The Spell (15 page)

“So who’s going to be there?” said George, in his faintly despairing way. “I hope there’s someone I can talk to.”

“You can always talk to my hunky daddy.” And Danny laughed, as he did more and more, at the farce of sex, and the thought of novel pairings of people he knew.

“Of course, I want to meet him.”

“Then there’ll be Jim and Francois, and Carlton, and Bob and Steve and Jerry and Heinrich…” He remembered he’d wildly asked a number of virtual strangers at Chateau, though with no idea if they had accepted, or would themselves remember.

“So you’re bussing in a whole crowd of dizzy disco bunnies and letting them loose in the beautiful English countryside.”

“I know…” Danny murmured, with a fresh sense of the experiment of life.

“They may not be able to breathe country air. You’ll need respirators of poppers and CK One.”

“I think they can be relied on to bring those with them.” Danny squeezed George’s knee. “I’m hoping you may be going to stimulate our central nervous systems, darling.” At which George merely raised an eyebrow. Danny added, “Bob’s always loaded with goodies,” to offset the surfacing suggestion that George had only been asked for his coke and his car.

“So who are you going to set me up with?” George resumed, in a tone of voice that emphasised his appetite and a cheerfully heartless readiness to use his old lover in his turn.

“What are you like?” said Danny. And then, mischievously, “There’s young Terry, of course…” He made a pretence of conducting the music, with hammy head-shakings and no clear sense, so far from a drug and a DJ, of the rhythm of the thing. “Local boy.”

George scanned the road ahead with narrowed eyes. “You say young.”

“Twenty-two, like me, at least until midnight. Oh, professional age, twenty. If not nineteen.”

“I’m not paying, sweetie.” Though the idea had clearly taken root, since George said later, “Any other members of the profession coming down?”

Danny was pretty sure that, even during their affair, George had sent out for sex, he had seen ringed numbers in the back of
Gay Times;
though now he made himself laugh at the image of those boys, buzzed into the building with their knapsacks of accoutrements, and witnessing their own performances in one of George’s Empire mirrors. “I’ve asked Gary – the black one with the broken nose? But he may not come, it being the weekend…”

“Any women coming?” asked George, as if he missed Danny’s meaning, and was suddenly concerned with the propriety of the gathering.

“I hope Janet will be there.”

“She must have turned into a faggot by now, just from natural adaptation.”

“She was the only woman at Colon last week.”

George gave a slow nod of concession to the other point of this sentence. “Well, you’re certainly managing to find your way around without me, darling. Even I don’t go to Colon.” Though the odd thing was that since their clubbing days together, Danny had hardly ever seen George out; which made him think that either he had changed his habits, and entered a maturer phase, or that without having Danny to show off and show off to there were easier and quieter ways of getting what he wanted. Even in the old days, while Danny danced like a madman, George tended to loiter against the wall, where the boys were staring and fumbling with their wraps of speed.

“And who knows, my dad may be glad of some female company.”

“I see. He’s still interested?”

Danny didn’t want to overstate the case. He’d seen him sometimes watching a woman and felt there was something beneath the apparent impassivity and courtesy. “It might be a bit of a relief…But no, I think he just got queerer, like Oscar Wilde or someone. Once he thought he could do everything, then it polarised towards the one thing.”

“It’s pretty…cool, to have an out gay dad,” George said, supportively but humorously.

“Oh I quite agree,” said Danny, with a readiness that made him sound a bit straight himself. And there was a sort of anxiety, which he tended to blink away, that one of the figures at the edge of the dance-floor could perfectly well be his own father. There were still leather trousers and a studded thong in the wardrobe of the London flat.

Later George said, “You’ll have to tell me where to turn off.”

“Not for ages yet…” Danny was afraid the whole thing might pall on him as the necessary three hours unrolled. “You have to wait for the Crewkerne turning. Then it’s sort of…not as far as it was.”

“I take it you’ve got someone lined up for yourself, by the way. Total frankness, remember,” George went on; and Danny thought there was a tension in his voice, at the prospect of meeting a successor.

“Total frankness. Okay,” said Danny, confused to find how much he wanted to tell and how much he would have liked to keep the thing secret. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt him to set it out for someone else, though he knew from the awful stalled debates of their break-up that frankness wasn’t in itself a solution. If you were truly frank you saw only what a muddle you were in, and how you felt three different things at the same time. He said, “Well, I’ve sort of got a new boyfriend.”

“Right, How old is he?”

“Thirty-six.”

“Uh-huh. Name?”

“Alex. Alexander Nichols.”

“No, I don’t know him. Good Scottish name,” said George, with an absurd air of expertise.

“I suppose so. He sounds completely English. Went to Bristol University, his father’s a solicitor in Chelmsford. He told me loads about his family, but you know how it is when you’re talking in bed, you get much more interested in their shoulder-blade or their armpit or something.”

“What’s his dick like?”

“You waited such a long time to ask that.”

“One doesn’t like to pry.”

“In fact it’s a bit like him – longer and thinner than…the norm. He’s six foot four.”

George mulled this over as if he didn’t really find it satisfactory. “Does he have a job?”

“He works in the Foreign Office. He’s quite well off,” said Danny, with an evident sensible belief that this was an active element in someone’s appeal. Then, rather shyly, stroking his throat, “He’s given me this gold pendant thing.”

George glanced across as he pulled it free of his shirt. “I’ll have to look at that,” he said. “It could be valuable.”

“It is valuable,” said Danny.

They drove on in silence for a while, till George said, “He must be keen on you”; and with a sudden and lonely burst of charm, “not that I find that hard to understand.”

“I think he’s madly in love with me.”

“And you?” George asked.

“No, I like him, I think he’s really sweet.” Danny couldn’t explain his sense of bewilderment at being adored so unconditionally by Alex, or his wariness, since George, of allowing himself to feel anything strongly. The past six months had been a riotous escape from all that, compressed by hindsight into a continuous orgy of casual sex.

“I see. You haven’t said where you met him.”

Danny chuckled. “This is the funny thing. You’re going to have to be really discreet about this, actually. He’s Justin’s ex, from before my dad. And of course, Justin doesn’t know; and I don’t want Dad to know either, not yet anyway. We met at where we’re going, Hilton Gumboot as Justin calls it, two weeks ago. Alex came down and I could tell he was a bit keen; then I went out with him last weekend – and I’ve seen him a few times since.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like we’re going to have fun,” George said sourly.

“I put him on his first E,” Danny went on with a slow smile. “I thought he was never going to come.”

George paid this remark the homage of a knowing snicker due to any drug anecdote. “But the sex is good?”

Danny wondered for a second how he’d ever got on with George’s dreary sexual supremacism. “Sex is fine. He’s quite passionate.”

“You mean passion – but not genius. Technique? Technique can sometimes be mistaken for genius.”

“George, he’s so innocent, and strange…” How was he going to explain him? “He’s thirty-six, he’s only had one real affair in his life, with Justin, who I would have thought was totally inappropriate. Anyway it was a big deal for two years, until, of course, Justin broke his heart. The first night he told me he hadn’t touched another man for a year. Then he talked and talked all next day. He was still very mellow from the night before. As I say, I couldn’t take it all in, but…He’s just different. He’s not jaded. I sound like I’m a hundred years old but it was so sweet to be out with someone who finds everything new and amazing. He’s quite serious too. He kept analysing everything he felt. You should have seen him at Chateau.” Danny smiled. “He kept saying, “Look at the men! I love men!” It was like he was coming out all over again.”

“I hope you took him upstairs at Chateau.”

“To be absolutely frank, I did leave him for a bit and go upstairs, because Gary wanted to…see me. I think upstairs can wait for later. Anyway, I wanted to keep him for myself.”

“He’s a cultured sort of chap, is he?”

“Oh, yeah, he knows all about opera, and he’s read masses.”

“It’ll do you good to get some culture,” said George. Danny stored this remark away, and went on as if he hadn’t heard,

“Though he clearly hasn’t read
Vanity Fair
– I caught him out on that.”

George seemed to ponder the whole thing for a while, then said, “So what is it you care for least about him?”

But Danny wasn’t prepared to be negative. After they’d taken the Crewkerne turning, and certain features, an old T-junction sign, a pub, a row of trees, began to stir the subtle anxieties of arrival, he did briefly think about it, but only out of slightly decadent curiosity. There was something frustrating perhaps in a companion who had never heard of most of the new gay bars and had no conception of the pivotal importance of the DJ, who he clearly thought was just the bloke who played the records; at moments in the past week, as Danny showed Alex round what was after all his own town, he’d felt towards him as you do towards the duller schoolfriend you lend your notes to and end up almost teaching yourself.

I
s he a scholar?” was Hugh’s first, rather off-beam question.

Alex said, “Not at all.”

“God, you’re lucky. I’ve got this kid after me who just won’t let up with the scholarly references and talks non-stop in about ten different languages. He makes me feel as if I’m All Souls College and he’s taking a fellowship exam to get into me. Actually, of course, the door’s open and the kettle steaming on the hearth.”

“No,” said Alex, who hadn’t come here to talk about Hugh’s dimly prospective amours, “Danny’s extremely bright and adaptable but he doesn’t really know anything. I mean, he’s seen one opera, by Handel, and he can’t remember which one. He seemed persuaded by each of the titles I suggested. He’s got a degree in something called cultural studies, which apparently doesn’t quite involve reading a book. I don’t know why I’m being so catty. And of course he’s terribly young. He does know all about dance-music”

“
Coppelia
and stuff.”

“No, darling.”

“I didn’t really think you meant that. How young is he?”

“He’s twenty-three tomorrow.”

“Ouch,” said Hugh, turning away with an envious grimace and looking for the bottle.

Alex and Hugh had been together at university, though Hugh had gone on to Oxford to pursue a D Phil and then landed a job in Coins and Medals at the British Museum. He was a wonderfully sedentary person, who nowadays rarely left a shallow rectangle of streets between the Museum, an Italian restaurant in Dyott Street, and his dark disorderly flat above the Spiritualist Meeting Rooms in High Holborn. Alex sometimes dropped in there for a drink, since it was hard to get Hugh to Hammersmith. Amazingly, they had been to Greece together, in 1980, though on an old-fashioned Hellenising trail rather than to the alarming possibilities of a modern gay resort. Hugh had been quite slim and attractive as he blustered selfconsciously down the beach in his tight old swimming-trunks, but since then he had given way to the steady spread of lun-cher’s middle and office bottom. “Let’s not” was his usual response to any suggestion of activity.

His friendship with Alex was intuitive, protected by their shared timidity and steeped in its own atmosphere of culture and fantasy. They talked on the phone, they listened to Haydn quartets together, they got drunk and ruminated obscenely about boys they had fancied, often long ago, looking out from Hugh’s rooms towards the roofs of Bloomsbury like a pair of dirty-minded spinsters. Alex’s occasional adventures were received by Hugh with curiosity and an oddly prudish pique; Hugh himself seemed not to have adventures, and his way of denying his needs was the recurrent fiction that someone was bothering him with their attentions, and he couldn’t decide about them. The appropriation of the gardens next to the Museum as central London’s liveliest cruising area gave him a new pretext for jokes and hinted misdemeanours. Alex felt that Hugh and Justin were the only two people who properly understood him; though, of course, when Justin came along -picked up, just like that, in the street – Hugh had retired wounded, as if somehow found wanting by his old friend. He was first with the condolences and candid analyses when Justin left. The announcement of a new affair was bound to be a little ticklish.

Alex told him how it had happened. “I went down to this cottage in Dorset in love with Justin and came back in love with Danny. It was a completely magical thing.”

“Surely you weren’t still in love with Betty Grable?” said Hugh.

It already seemed so long ago. “I think, in spite of everything, if I could have woken up beside anyone in the world it would still have been him.”

Hugh shook his head in a distress of incredulity; but then saw the bright side. “Anyway, it’s now definitely over.”

Alex chose not to be tryingly truthful. “The last two weeks have been extraordinary – I feel as if I’m under a beautiful spell”