The Friends We Keep(52)

Benedict picked Topher up every weekend that summer, and by the end of the summer, Topher started to feel like he was almost human, all of which he owed to Dickie, who never asked anything of him, never made a move, never expected anything in return. Once, Topher had started to kiss him, not for any reason than he thought it was what Dickie must have wanted, presumed it was why he was being so nice to him, but Dickie had calmly pushed him away, smiling, saying that wasn’t what their relationship was about. And Topher felt relieved.

Since then, they met for lunch every week. Often, Topher would accompany Dickie to the theater, and Dickie, knowing that Topher had bigger ambitions, would introduce him to everyone for when he was ready to leave the soap opera. It wasn’t what you knew, he always said, it was who you knew.

But the security of the soap opera was something of a relief for Topher, once Larry died. He wasn’t ready for another change, other than perhaps something to alleviate his loneliness. He missed having another body in the apartment. He missed having someone to talk to, someone who would help with paperwork, and contracts, all the things Topher hated. Of course, his agent helped, but Larry had always talked everything through with Topher, often picking up on small things the agent had missed.

Topher missed companionship. He could have reached out more, to old friends, but in the beginning they had all reached out to him, and he had been so sick with grief, he hadn’t wanted to see anyone. They had all left him alone after a while, leaving messages saying they were there for him for whatever he needed, and he should get back in touch when he was ready. By the time he felt ready, it had been too long. He didn’t know what to say to those friends he hadn’t spoken to for months (in some cases over a year) so he didn’t call, instead withdrawing, his life outside of work becoming more and more isolated.

Dickie was the only one who refused to leave him alone. When Topher told Dickie he wasn’t feeling well and had to cancel lunch, Dickie would just show up, knowing the doorman would let him in. He’d lean on the buzzer until Topher had to open the door, insisting on Topher getting dressed and coming out. Topher never wanted to go, but afterward, when he was back home alone, he was always glad he had been out.

Today they would be going to Michael’s for lunch, which Dickie loved, for he ran into everyone he had ever known. At night, they would often go to Orso for a pre-or post-theater meal; Dickie treated it like his own personal party, moving from table to table to greet, hug, and charm.

Today, Topher decided on a jacket but no tie, soft leather Italian driving shoes, and no socks. He slipped some small black-and-white portraits into his jacket pocket—wherever he went there were fans, especially midwesterners on vacation in New York who would be in Times Square, and he tried to have something on hand to sign and give away. This was what he was frightened of giving up, he realized, if he left the soap opera. The validation, the recognition that he was someone who mattered.



* * *



? ? ?

Dickie insisted on dessert, as he always did, a cappuccino for him, a mint tea for Topher. He stirred his three sugars into his cappuccino and looked at the table in the way he did when he was preparing for a serious conversation.

“Oh dear,” Topher said, attempting to preempt whatever it was he suspected he had done wrong. “You have your serious face on. Whatever I’ve done, can I just apologize now so we can move on?”

Dickie smiled, the creases around his eyes now deep from the sun. In his early fifties, he had only grown more handsome, and many was the time Topher had wished for a greater libido, or more chemistry, or something that would make their relationship romantic. But it didn’t seem that it was something either of them particularly wanted, so he chose instead to admire Dickie as a fine figure of an older man.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, darling boy. But you’re right, there is something I wanted to talk to you about. As you know, I have been rattling around in my large apartment for some time, ever since Felipe left.”

“Ah yes, the handsome Felipe.” Felipe had been a “friend” of Dickie’s who had lived in one of the guest rooms for the past six years. Their relationship had been platonic (although no one quite believed there weren’t some benefits), and wasn’t quite understood by anyone. They weren’t sure if Felipe took care of Dickie, or if Dickie took care of Felipe. Dickie had a cook, and a cleaner, so there were no domestic duties, and it was rumored he lived rent-free, so if there was no sex, and Dickie swore there was no sex, then it was friendship, companionship, which would have been understandable had Felipe not been so handsome (and, it was rumored, something of a gold-digger). He had in fact left after starting a romantic relationship with a wealthy real estate investor in Palm Beach, and now lived with him in old Palm Beach grandeur on a water estate.

“You know Felipe and I didn’t have a romantic relationship. In fact, he had his own dalliances that he kept private, and I, occasionally, had mine.”

“You did? You’ve been keeping things from me!”

“Oh, there’s nothing to tell. They are, after all, only dalliances. An old bachelor like me doesn’t want to get involved with anyone romantically, not now. I’m too selfish and too set in my ways, but, I do like having company in my home, and it has to be the right kind of person. I have been thinking of you, rattling around in your own apartment . . .”

“My apartment isn’t big enough to rattle around in,” said Topher.