Tin Man(33)

Think about what? he said.

The story. It sounds familiar, right?

Oh God, he said. This isn’t an analogy for gay men, is it?

Think about it, I said. We all had to come out of the dark to sing.

By midday, the heat is unforgiving and the road has turned to dust, a white dust that coats my boots and shins. The Judas trees are in bloom, and large black bees are noisy in their work, their bodies heavy with pollen.

I come to a mas with rooms, and I like the look of it. Far enough away from town but not too far should I ever have the need. The vacant sign is so discreet, it’s almost an afterthought in its appeal for guests.

I’m shown a quiet first-floor room that overlooks the grounds at the back. The sharp smell of grouting in the bathroom highlights a recent renovation. I lay out my few toiletries on the shelf above the basin. I unpack my rucksack and hang my clothes in front of the window, hoping the summer breeze will remove the faint smell of damp canvas they’ve absorbed from an old pair of plimsolls I should have thrown out long ago.

The late afternoon sun is still hot, and I strip off and leave my pants and T-shirt in the sink where I’ll wash them later with shampoo.

And now, I’m nervous. Naked in front of the mirror, I scour every inch of my body, searching for those tell-tale purple smudges that have afflicted others. I find nothing. The odd mosquito bite, of course, by my ankles and at the back of my knees. I sit on the bed and my fear is subsumed by the yellow warmth and comfortable surroundings. I breathe deeply and slowly, and I let the moment pass.

I put on my swimming shorts and go down the stairs, out across the gardens towards the shimmering absinthe-colour pool.

I’m thankful poolside is quiet. People are sleeping off lunches or out in their cars following the wine trails of Les Baux-de-Provence. I lay out my towel on a lounger, shaded by a windbreak of oleander. A sweet catch of music rears beyond a hedge, a forgotten radio turned low so as not to disturb. When the breeze ripples, petals of pink, and white and fuchsia fall on me and I imagine myself a garlanded pyre alight under the fiery sun.

Annie once asked me what Ellis and I talked about. I said, Nothing really, because it was true, but she didn’t seem convinced. And she laughed the way she always did, a response to her incredulity. Oh Mikey, she said, and she grabbed my face and kissed my forehead. You beautiful sweet scamp, she said.

It was 1977 and she and I were new friends. We were getting drunk in a restaurant in Soho, an old-guard Italian one in Dean Street. We’d just bought her wedding dress at a second-hand shop in Covent Garden, lured in by a Gallic-themed window display, all Capri pants and Breton shirts and trilbies. Breathless to a T.

When she came out of the changing room wearing the dress that would take her down the aisle, I whistled loudly. She frowned and said, You’ve never done that before. And I said, I’ve never had the need.

I bought the dress for her while she was changing back into her favourite jeans.

I lifted the bottle, poured out more wine and continued the conversation. I said that Ellis and I talked of things in the moment. I said we just existed in each other’s presence, because that’s how it felt. Often in silence. And to a child it was a good silence, because nothing felt misconstrued. There was a safety to our friendship, I said. We just fit, I remember saying.

She became quiet and thoughtful. She told me that she’d once asked Ellis if we’d ever kissed. She said he looked at her, trying to fathom out what she wanted him to say. After a while, he said, We might have once, but we were young.

She told me she thought it quite a trite answer because she always knew it was more than that, more than youth. She just wanted to know, she said, to be part of us. There’s something about first love, isn’t there? she said. It’s untouchable to those who played no part in it. But it’s the measure of all that follows, she said.

I couldn’t look at her.

She got up and went to the bathroom. I paid the bill and the waiters cleared the table. I was ready to go back to our shitty B&B in Bloomsbury, when I saw her heading towards me, face flushed and eyes bright.

Let’s go out, she said. I wanna go where you go, she said.

She gripped my arm and we walked along neon-stained pavements through to Charing Cross Road and the Astoria. We waited outside while I lit us a cigarette and scanned the flavours of men going in. Her eyes were on me, I could feel her watching. Shovels uncovering my years of hiding. I smiled. Blew out smoke. I flicked my cigarette into the gutter. Come on, I said.

The sound of Thelma Houston pulsed through our hands as we paid our entry, and we were swept along in a fug of aftershave and sweat, into a group of bare-chested clones singing ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’. Oh my fucking God! shouted Annie.

Look! The stage was heaving with gyrating bodies. Leather queens in a dance-off with punks, and amongst them, suburban kids living a long-contested fantasy.

I handed Annie a beer. The music was too loud for conversation so we drank fast and a change of record propelled us back on to the floor. ‘Dance Little Lady Dance’. And oh we did! The light show flared off satin shorts and glistening shoulders and I felt overdressed and I took off my T-shirt, Annie laughing at me. I can’t hear you, I shouted. Her hand on her chest. I. Love. This. And on the large screen behind her, Busby Berkeley dance routines played on a loop.

The air was flecked with sweat and stank of poppers, and leather boys danced hard. The light show dared itself, and strobes caught the delight on Annie’s face, her hair plastered to her forehead. A moustachioed man danced next to us, white vest and gloves. He stuck a small bottle under her nose and I watched her gasp. You OK? I mouthed. She nodded, stunned. Fuck, she mouthed. Smiled.