me.

I pretend to recognise someone further away. “No problem,” I tell him generously.

He apologises again, and glancing back at me only once, turns ever hopefully to watch the stream of arrivals.

I wander off looking for the hotel desk. I feel shabby and dishonest.

“But he wasn't exactly honest either,”
I think, already justifying it to myself.

We meet over the Internet – he answers my ad. We chat away via email, converted into electronic impulses, catapulted around cyberspace. It takes a while to build up a picture of him. We start with photos of ourselves, and end with photos of our families. We tell each other what we do for a living and end with our most traumatic life-events. Slowly I grow to like him, to look forward to talking to him on the phone.

Of course I don't really know him, so I suppose that this is the same loveliness present in every human being if we can only see it, but I come to know him as kind and fragile and I start to imagine his arms around me.

He lives in Paris.
“Still,”
I think,
“it's better than New York or Chicago!”

But now, standing at the station, waiting for his train to roll in, I am terrified, for I've done this before and I know that tall can turn out to be short, thin to be fat, intelligent to be dumb. A dream can turn into a nightmare; I'm amazed that I still dare do Internet dates at all.

The train is late so I smoke a cigarette. “Mark!” – A voice to my right, a woman's voice.

I turn. I say, “Shit,” under my breath. “Hi Carol!” It's Carol from work and I hate her. She thinks anyone with HIV should be put on an island somewhere, says that the Cubans have got it right.

“What are you doing here?”

I shrug. “Waiting for a friend,” I say.

She nods. “I'm off to Marseilles for the weekend,” she says, then, “A friend?” She cocks her head slightly as she says this.

I nod.

“Well I'd better be getting going,” she says peering
up at the notice board. “Oh no! My train is
…
Oh dear! Ten minutes!” she sighs. “Lucky I bumped into you then,” she adds.
“Quelle chance!”

I nod and say, “Yeah.” –
“Ouais.”

“What train is your friend arriving on?”

“The TGV,” I say. “From Paris.”

“And how do you know each other?”

I peer at the notice board, buying time. “Our parents er, knew each other, um, when we were kids,” I say.

She smiles and nods. “That's nice, so you've known each other for ever.”

I nod. “Uhuh.”

“But what if we don't recognise each other?”
I think. “Shouldn't you be getting to the platform?” I ask.

Carol is pulling a packet of cigarettes from her jacket. “Nah, I'd rather stand here with you than stand alone on the platform!” she laughs.

The tannoy hollers that Luc's train has arrived. I roll my eyes and smile bravely at Carol.

I see him at a distance, pushing through the turnstile, his sports bag hiked up over his shoulder. He looks exactly as he did in the photo, I sigh with relief. He has recognised me and he's grinning from ear to ear.

“He looks happy to see you!” says Carol.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Mark!” he exclaims. He drops his bag at my feet and hugs me heavily, awkwardly. He looks at Carol. “Hi,” he says holding out a hand. “Luc.”

Carol gives a little nod, holds out her hand. “Oh well, I better go and catch my train,” she says picking up her bag.

“So!” breathes Luc, as Carol starts to walk away. “We finally get to meet face to face!”

I close my eyes in pain and when I open them Carol has paused – she's looking back with a crooked smile spread across her lips. She's staring at me. “Well have a good weekend with your
old old
friend,” she says.

I smile tightly at her.

“You can tell me all about it on Monday,” she says pushing off through the turnstile.

Luc looks at me questioningly. “Are you OK?” he asks. His voice is lovely, his hug is huge and warm, and I think this may just turn out OK.

As we drive out of the city, as the dual carriageway becomes single carriageway and single lanes become country lanes, as the sun sets to our left, the conversation is warm and polite.

We're edging around each other, lifting little inspection hatches, peering in, excitedly exploring with an eye for major structural faults, but none appear yet. He tells me he was listening to Monty Python on his Walkman, that his laughter made the woman opposite so uncomfortable that she changed seats.

We laugh and slowly relax.

At the house he tries to hug me again, and he kisses me.

We have to try, we have to see how it feels, what will happen. But all we learn is that it's too soon, that we are too rigid, that we are still too separate for a kiss to prosper, so we abandon and occupy ourselves with dinner.

Luc watches me cook He can't cook anything himself, he says.

We drink glasses of Bordeaux and chat as I chop vegetables and beat eggs.

As the rain starts, then lashes against the kitchen window; as the omelette bubbles and pops before me, we enter the comfort zone.

No longer hunting for the next subject, the conversation flows easily, the kitchen feels warm and nocturnal and cosy. He steps into my space, stands before me.

He says, “I'm really happy to be here with you after all this time.”

I grin; we kiss. I sigh. I'm happy too.

For dinner we sit at the big wooden table. He loves my table, he says. In Paris he eats in the kitchen, on Formica.

I picture the frozen microwave meal and I feel sad for him.

We talk until the early hours and drink too much, smoke too much, tell too much. We have typed everything before, but saying it is different. The route from vocal cord to eardrum is incomparable to words converted into bits and bytes – electronic impulses and radio waves or light impulses – only to be converted all the way back again. No, this is different and I have a feeling we are going too far, that he's revealing too much too soon.

He says most of his friends have left Paris now; says he has been thinking of leaving, moving somewhere else, starting afresh.

I yawn, mainly to close the conversation.

Immediately a problem arises: the sleeping arrangements. Of course we both hope to sleep together, hope to have wild lavish sex – it's the unspoken agenda for the meeting. But how to get there? How to move from this warm friendly
politesse
, to heaving bodies? How to do it without risk of offence?