Chapter Fourteen: As Good As It Gets

And that July evening was mild and mostly cloudy. Rain threatened but held off and the fairy lights his mum had strung up years ago for another party glimmered in the dark. Overhead, a near half-moon glowed behind wisps of cloud and in the garden behind their house, Alex and Luca stood talking.

They stood down by the far end of the narrow garden, where the back wall bordered on the old brick passage winding between the rows of houses. That old path was overgrown and strewn with litter, but as a child Alex once clambered over the wall and found with great excitement that in this nowhere space, he could move unseen between the houses of his neighbourhood. He expected to overhear secret conversation and find lost treasures but instead stumbled into a thicket of stinging nettles. With tears in his eyes, he returned to his mum, who never asked where he’d been but gently rubbed Germolene into the angry red welts.

A wooden fence divided the garden from their neighbour’s, and Alex leaned against it, in the gap between his mother’s rose bush and his dad’s work shed. Yellow light from the kitchen window skewed across the grass. Faintly, the sounds of an argument, Sophie and his mum. Luca stood, half-in half-out of the light, with a glass of white wine. They’d been talking for at least an hour outside. At first haltingly, as though the gears of conversation had grown rusty with disuse but soon with old familiarity, so that even the lengthy pauses felt as comfortable and easy as childhood.

… and after that, a doctorate, if I get on the programme, and like, why wouldn’t I, right? Drunk, flushed with pleasure and success and the sense that everything was going as it should. A first in his undergrad, he’d fucking nailed it. Alex sawed the air with one hand, delineating a clear path to the future. Finish postgrad studies, then a job. Then his own flat. Then a girl. Bish bash bosh, Alex said.

Left unsaid, he thought how tomorrow night he’d meet up with Libby Collins and how they’d head down the pub in Taunton, and afterwards, he hoped, she’d come back with him, or he’d go to hers, and they’d have sex, or at least go down on him, and that felt deserved, it felt right after scoring a first on his undergrad. A reward for hard work.

What about you? Alex asked.

Luca’s answer lacked confidence. He’d deferred his first year to work to cover tuition and living costs and keep student loans to a minimum. Consequently, he was entering third year at Leeds. He explained that he had no clear plan for afterwards. He liked chemistry well enough. But he wasn’t, you know, passionate about it. Marketable, at least. With luck, he’d find a job around Taunton, maybe in Bristol; he wasn’t keen on moving to London.

Alex finished his Stella, crumpled the can against the side of the shed. Sharp metal edges dug into his palm. Nearly invisible in the dark, a black cat padded along the wall opposite, a lithe shadow between two gardens. The argument in the kitchen seemed to have run its course. From somewhere unseen in a neighbouring garden, the quiet and indiscernible voices of another conversation, a smell of cigarettes wafting on the air.

Alex asked if he was seeing anyone.

Luca joined Alex in leaning against the wall. He answered without looking at his friend. No, he said and then after a long pause: you?

No. Alex tossed the crumpled can in the air, missed it on the way down, picked it up from the ground. Like, I hooked up with a few girls. But it never went anywhere. It’s been harder to meet people at uni, at least, it has been for me. And not much time for it around studying.

Luca nodded.

And your sister? Alex asked. How’s Beth doing?

She’s doing okay, he said. Started seeing this bloke, guy called Jacob.

Jacob?

Seems alright.

Another long silence. Then Alex said, I’m grabbing another, want one?

Luca knocked back his wine, passed him the empty glass. Go on.

Alex returned to the kitchen, pulled two cans from the fridge. Dishes from earlier that day sat in the sink and freshly washed glasses sat drying on the rack. A lot of leftover food on the counter. Condensation beading on the cans in each hand. Muffled voices. He tracked them to his father’s office.

As a child, he was only rarely allowed to enter. Tonight, the heavy wooden door was closed but on the other side he could hear the ongoing sounds of an animated discussion, or an argument. His father and his sister. They didn’t see each other often, but when they did, they fought. After she moved out it seemed to get better, but at Christmas and Easter, anytime all four of them were together, Morgan and Sophie argued and the speed with which they could trigger each other was frankly astonishing. For fuck’s sake, Alex thought. Let it go, just for one night. It’s meant to be my night, after all.

Alex returned to Luca. His friend’s face glowed from below in the light of his phone. Luca put the phone away and Alex passed him a can. Alex’s can hissed when he cracked it open. Beer foamed, bright white in the dark. Lips at the rim, he caught the foam and sucked it back. Meanwhile, the tab snapped off Luca’s beer. It hissed and fizzed but remained closed. Fuck’s sake, Luca said, and glared at the beer as though it betrayed him. Hate it when that happens.

Alex laughed and said, here, and shared his beer. Luca drank, grinned and passed the can back.

They drank in silence. Another cat followed the first, feline shadows facing off without directly looking at each other on the narrow space of the wall. Eventually one hopped onto an adjacent shed roof and curled into the night, and the other turned back the way it came and disappeared. The conversation in the other garden reached its conclusion. Someone called out a name: Ebony, Ebony. A door slammed.

Luca took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, passed the beer back to Alex and he drank, too and the moon slipped free from the clouds and the garden was bright in the sudden light and he was there with his friend and life felt good and he understood what came next. In the house, his father. It all made sense, everything, the world and his place in it.

This is it, Alex thought. This is as good as it gets.

***

They talk over their meal, share a second bottle of wine. Luca orders the cheese platter. Alex protests, no, no, I can’t possibly, gives in and enjoys a single tangy blue on a rosemary cracker. After, he picks at a few grapes as Luca discourses between bites of cheese. He’s flush with wine and food and seems to genuinely delight in the conversation and company of Blake.

Alex eases into his role as Luca’s girlfriend. The wine helps, the slight buzz that makes it easier to perform the part he’d agreed to. At this point, it feels rude to even consider it a performance, unfair really, when you think about it. There’s nothing performative about enjoying a friend’s company. No, not just a friend: his best friend, maybe his only real friend, actually, at the end of the day. And like, how did this even happen, to end up twenty-three and alone in London, friendless?

Though that isn’t true. There’s Amber, after all. But she’s Blake’s friend; Blake has friends, Alex not so much. And how is that fair? Alex wonders. Everything that is Blake is also me. How does it make sense that not-me is happier than real-me? Yet she feels more real in all the ways that seem to matter. It seems to Alex then that if ‘real’ is defined through possession of a job and friends and a place to live, then Alex barely exists. And this extends online: Blake has reach, people love her Insta. And guys like her, too. All those DMs, Jesus Christ, so many recently, he can’t bring himself to read them for fear of what they show and what might be attached.

And the more real Blake becomes, Alex thinks, the less substantial I feel. Like the chained man in the parable, watching travelling shadows on a cave wall cast by flickering firelight. The man casts off his shackles and escapes blinking into the sunlight. The bright light of day burns his eyes. In pain, a weaker man returns to the comfort of soothing shadows. A strong man endures the light of truth. Am I the strong man or the weak, Alex wonders. Or am I nothing but the shadow, cast by some truer form?

Luca grins and apologises and heads to the bog. Alex watches him go and thinks, lucky bastard. He’ll never know the inconvenience of sitting and peeling back tape to take a piss; or even the simple inconvenience of a long skirt, tucked beneath your chin. Looking down past jutting breasts. The risk of acrylic nails in proximity to scrotum. Now that Luca’s gone, Alex realises how much he needs the toilet, too. It’s not fair.

Alex reaches for the clutch bag, retrieves the pink phone and checks his messages. Amber wants to know how the date’s going: good, he writes back, really good. He attaches the pictures from earlier that Luca shared. Kiss on cheek. Then, a kiss to the mouth. Alex’s eyes are closed, purple and silver shimmer. The sharp gleam of his highlighted cheekbone. Luca’s eyes are open. Unseen beneath the table, his hand resting at Alex’s waist. Looking at the picture, Alex again feels the press of his friend’s lips and the touch of his hand.

First time? Luca asked.

Oui, the man said. Comme ça, just comme ça.

Alex retrieves his compact mirror, fixes his lipstick. He times it for Luca’s return, long pencil poised at his lip. His friend sits and watches as Alex meticulously paints his mouth. Rich plum, the colour of his friend’s tie. Beth’s doing, surely. Wonders what he’s thinking, to see me do this. Waxy colour glides across his lips, a sensation once foreign, now so familiar as to go unnoticed but for the watchful eyes of others. Juliet was years ago and nothing like this. This too, a performance for an audience of one.

Alex delicately dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Luca shifts in his seat. “Enjoy the show?” Alex asks.

“Yes.” Luca shakes his head. “I mean—” he trails off. “Yes. It’s just. I see you sitting there. And instead of my mate, it’s this girl, doing that. And it messes with this.” He taps the side of his head with his finger. “You’re very good at that.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. Have to look good for work.”

“You know what I meant.”

“All of this,” Alex says, “It’s messing with me too, you know.”

“But you’re happy.”

Blake’s happy, he thinks. And if she’s happy, I’m happy.

They talk over the last of their meal. Alex sees himself listening to his friend. His head is tilted to one side. Alex nods and smiles and brushes the hair back from his eyes and tucks it back behind an ear with his nails. Luca continues to speak but his eyes are now drawn to those beautiful earrings. Unfamiliar in their newness, Alex is aware of the weight and fall of the delicate drops. The earrings are a token imbued with meaning and to wear them is a declaration of his acceptance of that meaning. Tonight, he is Luca’s date. Date: a specification of time, but also one in which a transaction or event takes place. A person with whom you have a romantic meeting. Derived from the Latin datus, ‘given’; a transfer of a thing from one to the other and is he not given to Luca for this specified time?

Alex dated regularly enough in high school: Nando’s or Pizza Express, school discos, sixth form nights out to the pub. A few times through university, single dates that never led to more. Occasionally, a one-night stand. Precious little since moving to London. In fact, it occurs to him that his friend probably has considerably more experience of dating in his twenties than Alex does. Certainly, in dating men. Though Alex hardly appears a man at all.

Although being a girl on a date isn’t so difficult after all, Alex decides. As the tension of sitting opposite his best friend eases, he finds himself easing into the role easily. Most of the hard work was done earlier, the waxing and makeup and clothes and so on. Now, he just needs to—listen. Nod and smile, play with an earring, touch up his makeup. Lightly touch his friend’s arm. An occasional breathy giggle, or shy glance. A pretty prop in his friend’s elaborate staging of a perfect night out. It’s an odd feeling, but not a bad one. Looking beautiful, eating good food, feeling mildly drunk: there are worse ways to spend a Saturday evening. And actually, when you get down to it, Luca’s a good guy, a really good mate. He’s interesting and funny and even, Alex grudgingly admits, pretty good looking, if we’re being brutally honest here. And there’s nothing gay in acknowledging the fact. Nor is there anything wrong in being gay. But his friend’s been working out, he’s lost weight, he looks good in that white shirt and the way it pulls tight across his chest. In letting the shame that inflected the first half of the day drain away, Alex now sees how his friend has also spent the day doing everything to look his best for tonight. Sure, it’s only a fraction of what it took to transform Alex into an idealised version of Blake. But still, a willingness on his friend’s part to put forward his very best self, and Alex feels a sudden, unexpected warmth in realizing this, that his friend is keen to impress him and, perhaps, was in his own way shy and anxious and worried as to how he’d be seen.

Their conversation weaves itself within the quiet murmurs of others, the wash of words rising and falling like a wave. They fit in here, another couple among couples on a Saturday night, attractive and young, and isn’t that what they both wanted, to belong? Luca cuts into the last of the cheese and Alex takes a final water biscuit with a small nugget of cave-aged cheddar, raises it to his lips and returns it to the plate. It’s delicious. But he has no appetite for it, he barely ate half his main, let alone sides and dessert. Truth is, after the starter and the bubbly and the wine, despite eating barely anything throughout the day, he’s feeling very uncomfortable around the middle. Women’s clothing is unforgiving, or at least what he’s wearing tonight is: shapewear, and the dress itself. He feels ill at ease within his own skin, yet this is balanced against a pleasant drunken fuzziness and the simple pleasure of being in his friend’s company.

He’s never heard his friend talk this much before and wonders why, why has Luca never felt he could talk so freely?

The waitress comes, collects plates, and leaves. His friend’s face is a little pink with drink, his eyes bright with excitement. He’s enjoying himself and Alex feels flushed with pleasure, knowing that his friend is having fun, and that Blake is at the centre of this fun. I really haven’t seen enough of him since leaving home. And each of those times, were either of us happy? I don’t think so. And now look at him. And look at me. This was his idea. But I’m the one making it happen.

It was a tough three years, Luca admits. At times, unbearably lonely. A year older than everyone else and a lot of friendship groups already formed, the price of arriving a year late. University didn’t feel like a continuation of high school but still felt shockingly small at times, insular and detached from the larger city. He loved Leeds. But once university was over, there was no desire to stay and live there. But he appreciated the opportunity to experience living in a big city, one as large as he ever hoped to experience. Bristol was more to his liking, at the limit of his comfort zone. But still, all that Victorian red brick, an engine of the Industrial Revolution, manufacturing and mills, well-oiled pistons and power. The Corn Exchange, the first M&S. Just so much history. And beautiful in its own way.

But still. He missed home. When his studies allowed, he made trips back home. Occasionally, Beth came to visit. And alongside all this, his first, furtive attempts at dating.

He never got further than a few drunken snogs. “And those never went anywhere,” Luca says. “I looked around online and the gay scene in Leeds’s meant to be good, and there’s a lot of Pride stuff around campus. Like, I don’t know how it compares to other campuses, but I saw plenty of, you know, queer kids around, guys like me but also some dressed, like… well, you can imagine.” He gives a little cough, takes a large drink of wine. “But it’s not like I ever walked up to anyone and said hello, you know? I was a coward. And after all, I was there to study, right? That was always my excuse. I was there to study. I’d go for months just totally focused on my studies. And so goddamn miserable, you can’t even imagine how crazy with loneliness I got.”

He says it flippantly, with a wry smile, over the rim of his glass.

I can imagine, Alex thinks, but lowers his eyes and says nothing.

“Anyway, I’d get this urge, it’d build up and I’d go for these walks, these long walks at night. Just me trudging along city streets under those new lights, hands in pockets, skirting the centre but eventually, they’d always bring me to the same places. I’d skirt past Queen’s Court or end up at The Penny and I’d see men out front and the rainbow flag over the door. And I’d think, can that really be me? Do I want to go in there? Maybe I’m gay but am I that kind of gay?”

Luca grimaces.

“Well, eventually, I went in. I did this a few times. After, I’d always feel guilty. I’d avoid going back until, well, you know, the urge returned. And I cycled like this until one day, I went in and after I got hurt and then I never went back again.”

He reaches for his wine, raises it to his lips. “I already told you about that night.” He returns his glass to the table without drinking. His voice and his breathing are very controlled. Cords along his neck stand out, red. He looks away, towards a distant corner of the room.

Alex reaches across the table. He takes his friend’s hand in his, holds him firmly. “If you want to talk about it,” he says, “I’m here.” He squeezes his friend’s hand. “And if you don’t want to talk about it, I’m still here.”

A long silence. Eventually, Luca drags his gaze back to the table. He shakes his head. His eyes are watery. “I can’t,” he says. “Not yet.” And then he says, “I ended up in A&E.” He takes a shuddering breath. “The guys who jumped me, they kicked the shit out of me. As far as I can tell, they followed me from the bar and I never noticed. I was in too good a mood. For the first time, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt good about myself. For so long, I’d felt bad about myself but that night, I felt good. I’d had a good night, met this guy, you know, I can’t even remember his name. But he was—friendly. We held hands. He grabbed my ass and then we kissed and honestly, up to that point it was sloppy and drunk and wonderful. When I left the bar, I swear it was like in one of those cartoons, I was practically floating along.

“But of course, because I was happy, I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway. These two guys, it’s like they came out of nowhere and next thing I knew, I was in an alley and then the next thing, I was on the floor and then they were kicking me. I went foetal and they just kept hitting me and saying things I mostly didn’t hear until I blacked out.

“I don’t remember much of it, to be honest. Flashes of it, every now and then. And I get these—” he rolls his wrist, searching for the word,“—revenge fantasies.” He grimaces. “Ones where I fight back, and win. Or I smash their skulls into the brick wall and—”

He gently pries his hand out from beneath Alex’s, slides it back to his side and hides it beneath the table. Before it’s gone, Alex feels the tension in his friend’s hand, how he fights the urge to curl his fingers and claw the table.

“I’m so sorry,” Alex says.

“No,” Luca says, “I am.” He tries to smile but his smile wavers and dies and instead his lip curls with self-loathing. He knocks the heel of one hand against his head, and says, angrily: “Fuck.”

“It’s—” and Alex is about to say ‘okay’ but of course it’s not, his friend is not okay. “Luca—”

“This is supposed to be my dream date,” he says, angry petulance rising in Luca’s voice. “Looking forward to it all week. And I keep fucking it up. I’m late. I kiss you without asking. I whinge about—something I can’t change—and fuck—” and he pounds his fist into his open palm—"it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Look at you, just look at you, you’re amazing, I’m sat here with this amazing girl and it’s all I’ve ever wanted and I’m ruining it by—”

“It’s okay.” Alex says.

The silence that follows is heavy and awkward but not uncomfortable. Luca looks away, his cheeks flushed red, but his gaze keeps shyly returning to his friend. Alex takes a final sip of wine, and demonstrating a calm he doesn’t feel, returns the glass to the table. Then, he stands and lightly holds the table as the room suddenly tilts. He’s more drunk than he thought. Which tracks, considering what he’s about to do. Alex smiles, then walks around to his friend’s side of the table. Luca watches his approach with a mix of curiosity and fear. Alex leans down, and very lightly brings his lips to his friend’s lips. Eyes closed, he holds his mouth there for several seconds. His friend’s lips are soft. He inhales deeply, draws in the intimate odour of his friend. Alex then stands straight once more, shoulders back.

“What was that for?” Luca asks.

“Just… because.” He gently rubs his thumb across the waxy plum shadow left on his friend’s bottom lip. “I wanted to, okay?”

Luca looks up at him in wonder.

A giggle at the look in his friend’s eyes: “Now if you’ll excuse the lady,” Alex says, “I need to powder my nose.”

He feels pleasantly drunk and warm, almost giggly. The bands of pressure at his chest and temple are tighter than ever, and yet balanced against rising giddiness, a swelling excitement felt as a tingling in his fingertips, a curling of the toes. He wants to laugh, bites back on the urge and suddenly his neck is prickly with sweat. He pushes through the door to the women’s loo. Normally, his stomach clenches in doing so. Each time, an intrusion into a place he doesn’t belong. Tonight, he crosses over without fear. Still, relief that the bathroom is empty. The reflection in the mirror catches him. He sees himself and suddenly wants to scream or shout out or punch a wall, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. Instead, Alex throws himself into a toilet stall, bangs the door shut, locks it.

Biting back sudden tears, he hangs his clutch bag from the hook on the inside of the stall door and sits with elbows on knees and his head in his hands and holds this position for some time, eyes closed, breathing. Slowly, he feels the swell of emotions retreat. The tight pressure at his temple and chest eases. Jesus, he thinks. What the fuck was that, what’s wrong with me? Get it together, like seriously, you can’t go losing your shit like this. Not now, your friend needs you. You got this, Alex, Blake, whatever; accept the terrible responsibility of the moment.

He retrieves his bag. Inside, the Polaroid photograph of his father. He turns it over and reads the inscription on the back again and then flips it back to the front. Alex traces the outline of his father with the edge of one elegant, black nail.

Hey Dad, he thinks. I really miss you, you know. All told, you weren’t all that great of a dad, if we’re being brutally honest here. But still, I miss you. I wish you were still here. You’d probably lose your nut to see me now. I’m an embarrassment, I get that. It wasn’t meant to be like this. But it’s true, you know. I am happy. I don’t know why and I shouldn’t be and I guess that makes me a failure and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I think if you saw me now, you’d say all kinds of horrible things. But that would be okay, I think, if only you were still here. You could call me anything you like, if only you were still here. And I didn’t get to say goodbye, not properly. And that’s not right. I was afraid. Of what I might say or what you might say or that there’d be nothing to say at all. And now, I’d give anything to hear your voice, just one last time. I don’t think you’d approve of my choices. But at the end of the day, I’d think you would want me to be happy. And I think I can be. I just need to be strong enough, Dad.

***

A young couple walk together under London lights. With each step, her stiletto heels click against the cobblestone road. She giggles a little breathlessly and grips the arm of her date for support. Her navy-blue dress swirls around her legs, and with each step a glimpse of stocking tops. Metal tabs, flashing under market lights. A shine to her lips, and a dance of drop earrings. The man’s arm snakes around the girl’s waist and holds her close, and he raises his phone high and snaps a picture of the two of them. In the picture afterwards, her dress cuts a fine contrast to the pale teal of his suit. In the background, stairs lead down to a sunken square where other couples drink. Not captured in the photograph, the music of the string quartet playing The Rites of Spring. The murmuration of conversation. The chill of September night air raising goosebumps across her bare arms and the warmth of their closeness. The eddy of passing people.

Thank you, he says softly.

Let’s get a drink, she says. I know a place.

Small and dark and intimate, the old cellar smells of moist earth and age, lime and smoke staining the old yellow brickwork. Stroke of luck, getting a seat on a Saturday night. The man returns from the bar, ducking low to avoid the arched ceiling. A glass of white for her, red for him. Hope you like it, he says. I know I will, she says. They touch glasses, sip, and their eyes are bright in the candlelight. They talk, finish their wine, he makes another trip to the bar and when he returns, pulls his seat closer to hers. They sit now side by side. He looks at her and she glances away shyly and then back to him and tucks her hair back and says, what? Nothing, he says. A curious half smile and she says, no, what is it? and he says, it’s just, you really are beautiful and she blushes and says stop and slaps him lightly and he laughs and catches her hand and then his hand is on her thigh. Her dress falls open as if with a will of its own and the man’s fingers rest across her stockings, plays lightly across the welt and brushes the smooth, sensitive skin above. She blushes all the hotter and opens her mouth to say, stop. But she doesn’t say anything. The word catches in her throat. He’s watching her, to see her reaction. She says nothing and neither does he. Still, the curious half-smile. And now he takes up her left hand in his and slowly brings it to his lips and then gently lays a kiss to the back of her hand. She is breathing heavily and feels hot and his breath is a whisper across her fingers. The woman feels tight across her chest. She wants to take back her hand but also doesn’t want to take back her hand. Eventually, he lets her go. Was that okay, he asks. Yes, she says. They drink their wine and the white wine feels as cold and crisp a drink as she’s ever known. She feels quite drunk now but very pleasantly so and the way the man looks at her makes her feel warm and funny inside, as does his hand on her thigh. Impulsively, she touches the back of her hand where he kissed her to his cheek and his skin is hot. Then, she touches his shoulder, his arm—feels his hidden strength—and then her hand also rests against his thigh. His eyes widen. Now, it’s her turn to smile, a small twist to the corner of her mouth. Her hand drifts and then feels how he strains against his trousers, he’s excited, he’s excited by her.

They both pull back and look at each other and drink in silence until she says, was tonight everything you hoped it would be and he says, yes.

***

Later, they take a short walk around the riverside park next to the wine bar, and then up the embankment to Charing Cross. Standing out front of the station, they feel conspicuously well-dressed among the late-night tourist and Saturday evening crowd. They catch an Uber back to Shoreditch. The car drops them off at the hotel where their day started. Alex’s possessions wait in Beth’s room. Thirty minutes’ effort and he’ll be back to being a boy, on his way back to his sister’s, the last night he can call that place home.

“I had a lovely evening,” he says.

“Me too,” Luca says.

There’s an awkward silence as they enter the hotel and cross the lobby together and then wait by the lifts. He pushes the button. His room is on the fifth floor. Beth’s room is closer to the top. After a short wait, the lift door opens. They both step in, Alex mindful in his heels of the gap in the floor. Luca pushes the button for his floor and then after a short hesitation, the button for his sister’s floor. The door closes. They are alone in the lift. Alex stands close to Luca and his friend’s arm is around his waist and Alex leans into him and rests his head. He feels the strength in his friend’s arms and the firmness of his chest. He feels comfortable in his friend’s arm and feels something else. What is it, he wonders and then he realises, he feels safe. He feels safe in Luca’s arms and this realisation sends a tingle down his spine.

This is easy, Alex thinks. At the end of the night. Playing the girl. Or being her, same thing, at least for tonight. Barely any effort. Just let the clothes and his expectations lead the way.

The lift stops, the door opens.

“My floor,” Luca says. He doesn’t move. Nor does Alex. After a pause, the door begins to close. Luca presses the button to keep the door open. His arm remains around Alex’s waist and neither has tried to disengage from the other.

“Yes,” Alex says.

“Do you—”

“Another drink?” Alex asks.

“Yeah.”

They leave the lift together and it’s a short walk along the hotel corridor to Luca’s room. He swipes the lock and it beeps and clicks open and they enter his room. The room is much smaller than Beth’s. A double bed opposite a small desk with a mirror over it, and a large window opposite the door, with drawn curtains. A TV on the wall and through a door next to the entrance, a small bathroom. The room is neat and tidy, with Luca’s suitcase stored away and his clothes carefully folded or hanging in the small closet.

Now, they detach and stand inside the room. The air is a little stale, and Alex feels uncomfortably hot.

“Drink?” Luca asks.

Alex nods.

Luca kneels at the desk and opens the small fridge beneath it. “There’s a beer,” he says over his shoulder. “And a can of G&T, Gordons. And bottled water. I fancy the beer. You want the gin and tonic?”

Alex nods. Then he says, “I need the loo.”

And time, to figure out what the hell is happening. Why’d I follow him here? So many reasons. Special providence in this. We’re here, and I’ve got this. The readiness is all. It’s his hotel room at the end of a date. But: reasons. Best not to think about it. Let be.

Avoiding the mirror, Alex sits on the loo and lifts his dress and drops his knickers and winces when he scratches his balls in peeling off the tape. Christ, he thinks, I’m so drunk. And he is, the room’s not quite spinning but there’s a definite tilt to it, tunnel vision and blurring at the edges. And why not? It’s Saturday night, he’s young, he’s beautiful. Like, fuck it, actually. Why shouldn’t he have some fun? Girls just wanna. Not that he is, but. For tonight. Chin up and shoulders back and all that shit, whatever.

He takes a long piss and wipes and realises he’s left his clutch on the desk in the room. Oh. A bundle of used tape in a ball stuck to the wall. Not very careful in removing them. Well, shit. A token effort at untangling the jumble of tape gets him nowhere. How could he forget his handbag? That must be girl 101 or something? The knickers can do the job. He tugs his knickers up over his hips. Such pretty knickers, Beth’s got such great taste. Midnight black, blue satin panels, all that lace, gorgeous. She’s waiting for him upstairs. The thong holds him in place. Well, not really. And thinking about Beth and the underwear makes it worse. Jesus, Alex—Blake—whatever; get your shit together, mate. Babe. He giggles as he stands and the dress falls and settles over his frame. A twist, tweak: he checks himself in the mirror. An unmistakable bulge at the front of his dress. He tries smoothing down the front. The bulge remains.

Alex gnaws his bottom lip and thinks, maybe Luca won’t notice?

He steps slowly out of the bathroom, careful in his heels. He really is quite drunk. Luca sits at the edge of the bed. Luca’s gaze sweeps over him. Alex holds the doorframe, arches his back slightly under his friend’s eye. His friend’s eye zeroes in on the bulge tenting the dress. He glances up, an eyebrow raised, a small smile playing across his lips.

Alex blushes fiercely, and his blush leaves him feeling all the more excited. He quickly crosses to the desk. He fights back the urge to reach under his dress and adjust himself. Instead, he snatches up his clutch and fumbles in it for the tape and then realises there’s no fucking point, like what does it matter, his friend knows he’s really a guy. Like yeah, it’s a shame to ruin the smooth line of the dress but it’s not like Luca cares about that kind of thing. So, with his hands already in the bag, he retrieves his lip gloss. He leans over the desk so that he’s near the mirror and touches up his lips. The familiarity of the action brings him a little calm. Luca watches him. Alex smiles. This is fine, he thinks. I’ve got this.

His friend still sits on the edge of the bed. Alex slips the gloss back into the bag, turns to face his friend. He leans back on the desk and feels the way it pushes out his chest and wonders if it looks sexy.

Luca smiles, pats the space next to him on the bed.

Alex sits next to his friend. Luca passes him the glass. He raises his beer and Alex touches his glass to it and then drinks. The gin and tonic is strong and cold, he feels it rush through him. Calming; no, bracing. In the wake of the drink, he feels a strange calmness. The room doesn’t spin if he focuses on Luca. He really has always been there for me, Alex thinks.

They sit turned slightly towards each other. Their knees touch. Now, Alex notices the bulge in his friend’s trousers. Luca sees that he sees and he has the look of someone who believes they are dreaming.

That, or he’s just very, very drunk.

“Is this how you imagined it?”

Luca doesn’t say anything.

“The date, I mean.”

Very slowly, his friend nods.

“All of it?”

Now, he shakes his head, no.

“Did you picture it ending with a kiss?”

“Yes,” Luca says.

Alex realises that his hand lies on his friend’s leg, a little above the knee. “Only a kiss?”

Luca looks pale. He swallows nervously. He shakes his head, no.

“What?”

“No,” Luca says.

“Tell me,” Alex says.

“I can’t,” he says.

Alex nods, nods again. His hand drifts a little, he feels under his touch how tense his friend is. “Then I want you to do something for me,” he says.

Still pale, Luca nods and his voice is barely a whisper. “Anything.”

“Say to me now, what you said to me that night,” Alex says.

“That night?”

“In the garden.”

Luca’s breath catches in his throat. He looks away. Alex cups his cheek and guides him back. “That night in the garden,” Alex says. “What did you say to me?”

“Please,” Luca says. “I can’t.” His eyes are rimmed in red. His hand trembles as he puts down his beer.

“I want to hear you say it,” Alex says. His hand drifts higher and rests over the hardness beneath his palm.

Luca closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. Now, he faces Alex directly. His hand is on Alex’s knee, and the cords of his neck stand out white against the rising red blush.

“That night in the garden,” Luca says. “I told you that I loved you.”

“Yes, you did,” Alex says, “and I want to hear you say it again.”

“I love you,” Luca says. “I always have.”

Damn straight you do, Alex thinks, and kisses him, deeply.

And after the kiss, he asks Luca to tell him how he imagines this dream ending, how the date with his idealised woman would finish, what she would do for him, if asked, or without asking, because this is a dream, after all, celluloid male fantasy brought to life.

Luca groans. “Alex—”

“No, not Alex,” he says. “Blake.”

Luca tells him.

I don’t know if I can do that, Alex admits. He squeezes the hardness under his hand. But I can try.

***

After, he takes the lift to Beth’s floor.

She’s still awake, waiting for him. The telly’s on and she’s wearing a pale blue negligee when she opens the door. Beth leads him into the room.

“How was it?” she asks.

“Good,” he says.

“And how do you feel?”

The question seems so absurd to him that he laughs and then adds, “good.”

Beth nods. The room spins, very slowly. She takes his hand and stands very close. Her nightdress gleams in the light of her bedside table and her nipples are erect through the thin, silky fabric. She bites her lower lip and the way she looks at him, warmth blossoms in his chest and exhaustion steps back.

“Good,” she says and steps even closer. Her breath is hot on his neck. “Because now it’s my turn.”