It was a valid point about how feelings fade. Ant had been my grand obsession. But that was almost a decade ago and now when I saw him, I felt none of that all-consuming physical desire. Instead, there was merely the ghost of an attraction, the memory of what we’d had. I could recognise and appreciate what had attracted me to him once, but I no longer felt it. Even when we kissed or embraced as friends, nothing stirred. Our moment had passed.
But the break-up with Ant had also been very different. We’d had months and months of working up to the inevitable breach. Ant had only expressed aloud what we’d both concluded silently some time before. Whereas Blake leaving me had been an utterly unexpected, bewildering shock and something inside of me just couldn’t process the blunt, unpalatable fact that I’d been discarded.
‘Those renovations will be a very good distraction for you now,’ Strauss continued. ‘Call the architect, jettison all of Blake’s influence and give those plans an overhaul. Stamp your own individuality back into the house. That’ll make you feel better. A makeover can be very healing.’
Perhaps it was good advice but I fobbed Strauss off, saying I couldn’t make big decisions while I was so emotional. But the truth was I didn’t want to get rid of Blake’s influences. Those decisions he’d made about ‘our home’ were things that still connected us and over the next few weeks and months, they would be transformed from the abstract to the concrete. That was what I craved: for there to be something concrete binding us together. I wanted the bedroom painted the colour he’d chosen and the mosaic tiles he’d loved so much mounted on the bathroom walls, so that one day Blake could see those details. For when he saw our dream house finally complete, all sleek, pristine and gleaming, surely he would feel something: envy, nostalgia, maybe even regret. Wouldn’t he comprehend that such a house would be the perfect environment for starting over?
The bill arrived and Strauss pulled out his wallet. He said something lame about it being good to catch up and that he’d see me next weekend. Next weekend? I couldn’t believe it. I felt doubly abandoned: Blake didn’t want me and even my best friend seemed to have very limited time for me. I began to feel edgy. Strauss glanced over and I must have looked odd or distressed as he asked me what was wrong. ‘I don’t want to be alone,’ I cried, the words bursting out of me.
‘Oh,’ said Strauss, and a flicker of disapproval or distaste crossed his face.
I couldn’t help myself from asking. ‘Please can I come and stay again? Just for a night or two, to get away from them.’
Strauss hesitated and I knew he wasn’t keen, but I couldn’t face the prospect of going back to Ridge Street. ‘Please,’ I pleaded.
‘Um, yes, well I guess so, if things really are that bad. Though why don’t you go to your mother’s? You’d be right away from them out at Wahroonga.’
‘I haven’t even told her yet,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t know why. I suppose because it seems like a failure but she’ll also ask too many inappropriate questions about the relationship. She gets very nosy too when I’m single. I just can’t deal with her now.’
Strauss nodded and agreed I could stay for ‘a day or two’, but reminded me that he was preparing to go on his trip. ‘I have a lot to organise before I go away.’
I promised to be a meek and unobtrusive presence in his home.
However, apparently I wasn’t. I’d only been there one night, when we had words over breakfast. I casually mentioned my intention to e-mail Blake about the ‘Hedda Gabler’ tickets, when Strauss exploded. ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t mention those tickets to me again. You’re constantly bringing them up and it means nothing, absolutely nothing. Stop analysing their significance and just accept them as his parting gift.’
I was so taken back by this outburst, I was speechless.
‘I’ve had enough Stephen,’ Strauss continued. ‘I’m going overseas and I’ve got so much to organise, but it’s impossible. You’re here in my space but you’re in my head as well, constantly going on about Blake. It’s too much. I can’t get anything done.’
I began to mutter an apology. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.’
‘I don’t think you can shut up,’ Strauss snapped. ‘You can’t help yourself. You’re obsessed and I’m afraid I can’t listen to you anymore. My sympathetic ear has been overloaded.’
I stood up. ‘Fine,’ I retorted coolly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace then. I’ll go back to Ridge Street.’
I expected Strauss to protest, to say that I didn’t need to do that, that I just had to tone it down a bit. But instead, he agreed. ‘That would probably be best.’
I was furious. I stormed through to the bedroom to collect my belongings. I packed very slowly as I kept expecting Strauss to sidle into the room after me and tell me I could stay. But he didn’t. When I emerged from the bedroom with my bag, he was avoiding me by smoking a cigarette on the balcony. He didn’t stub it out and come inside. He just gave me a wave and called out that he’d ring me later. There was nothing to do but leave, which I did, with a certain élan, nose in the air. I felt more rejected than ever but I was still determined to make a decent exit.
Strauss didn’t call me later, though he did send me an e-mail the next day.
Dear Stephen,
I know I must seem unsympathetic, but you also need to think about my situation. You’re probably oblivious to the fact that I’ve never had a serious boyfriend. I repeat never. Of course, I’ve been in love numerous times, but it’s always been unrequited. I’ve dated, I’ve had fuck buddies, but I’ve never had what I really want—a relationship—and I’ve begun to think I never will. The best I can manage is Costa the taxi driver. So to hear you whingeing about Blake … sometimes, I just can’t tolerate it.
Love Perpetually Single Strauss
At first, after reading that, I just felt resentful. Some people were so preoccupied with themselves they couldn’t even spare a friend some sympathy and support. I started to write a terse reply, but after a few sentences, I stopped. I re-read Strauss’s letter. It was pretty tragic that he’d never had a boyfriend, but then again, he went after the most inappropriate types. I deleted what I’d started to write and decided to ring him. I thanked him for his letter and we chatted for five minutes about him: his quest for a boyfriend, his impending trip, how fat Costa’s cock was. I didn’t mention Blake once—it was torture. Before we hung up from each other, he asked if I was okay. I hesitated, then lied and said ‘yes’. Strauss hung up, a trifle swiftly I thought.
But I wasn’t okay. It was unbearable being back at Ridge Street. It was Monday and a new week loomed ahead of me utterly devoid of diversion. I needed to occupy myself, but if I wanted company to see a film or go out for dinner, I would be obliged to ring around. But I had no friends exclusive to me I could call on and I was reluctant to contact any of the gay couples Blake and I used to socialise with. Everything I said would probably be reported back to Blake.
That made me realise that Rick would probably replace me at those cosily symmetrical dinner parties which had been the mainstay of our social life. Those dinners were so predictable—always two or three couples invited; dishes prepared from a celebrity chef’s cookbook; the latest home wares and electronic gadgets on display; and the obsessive discussion of sex as the night drew out because none of the guests were getting enough of it. There were always a lot of jokes about ‘husband swapping’. I had a feeling that if I ever got invited to another of those dinners it would be an intimate affair for three and I would be obliged to fend off their advances at the end of the night.
I had no desire to hang out with couples anyway. I would be the odd man out. So I tried to keep myself busy solo. I worked out at the gym daily, went to movies by myself, watched DVDs, did housework, discarded several novels that I could not get into, spoke to both Ant and Blair for hours on the phone, and watched an awful lot of porn. I also battled hourly with the temptation to contact Blake. I was trying to heed Strauss’s advice and stick to a resolution of silence. I w
as hoping that not hearing from me (after that embarrassing barrage of messages I’d sent initially) would start to unsettle him. I’d also noticed that he’d overlooked taking quite a few prized possessions with him, such as his mangy looking pot plants, his Dieux du Stade photography book, and his ‘wine cellar’ under the stairs. Eventually, he would have to get in touch to retrieve them and also to discuss the ownership of the items he had labelled. He had imposed this silly code of silence and I wanted it to start inconveniencing him so that he would be obliged to break it.
Nevertheless, I still felt a constant temptation to contact him. I wrote him numerous e-mails and texts that I somehow found the will to delete before sending. Every morning, I was waking up at 6.30 am (the time Blake used to get up) and could not get back to sleep. Sometimes, I could even hear him stirring next door in Rick’s bedroom. But then on the Friday morning, awoken again at 6.30 am, I heard a cry. It could only have been them having sex. That was the last straw. I’d had enough. I couldn’t bear this self-imposed silence any longer. I had to see Blake and talk to him.
I knew his Friday routine. He left the house by 7 am, walked to Gold’s and worked out for an hour on his way to work. I got up, put on my gym gear and went for a run so that I had worked up a sweat and could pretend I had done an early workout myself. At 7 am, I was in position, loitering on Crown Street, the route he always walked, waiting for him to appear. I waited fifteen minutes, taking an avid interest in the latest listings of Spencer and Servi Real Estate. During that time, I had to fend off a beggar, two drunks, and someone on their way home from a night out at Arq who had obviously failed to get lucky. Then I saw it. Not Blake, approaching on foot, but the silver Mini zooming down the street towards me. I considered dashing into Withers Lane and hiding, but it was too late. The car was close enough for me to distinguish two heads. I spun back to the real estate window and turned my back on them. If they couldn’t see my face, perhaps they might not recognise me. But this forlorn hope was crudely dashed—the car passed by and tooted.
It was mortifying. Blake knew my style of machinations. It would be obvious to him that I was not loitering on Crown Street at 7.15 am purely by chance, when usually I liked to loll away half the day in bed. I trudged home, utterly humiliated.
But it was as if my scheming to ‘bump into’ Blake had unleashed something because suddenly I kept running into him—and he was never alone. The very next day, I saw them at the supermarket. It was a most trying shopping expedition as a woman recognised me as Tommy. She seemed to think I was in-store doing some promotional appearance and insisted that I escort her to the aisle where Tommy was shelved. To my amazement, she actually wanted to buy a few cans but first, she wanted her daughter to take photos of the two of us on her mobile. It was embarrassing, especially when she started pointing out to nearby shoppers that Tommy was here, and then holding up the large can (upon which my face was plastered) alongside my head as confirmation. A small mob began to gather, and then I saw him— Blake—walk past the aisle where we were standing. Quickly, I excused myself—‘I must go and find Amber’—and dashed after him.
I peered down several aisles before I found him, with Rick. They were debating which exotic body wash to buy. Blake was waving his favourite about, jasmine and aloe, which Rick was regarding with suspicion. It was devastating to see the two of them together for the first time. Even worse, that they were bickering over some dumb domestic issue, with love-struck grins on their faces. The only mercy was that they were too engrossed to spot me. I abandoned my half-full cart and fled to Liquorland, where I lurked, waiting for them to leave so I could resume my shopping. But they were in no hurry. They were having a marvellous time, strolling the aisles, pointing out their favourite items, teasing one another over their preferences and favourite indulgences. It was excruciating but also strangely compelling—I couldn’t stop spying on them. What were they doing for so long in the ice cream aisle? Blake would always march me through there. ‘That’s the last thing you need to be eating,’ he would snap sternly.
Finally, I tore myself away, took advantage of Liquorland’s 20% off sale and went home with half a dozen assorted bottles. I opened one as soon as I was inside the door, drank half of it, watched some porn and fell asleep for the rest of the afternoon.
The second time I saw them was even more ghastly because they also saw me. It was at The Colombian on a Sunday night and was the first time I’d ventured out to Oxford Street with the vague idea of finding myself some company. I was gazing around the bar, assessing the possibilities, when my eyes fell upon the two of them, standing over near the main door. Rick looked awkward and quickly dropped his gaze, while Blake gave me this sad little smile, as if to say, so trawling the bars is what you’re reduced to. I turned my back on them, reached for my vodka and downed it. Fortified, I furtively glanced around, but there was no one I knew, no one I could pretend to be with. There wasn’t even anyone I could approach and strike up a conversation with—I had been comprehensively ignored ever since I had walked through the door.
I stole another glance and saw that Rick was now at the bar buying drinks which outraged me. They didn’t even have the decency to leave. Meanwhile, Blake was positioned by the main door as if he was guarding it. Luckily, there was a rear exit, and I made my way towards it. As I pushed through the crowd, no one ran a hopeful hand across my butt, gave me an admiring glance or even smiled. Instead, who should I be confronted by at the door but Damon, who was clearly meeting them for a drink. His beaky features perked up considerably upon seeing me, his mouth twisting into a malicious smile. ‘Alas, alack, no Colombians for you at The Colombian tonight,’ he trilled. ‘I hear that’s what you like these days, lots of Latin meat.’
I was too upset to come up with a biting retort. I just pushed past him. It was only when I had crossed Crown Street that the bright side occurred to me: now that Blake and I were broken up, I would no longer have to endure Damon. I fled down the road to The Midnight Shift bar. There was some sort of bear night going on which made me feel not unlike Goldilocks. As I sipped on my vodka twist, I began to feel more and more aggrieved. What were Blake and Rick doing hanging out at gay bars?
The day after our awkward Oxford Street encounter, I logged into Blake’s e-mail to see if it had elicited any comment. Sure enough there was a new message from Damon which made for very interesting reading.
Dear Blake,
Such a surprise to bump into you at The Colombian last night and even more of a surprise to discover you have a new lover you’re living with already. Fast work girlfriend! Now I know why my invitations were spurned. Shame you didn’t care to enlighten me as to the real reasons. No wonder poor Stephen looked so heartsick as he stumbled out, desperate to get away from you. I felt so sorry for him and uttered a few cheering words of consolation as he stumbled into the lonely night. Perhaps you might like to tell me the complete version of why you and Stephen broke up? It’s pretty plain there’s an X–rated version I haven’t been privy to.
Damon.
This was a complete turn around in Damon’s attitude. I’d spent an afternoon recently going through Blake’s old e-mail and had uncovered numerous messages from Damon in which he’d slagged me off. But now, he had made me over into a martyr, an image of myself I rather liked. However, what was most revealing was that ten days after our split, Blake still hadn’t confided in Damon about Rick.
The manner in which Damon had signed off was rather frosty—no kisses, no ‘love Damon’. I couldn’t wait for Blake to respond and then for Damon to erupt into full injured fury. However, whatever Blake said—presuming he replied at all—stunned Damon into silence. There were no more messages from him all week. This was terribly disappointing; not only to be denied further developments but also the virtuosity of Damon’s vitriolic pen which I had begun to admire. He had a certain turn of phrase and such a penchant for exaggeration that I craved to read more.
Damon had cheered me up—I relished him toying with Blake. It
made me think that I should be doing the same. But I also began to feel as if I was making progress and not feeling quite so desperate and obsessive as the previous week; that is, until I saw them again. It was a Friday night and I was heading home from the gym, when I spotted the two of them, ensconced at a window table in Tabou. It was such a shock. That had been ‘our restaurant’: where Blake and I had gone for our first date, subsequent anniversaries and Valentine’s Day dinners. But not only were they at ‘our restaurant’, they were at ‘our table’. I always insisted on the window table there as I liked to see who was strolling along Crown Street and for them to see me. Yes, Blake loved that restaurant, but did he really have to take him there? It hurt even more when it struck me that I wouldn’t be eating there again anytime soon. I had no one to go there with for a romantic dinner. Thankfully, they were both studying the menus and I was able to scuttle past without being spotted. Although one of the waiters, a guy who’d worked there for years, saw me and flashed me a quick smile. But then a faintly perplexed expression crossed his face. As if he knew something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
By the time I’d arrived home, with my pitiful Thai takeaway, I was furious. I’d even lost my appetite for what I clutched in my hand. I rang Strauss and expressed my outrage. ‘Tabou should be tabou,’ Strauss declared. ‘It’s unforgivable.’
He invited me to spend the night, and though I was tempted, I resolved to stay put. Why should I be made to feel so uncomfortable in my own home? After I’d hung up, it occurred to me that this proximity must also be difficult for them. I was a thorn in the blossoming rose of their romance—and thorns scratch and cause pain. That was something worth giving further thought to.
I opened a bottle of wine that Blake had been saving for a special occasion. No doubt he had designs on it for his next dinner at Tabou and that was completely intolerable. It would elevate my takeaway beyond measure and by the time I’d drained the bottle, no doubt I would feel much better about the entire Tabou sacrilege. I ate my meal, drank the wine and began to entertain fantasies about getting back at Blake.