I tried to talk Damon around but he was not persuadable. ‘Maybe the neighbours know something,’ he suggested. ‘Or perhaps you should just move back into your house and find out for yourself. Put an ear to the wall. Those renovations must be finished by now.’
I mumbled something about there being some finishing touches to be attended to, though in truth, they were only things that I needed to attend to. The builders and assorted tradesmen had all completed their work more than a month ago but I kept procrastinating about my chores. Occasionally, I had moments when I longed to be back in my own home and enjoying all the improvements; but more often I felt conflicted, not only about ‘the neighbours’, but about returning to the house I’d once shared with Blake. Was the transformation of my house going to permit me to start over afresh? Overcome the memories of that shared history? I had my doubts. It was almost six months since he’d left me and I’d begun to think my feelings were fading. But seeing him last night had made me realise just how flimsy my progress was and how easily all those emotions could be stirred up again. To have him living next door would draw out my ability to move on interminably.
But if he had gone, then I would be home in a flash. It changed everything. That thought made me feel furious with Damon for nursing his petty grievance against Blake. I felt like barking at him to stop acting like an injured schoolgirl, pull himself together and find out what the fuck was going on. There was really no one else who I could contact and expect to get the truth from. I sighed, wishing I still had access to Blake’s e-mail.
‘Hey, are you still there?’ Damon said loudly, interrupting my thoughts. ‘It’s common practise to talk on the telephone, not take a nap.’
‘Yes I need to sleep,’ I snapped. ‘You woke me up with that text message. I’m hung-over, sleep-deprived and …’
I hesitated, grasping for another adjective. ‘Testy,’ Damon retorted. ‘Fine, we’ll talk later.’
Perhaps Damon expected me to back down, but instead I took it as my cue to say goodbye and hang up. I knew it was a little abrupt but I was past caring. I was weary of him, of Blake, and this frustrating unknown situation at Ridge Street. Ever since the builders had finished work, I’d been constructing ways to avoid going back there. Only last week, I’d rather rashly booked a trip overseas with that purpose in mind, after learning that my days in The Altair could be numbered.
Strauss had left London abruptly and was now in Dubai, in hot pursuit of some boy he was infatuated with. Given his lack of success with men, I had an inkling that this too would end badly, and sooner or later he would retreat to Sydney heartbroken. He was very grudging with details about this boy, a sure sign that it wasn’t progressing well. Strauss’s likely return had thrown me into a panic. I’d called a real estate agency to discuss renting out my house, then realised I would have to attend to ‘those finishing touches’ before I could let it. This obliged me to spend an afternoon there doing some painting. Afterwards, I went up to the mall to buy some supplies for dinner. I must have been slightly high from the paint fumes: not only did I find myself drawn into Flight Centre by their ad for discount flights to New York, but with no forethought whatsoever, I went ahead and booked a flight there.
At the time, it felt fantastic. I had absolutely no plans to go overseas. It was a complete spur of the moment decision and was exhilarating. I left the mall even higher than when I walked in. In the days that followed, I managed to muster plenty of valid reasons to justify the whim. Not only did it permit me to avoid my neighbours for a little longer, but I would be on the other side of the world, away from all the strife and heartache of the past six months. This trip, I decided, would have immense restorative value and help me finally turn a corner with Blake.
Certainly, it would be very different to the trip I’d done last year with him. This time, I wouldn’t have him cramping my style and would be free to do as I pleased—and the erotic possibilities that promised were tantalising. I’d ventured back onto Gaydar for the first time in months and entered in the dates of my visit to New York. The results were immediate: I started getting messages from guys eager to meet up with me when I arrived.
However, my excitement about New York curdled when I went online to book a hotel. I suppose I was used to sharing the cost of a room with Blake, but I was staggered by what places were charging. Even when I reluctantly lowered my standards and went from looking at the hip hotels to ‘the budget gems’, it still couldn’t be considered cheap. Post-renovation, money was a little tight and though budgeting wasn’t really my style, I reached for a calculator and did a few sums. The results were sobering. Panicked, I went online and took a closer look at my bank accounts and what I currently owed on my credit card. Eventually, I concluded that I could afford to go to New York, though it would definitely be something of an extravagance and would require redrawing some money from my mortgage. It would also mean that I would have to find a job very quickly when I got back. That wasn’t a very enticing prospect and had made me begin to question the wisdom of going on the trip at all.
I felt torn. Initially, it had raised my spirits and given me something to look forward to. Cancelling would be so depressing. I’d also told people I was going and it would be humiliating to have to say that now I wasn’t and answer their questions as to why. I would also lose my deposit if I cancelled. But was it better to lose a few hundred dollars than to blow at least six or seven thousand dollars that I couldn’t afford? I’d already had one reminder message from the travel agent that my ticket required payment in full by Friday. I had less than a week to make a decision and knowing if Blake was no longer in Ridge Street would definitely have a bearing on what I decided.
Over the last few days, I hadn’t had time to think everything through properly with Damon pestering me every five minutes about our drag outing. But lying there in bed post-Primrose, my head protesting, I was in no state to make a decision. I gulped down some more water, turned my mobile to silent, rolled over and went back to sleep for a further three hours.
When I awoke mid-afternoon, I felt much better. I reached for my mobile and found I had a text from Damon. I opened the message, expecting that he had relented and had some news to impart about Blake. But no, what greeted me instead was a most unflattering photograph of Veronica and Primrose taken at some very late stage in the night. I looked dreadful. I’d known that it was a mistake to involve Damon and I needed no reminders of that fact. I deleted his message. Our outing had descended into all those words he had used to describe it: a prank, dress-ups, a bit of fun. It had meant something more to me, though what that was exactly was not a question that was easily answered.
It certainly wasn’t the first time I’d pretended to be someone else. More than ten years ago, when I’d been utterly infatuated and obsessed with Ant, I’d done something similar. He’d gone off to New Zealand to visit his family, leaving me in charge of looking after his apartment. I’d started sleeping in his bed, fantasising about him and jerking off. I’d even taken to wearing his underwear. Then one night, I’d gone out on Oxford Street, got drunk and introduced myself as Ant to some Dutch tourist. I’d then taken this guy back to Ant’s apartment and had sex with him in Ant’s bed. Even after all these years, I still remembered it as being one of my most intense erotic experiences.
There had been plenty of other occasions over the years too, usually in a sexual context. Only quite recently at the sauna, I’d impersonated a German tourist when that guy had recognised me from TV; that had led me into a spate of making up identities for myself whenever I went there. That didn’t really amount to a pattern of behaviour or a history of deception—or did it? I could imagine what Deidre or some psychiatrist would say—what’s wrong with just being yourself? Plenty! I could answer that question emphatically. Life had never seemed quite so bleak.
These were weighty thoughts, so weighty that my head began to pound. I got up and took some Panadeine. Then my mobile rang. It was Damon but I just couldn’t endure hearing him h
arp on about last night. I let the call go to my voice mail.
I called him back the next day, when I knew he would be at work and unable to answer. I left a message, but made no reference to Saturday night. Instead, I basically pleaded with him to contact Blake. I explained about the trip to New York and my conundrum and how urgent it was that I knew definitively if Blake had moved out of Ridge Street.
Seemingly I had offended Damon as he did not return my call. As the days passed, counting down to the deadline to pay for my air ticket, I began to feel more and more frustrated. Finally, on Thursday I called on eagled-eyed Eleanor to see if she could shed any light on whether Blake was still residing across the street from her. But unfortunately, Eleanor and Arthur had been out of town for the past two weeks visiting their daughter in Geelong. She knew nothing.
Walking away from Eleanor’s, I noticed there was no sign of Rick’s car, so I went and peered through his front window. An absence of Blake’s possessions might indicate that he was living elsewhere but I couldn’t really spot any compelling evidence. I had after all refused to give Blake any of the living room items he’d demanded like the sofa. But I was also delighted to note that Rick’s place looked decidedly shabby compared to the smart new interiors of my own home. It made me wonder if Blake had been spying through my front window, enviously appraising the enhancements. When I turned around to go back inside my own house, I spotted Eleanor watching me intently from her own front window. I gave her a wave. She would be delighted to have me back on the street, providing her with some entertainment once more.
It was mid-afternoon, so I decided to hang around, do a few chores and see if Blake turned up after finishing work for the day. He usually arrived home around 6.30pm. At 6pm, I checked and there was no sign of life next door. So I positioned myself out on my balcony where I could discretely observe Blake’s return, though it quickly became very boring. By 6.45pm, I was about ready to give up. There had been no sign of Blake, although I had been afforded the arresting sight of Eleanor in her girdle, getting changed to go out for dinner. Then my mobile rang. It was Damon. Finally, he was returning my call. Damon brushed my greeting aside. ‘Have you seen today’s SX?’ he asked.
I hadn’t. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a photo of Blake in there, shirt off, with his arms around some guy.’
‘What? Who?’
‘I don’t know, some guy, though he does look a bit familiar. Anyway, the two of them seem very intimate. Once you see the photo, you’ll see what I mean. But I think this tells you what you’ve been wanting to know. It must be over with Rick.’
I felt like disputing that and pointing out that if he just rang Blake and asked a few direct questions then I would know without a shred of doubt what was what and wouldn’t be forced to lie in wait for him or analyse photos in the gay social pages for proof. I sighed. ‘Okay, well I’ll wander up to the mall and grab a copy. I have to see my travel agent anyway.’
I thought he might ask me what I’d decided to do about that, but he didn’t. Instead, he told me to call him back when I’d seen the photo. I wandered up to the mall, half expecting to run into Blake or Rick, but I didn’t. Flight Centre stocked copies of the gay newspapers so I went there and grabbed a copy of the SX, giving my travel agent a wave. ‘I’ll be back,’ I called out to him.
I wandered outside and opened the paper to the middle pages where they featured the photos of guys who’d been out and about on the weekend. It was Alejandro I saw first: shirt off, muscles primed, an arm draped around some guy. Was this the fabled boyfriend—Josh, Jason, whatever his name was? But to my astonishment, I realised he was with Blake.
At first I was simply stunned that I had failed to recognise Blake immediately, but he did look very different in the photo. He was wearing a cap for starters which obscured his hair and part of his face. He was also sporting a very prominent new tattoo on his bicep. He had his shirt off and I was intensely envious at the transformation of his body. Being boyfriends with a fitness instructor had been good for him: he sported muscles in places he’d never had them before. Even alongside Alejandro he looked amazingly good. Then it struck me. I’d been so preoccupied by my failure to recognise Blake that I’d overlooked the obvious question: what the fuck was he doing alongside Alejandro in the first place?
They hadn’t merely been snapped together on the dance floor; that was all too obvious. They appeared to be ‘closely acquainted’. Blake was snuggled up against Alejandro’s chest, a smug smile on his face. Alex’s fingers rested significantly on the waistband of Blake’s jeans above his crotch. The heading for the photo section indicated it had been taken at Arq on Sunday night, the day after we’d seen him at The Colombian. The contrast was extreme: here he looked so pleased with himself. Was he drunk? High? What was going on with him? It was very out of character for him to even be out on a Sunday night when he had work the next day.
My mind was whirling with questions. Where had they met? More significantly, did they know the connection to me? It seemed highly likely that Rick would have pointed Alejandro out to Blake if the two of them had ever encountered him somewhere.
I stared at the photograph, then slapped the paper shut. The sight of those two together and all its implications, as well as the memories it was stirring, was making me feel very uneasy. I didn’t know the details or how things had unfolded but I was quite sure that it was no accident or coincidence that Blake and Alejandro were together in that photograph.
I was beginning to feel more and more worked up. I might even have burst into tears in the middle of the mall, if this woman hadn’t started tapping me on the arm. At first, I thought she was asking me if I was alright. I was about to explain that I’d had a shock, a nasty shock, when I realised she was pointing towards the Flight Centre. My travel agent was at his desk, signalling for me to come in. Then my phone rang. It was Damon and I snatched it up.
‘I know that guy he’s with,’ I cried. ‘Alejandro. He’s an old flame of mine. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence that the two of them seem to have hooked up.’
‘He was at your sex party,’ Damon recalled. ‘That’s why he seemed familiar. Are you okay?’
I started to say yes but couldn’t get the word out. Thankfully, Damon sensed the state I was in. ‘Look, I’m nearby. I’ve been at drinks in the city. Do you want me to come over? You don’t sound too good.’
I conceded that I wasn’t and we arranged to meet at The White Horse. Damon insisted that I must be in need of a very strong cocktail. I couldn’t face talking to the travel agent and I was certainly in no state to make a decision about anything, so I stole away by the other exit. When I got to the pub, Damon was standing outside, talking on his mobile, his face grim. He waved, pulled a fifty dollar note out of his pocket and hissed at me to get him a caipirinha and something for myself. I expected he’d join me momentarily but in fact he took a good ten minutes. By the time he heaved himself into the seat opposite me, I not only had the drinks, but had managed to demolish half of my cocktail. ‘That was Blake,’ he informed me.
‘What?’
‘I sent him a text while I was in the taxi. Just something lighthearted, saying I’d seen him in the paper, complimented him on his muscles and innocently inquired if Alejandro was his new boyfriend. I figured I might be able to find something out for you, that he’d reply while we were having a drink. But he actually rang me as soon as he got my message.’
I was equally intrigued and fearful of what I might hear. ‘What did he say?’
Damon shook his head, then took a long draw on his drink. ‘I’ve never heard Blake talk like that before,’ he mused. ‘He’s so bitter. It’s all over with Rick, utterly and completely. He didn’t admit it, but it’s pretty obvious that Rick dumped him.’
‘Is he still living there?’
‘No, he’s in some cheap hotel in the Cross temporarily. It sounds grotty but maybe he was just exaggerating, wanting me to offer to put him up, which I didn’t do.’
/> ‘He has other friends he could ask.’
Damon shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s ignored them too for the past six months. Anyway, that photograph. He was absolutely delighted that I’d seen it and was speculating as to whether Rick and you would have seen it too. I didn’t let on that you had. But you were right. The photo is no accident. Blake booked Alejandro for a session at the gym, flirted with him and got him into bed. Then they went out to Arq, and he collared the photographer to snap them together.’
‘He told you that? He admitted that’s what he did?’
‘Oh yes. He’s immensely proud of what he’s orchestrated. Look, I’m sure it’s directed more at hurting Rick than hurting you. Alejandro works with Rick or something …’
‘Yeah, yeah, they don’t get on.’
‘Exactly, which is why Alejandro was happy to oblige, but Blake is definitely “killing two birds with the same stone” as he put it. I just don’t know what’s got into him,’ Damon mused. ‘This is the sort of stunt I might think of pulling, but not him. It’s very out of character.’
I said nothing, but I knew exactly what was behind his behaviour: he wanted to hurt the person he loved, who’d rejected him, and as a bonus, me too. Though, it was surprising that after six months, he still felt a need to be vengeful towards me.
It hurt to think of him with Alejandro. Despite the fleeting and limited nature of our encounters over the years, I still felt something for Alex. There was a connection there that kept drawing us back together. But how much did he know? Did he realise Blake was my ex? And what had happened to that boyfriend he’d always claimed to be so attached to? Had he dumped him to be with Blake? That was something he certainly hadn’t contemplated doing when I was single and available. Silently, I reprimanded myself. I had no idea what Alejandro’s circumstances were—it had been a month or more since we’d last talked. It was perfectly feasible that his boyfriend had discovered the extent of his infidelities and dumped him. I reminded myself that timing and circumstance, elements that were in a constant state of flux, had never been quite right for Alejandro and myself.