CHAPTER SEVEN
I waited a week before telephoning Clive Rider. During this time, the intensity with which I kept willing Ben to get in touch left me physically and emotionally drained. I could only assume that he was still mad at me over the business of our eighteenth birthdays. But that was weeks ago. We’re mates, aren’t we? It was not difficult to persuade myself I had been badly let down. The more I thought about it, the less I felt inclined bother with the likes of Ben Hallas ever again. If a part of me continued to argue that I was being downright unfair and unreasonable, I chose to ignore it.
Listening to the teasing ring of Clive Rider’s mobile phone, I almost switched mine off. As it was, I decided to give the whole thing a miss if he did not answer in seconds. Suddenly, a voice came on the line. I tried to sound brisk and businesslike. “Mr Rider? It’s Rob Young here. I’d like to accept your offer. In principle, that is. Can we meet to discuss details?”
“My office, tomorrow morning at ten,” crackled the response, “And don’t be late. I’m a busy man.”
“I may not be able to get away from the café,” I protested.
“That hardly matters now, does it?” The crackling stopped.
I told Bananas that evening. I went round to his house, and he showed me into the neat but plainly unlived in lounge of a semi in End Street, behind my old school. He listened attentively while perched on the edge of an old armchair. “I’m sorry,” I finished lamely.
“Well, don’t be.” He shrugged and looked me shrewdly in the eye. “It’s a good move. Rider may be a bastard, but he knows his onions. I didn’t tell you about selling up because, frankly, I haven’t felt up to making the decision. But it’s only a matter of time. I know that so does Rider. Your coming here like this has made up my mind once and for all. You can be sure Rider knows that too.” He took a few deep breaths. The lined face wore a pensive, wistful expression. “You could do a lot worse than work for Clive Rider, Rob. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but he’s as straight as they come. He’ll work you half to death, you can be sure of that, but he’ll see you right.” He smiled and the pinched, tired face lit up, “We’re from much the same stable Clive and me. We were at school together, you know. He always had plenty of get-up-and-go, whereas I…Well, maybe I’ve settled for too little.”
I returned the smile and tried to convey something of the genuine affection I felt for the man. “I’m sorry,” I repeated parrot fashion. I was embarrassed and would have preferred to leave, but I felt obliged to stay if only because he had been so good to me.
“Don’t keep saying that,” he snapped irritably, getting up and crossing to the oak cabinet under a bay window. “If anyone should apologize it’s me, for not putting you in the picture sooner. “Now, do you appreciate a damn good claret yet or is it the supermarket plonk you go for?” Without waiting for a reply, he retrieved two glasses.
"I don’t mind,” I mumbled.
“Well, you should bloody mind,” he growled, ‘If you’re going to run a wine bar, you had better start learning to tell the difference.” He returned to the armchair, glasses in one hand, bottle in the other. I half rose to assist, but he shook his head, placing bottle and glasses on an occasional table. Watching him pour, I couldn’t help noticing how his hands were paper thin, blue veins protruding. He handed me a glass and raised his own. “Here’s to the end of a chapter, young Rob, and to the start of the rest of your life.”
“To the end of a chapter,” I agreed.
Bananas lapsed into another long, reflective silence. I shifted uneasily in my seat and leaned forward to rest my glass on the table. The sudden movement seemed to jerk him out of his trance. He studied the glass in his hand, saw that mine was empty and refilled it before I could protest. Animatedly, he raised his glass again. “To the future, whatever that means!” We drank, and I have to say my taste buds relished every drop of exquisite Bordeaux.
I rose, anxious to be on my way. Bananas took the hint, grabbed my arm and propelled me into the tiny hall. At the front door we shook hands. A violent tremor shook his skeletal frame. “You’ll stay until the end of the week?” I nodded, choking back tears. It felt almost as if it was he, not me, giving notice to quit.
I walked unsteadily down the path. At the front gate, I realised that I hadn’t even thought to ask after Ma B. I swung round guiltily, in time to see the shabby front door swing shut.
A little while later, I wandered into our kitchen. Paul was helping himself to cranberry juice from the fridge. I hardly took in what he was saying at first, so matter-of-factly did he remark how he’d heard Ma B was dead, and wondered how the old man was bearing up.
The following week found me at The Pavilion Club in London’s busy West End. Clive Rider - “You can call me Clive but don’t let it go to your head” - owned The Pavilion. It transpired that my training course involved taking a placement there for three months to learn the ropes. I would be expected to shadow staff from the ground up, do as I was told and generally pull my weight. “Get stuck in, lad, even if the old ego takes a bashing now and then. It’s the only way to learn,” was Clive’s parting shot. Oh, I had misgivings, and plenty of them. Even so, I put them all to one side and convinced myself I was not only up to but relishing the challenge.
Since the club stayed open until the early hours, I was given a tiny attic box room on the premises. Crammed into it were a single divan bed, one small table, a hard chair by the window and one battered chest of drawers with a broken leg resting on an old telephone directory. The cracked mirror over a badly stained washbasin in one corner served for shaving purposes, and to conceal a damp patch. Fortunately, a fitted wardrobe proved fairly spacious once I had cleaned it out and thrown away piles of old newspapers.
I saw little of Clive Rider while I was working at The Pavilion although I heard his name bandied about a lot. Mostly, the talk was grudgingly complimentary. Some people, though, were openly contemptuous in their dislike for the man. Me, I learned to keep my head down and my mouth shut.
My immediate boss was the club’s manager, Bo Devine. Bo - short for Boris - was delightful character. He was a slightly built man, bald, with ears reminiscent of Star Trek’s Mr Spock in shape if not (quite) in size. He would mince, wail, and frantically gesticulate his way through every crisis; these could be anything from scenes of mayhem in the kitchen or cellar to tackling lager louts spoiling for a fight during one of the late-night floorshows. Nor was he any pushover. And Bo always got results, not least because he took the trouble to get to know his staff and customers alike. Consequently, they looked upon him as one of their own and would gladly work (or drink) their socks off for him. At the same time, they knew the warning signs. If Bo appeared to be in a flap, it was time to duck and put to rights whatever was wrong before he lost his temper. The latter was not a pretty sight.
At our first meeting, I mistook Bo for a something of a wimp. By the end of the same day, I knew better. While commanding respect and affection from staff and punters alike, he would stand no nonsense. Nor was he a man to procrastinate. It was all the same to him whether it meant sacking staff for fiddling the till, bouncing a troublesome diner or using a small-print get-out clause to get rid of caterers for failing to meet the chef’s high standards; no matter if the chef had toothache and was feeling bullish. “Watch, listen and learn, dear heart,” Bo would say. In this case, “There are other caterers,” he explained. “A good chef, though, is worth his weight in platinum. Oh, my goodness, yes....”
My training progressed. Between sweeping floors, making tea for everyone and washing up, I learned not only to change barrels of ale but also how to wait correctly at tables. A formidable headwaiter showed me how to draw up menus and recommend what wines with what dishes. His name was Sebastian. To this day, I remain greatly indebted to him for hauling me through a unique spectrum of Customer Care with such amazing thoroughness. In his own way, Sebastian was no less a role model for effective management as well as organizational and interpersonal skills than Bo, even if the two men were as different as chalk and cheese.
Among other things, Bo instructed me in keeping a sound ledger. “By all means use a computer but don’t ever trust the wretched things. Garbage in, garbage out, and before you know it your business is up shit creek without a paddle. Always but always keep back-up files. Now, well may the world and its mother declare days of manual ledgers well and truly numbered. Not so, dear heart, not so at all. Not only is a ledger an absolute must but the fewer people who know of its existence the better.” He tipped me a knowing wink. “Computers are an absolute must, too, of course, but they do make creative accounting ridiculously easy. In the wrong hands…Well, need I say more?” I thought I detected a veiled threat but the broad, engaging smile seemed genuine enough. I relaxed and settled down to learning my new trade under Bo’s ever-flapping wing or Sebastian’s inscrutable gaze, as the case may be.
The first time I encountered Bo’s wife, Gabby, I waited on the table where she was dining alone. She gave me a dazzling smile and coolly introduced herself. My face must have registered my embarrassment. Gabrielle Devine was a Latin American beauty of the first order. Moreover, she exuded wealth and good taste. She wore a diamond brooch in the shape of a four-leaf clover on a blue dress the colour of her eyes with earrings to match and a diamond pendant on a silver chain around her neck. A strong, aristocratic face looked out from tumbling waves of black hair but kindly and not in the least condescending.
I felt my jaw drop. She laughed. It was a rich, pleasant sound like a waterfall and neither self-conscious or unfriendly. At the same time, it spoke volumes. I was left in no doubt that Gabby Devine was not only aware of the effect she had on men but thoroughly enjoyed it. “You did not know about me, right?” she asked in a husky voice that made my spine tingle. “You were thinking my Bo is a pouf, yes?” She laughed again. “Don’t worry about it. You are not the first one to think that. and you won’t be the last. It is our little joke. Now, sit down and tell me all about yourself. Bo tells me you are shaping up well. So you’ll forgive me if I am curious. If Bo says that, you must be damn good.” I blushed again, this time with pleasure. Neither Bo nor Sebastian, or any of my lesser mentors at the club, were quick to even imply praise or encouragement. After nearly eight weeks, this was the first indication that I was holding my own.
“I’m working,” I murmured apologetically.
She leaned across and whispered conspiratorially, “Trust me, no one will mind. Surely you cannot think it is by accident that you are assigned to my table?” She smiled reassuringly. Small, gleaming white teeth between full lips a glossy red invited me to sit down before my legs gave way.
“I’m working,” I stammered, summoning every ounce of willpower to stay on my feet. “There are other customers…”
“So? I have priority, surely?”
“Another time, Mrs Devine,” I mumbled and backed away.
“You can be sure I will hold you to that.” The lovely eyes sparkled. I was reminded of Nancy Devlin although there was no comparing the two women. Nancy was...Well, just Nancy. This woman was completely out of my league. Fleetingly, I wondered what it would be like to make love to a woman like Gabby Devine before hastily dismissing the very idea as sheer fantasy. Even so, it struck me as curious that I should feel increasingly confident about being gay yet still find some women very attractive.
“I should say so!” a familiar voice piped up at my elbow. It was Bo, a wicked expression on his face. “Fancy my wife do you, eh, dear heart? Not that I blame you. But you realize it breaks every rule in the book. Fraternise with the customers, within reason, by all means. One step further, dear heart, and it’s my boot up the backside you’ll be getting.” I fumbled for words. What did I do? Should I apologize, offer some lame explanation or excuse? I found myself wriggling like a fish on a line, and sweating buckets. Suddenly the pair of them burst out laughing. I looked from one to the other. Then the penny dropped. I had been set up.
At first I was angry. But the laughter began to taper off uncertainly and I saw they meant no harm. I rounded on Bo. “So what if I fancy her? You’ve only yourself to blame, leaving this gorgeous creature to dine alone.” I glanced at Gabby and was rewarded by peals of delight.
“Gallant too! Why, Bo darling, what a treasure!” she giggled, and this time I did not blush.
“Absolutely, dear heart,” Bo agreed although whether addressing Gabby or me I couldn’t tell. “Now,” clapping his hands, “we three shall wine and dine while Steve does the honours. Won’t you, dear heart?” turning to the waiter who had arrived on cue. Steve Murray slipped me a wink and dutifully hovered while Bo and I settled into our seats and placed our respective orders. It was no small measure of my hard won self-confidence that I did not hesitate.
It was a night to remember; excellent food, plenty of champagne and laughter. Gabby bullied me into dancing with her and even managed to coax some rhythm out of my two left feet. When I finally tumbled into bed at three in the morning, too exhausted to undress, I couldn’t help but toy briefly with the notion that this was a far, far, cry from making doorstep sandwiches in a back street café. Even so, it was Billy’s face I saw before embracing sleep with open arms.
I rarely saw Gabby Devine again during my stay at The Pavilion or ‘The Pav’ as many of us affectionately called the old place. Now and then I would catch a glimpse of her or a whiff of an enchanting perfume she always wore. Occasionally, we would exchange nods and smiles. Nor did I consciously think about her. At the same time, she haunted me. Not the person. Not the woman. It was her sheer physicality that constantly assaulted my senses. No, I didn’t covet Bo’s wife. Nor was she my excuse for wet dreams; that role belonged to Billy. So...Why? I began to suspect it had to do with my whole body feeling starved of any intimacy. I was weary of jerking off in my room every night, trying to stave off feelings of loss and loneliness. My career prospects might be promising, but precious little else was looking good as far as I could see.
The Half Moon, where I had danced away my eighteenth birthday with Billy, was but a few streets away from The Pav. At first, I could not bring myself to go there again. There was no sentimentality involved. I simply didn’t have the nerve to go to a gay venue on my own. Instead, I found myself thinking a lot about Steve Murray.
Looked upon by my colleagues as supernumerary and a protégé into the bargain, I was never made to feel one of the team at The Pav. Oh, people were mostly friendly, especially Bo. But I always felt as though I were on the outside looking in. I could only suppose this was to be expected since the main purpose of my being there was there to observe and learn. Even so, accepting the situation did not make it any easier to live with. I took a lot of stick, mostly good-natured. Certainly, I bore no ill will. This was a whole new experience for me and I was determined to make the most of it. Consequently, though, I made no friends.
Steve Murray doubled as a waiter/ barman as and when required. We were about the same age and it was he who showed me how to change a barrel and generally get to know the cellar. The morning after he’d waited on me, in the company no less of our boss and his wife, Steve and I were despatched to the cellar to take a delivery. The Pav served real ales as well as boasting a stock of the best wines. He kept ribbing me and called me an arse-licker. I wasn’t having that, and punched him playfully in the chest. He caught hold of my wrist defensively. We were both laughing. Our eyes met. I noticed for the first time that his were a curious blue-green. His grip on my wrist slackened. The touch of his hand, the very warmth of it in that cold and dingy place, was like an answer to a prayer.
A yell from above, “Hey, you down there, get a move on!” broke the spell, and Steve let go of my wrist. We continued to labour side by side in a silence that was neither companionable nor strained. I was conscious of a new intimacy between us, aware too of an erection in his overalls as well as my own.
Steve and I worked the same shifts that week. It seemed to me that he took every opportunity to be near me, brush against me and fling me loaded glances. I became confused and angry. My body lusted for his yet I had no clear idea how to handle the situation. Besides, suppose I was mistaken and it was just wishful thinking on my part? I considered asking him back to my room, ostensibly to share a few beers. The rest, I would have to play by ear. On one occasion I actually started to get the words out but my tongue snagged on a consonant and tailed off at an inaudible tangent.
By Friday, so intense was my frustration that I avoided Steve as much as possible. He kept giving me funny looks, but said nothing. The last punter did not leave until around 3.00am. Half an hour later, he came to my room. It came as no surprise to answer a tap on the door and find him lounging against the opposite wall, a bashful grin on his face. Even so, my instant pleasure was quickly dimmed by apprehension. I was gripped by a sudden panic. Suddenly, he appeared much less attractive. In the glare of a naked bulb, his average good looks and nonchalant manner assumed a furtiveness I found both disturbing and distasteful. It was as if I had come through swing doors, only to meet someone who had looked altogether different on the other side of glass panels.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, his tone slightly mocking, enough to make my hackles rise. I shrugged, loath to trust my tongue. He came towards me. I backed away. At the same time, I swallowed a heady cocktail of excitement and loathing. When he put his arms around me, my legs turned to jelly and I felt powerless to resist. His mouth on mine, he pushed me into the room and kicked the door shut. His tongue gently eased its way between my lips. I took it almost dispassionately at first before kissing him back on a floodtide of eagerness that surprised us both. Frenziedly, we tore off each other’s clothes. Soon we were having sex. Oh, how I wanted it! Yet I had no sense of my heart’s attaching itself to another, as I had known when Billy and I made love.
Sex was a comfort, a means to an end. But we merely went through the motions, Steve and I. His touch, the pulsating heat his body against my skin satisfied a need. My body consumed the intimacy it craved until spent. Spent, but not satisfied. As we finally slept, Steve laid his head on my chest. His short, hot breaths pricked my flesh. His thick, wavy hair tickled my chin. I turned over on my side. A tremor of muscles conveyed his disappointment. One hand encircled my waist and attempted to draw me into an accommodating hollow that his body shifted earnestly to provide.
I hadn’t the heart to reject him completely. Besides, our bodies moulded together comfortably enough. It wasn’t long, though, before an appalling realization penetrated my battered defences. Oh, I had enjoyed the sex well enough. Even so, it hadn’t even come close to the kind of experience I felt the slightest inclination, never mind desire to repeat, at least not with Steve Murray.
Teetering on the edge of sleep, I wryly confided to my pillow that I had at last discovered the thankless, twilight world of one-night stands.
During the days that followed, I avoided Steve at every turn. Fortunately, we were rarely on the same shift again so that made it easier. He’d try to slip me notes or leave them under my door, saying he loved me, and didn’t I realize my behaviour was hurting him terribly? One day, he cornered me in an empty toilet and demanded to know why I was ignoring him. I tried to push him away but he grabbed me by the waist and tried to kiss me. For a brief moment, I responded, but to the physical contact, not the person behind it. Such of his mouth that landed on mine felt clammy and suddenly repulsive. He dribbled down my chin. I brought up my knee and landed him one in the groin that sent him flying. He fell awkwardly and banged his head against a cubicle door. Nor did he attempt to get up but sprawled, dazed and sobbing on the floor. I watched a flow of blood from a nasty cut on the head run through his hair, down his neck and soak his collar. He just lay there, gingerly rubbing his head, now staring in disbelief at the blood on his hand, now staring up at me like a bewildered puppy that has been kicked. “Stay away from me!” I warned in a fury my conscience acknowledges if reluctantly was unjust, irrational and uncalled for. But I could not help myself, and left without a backward glance.
“Too right I will, you bastard!” I heard him yell after me. My alter ego heaved a sigh of relief. It was over, and I need have no regrets. Had Steve but known it, that futile spark of animal spiritedness effectively absolved me from any lingering sense of responsibility I might conceivably have felt for the man. He would, I reflected without emotion, no doubt shift his affections elsewhere soon enough. Not once did it occur to me that he might have meant it when he said he loved me. Why should he when I certainly wasn’t in love with him? Nor did it strike me that I was being heartless, even cruel. I was young, and the young have a gift for thinking well of themselves. All things considered, I thought I’d handled Steve Murray very well, certainly no worse than he deserved.
On my next free evening, I made the first of many visits to the Half Moon.
About this time, too, I was summoned home. I telephoned my mother once a week and had specifically asked her not to call me at the club. Didn’t I put up with enough sly innuendos already? I needed to be branded a mummy’s boy like I needed a hole in the head. It was with a mounting sense of betrayal therefore that I responded to a call on my mobile phone.
My mother was distraught. It turned out that Paul had left home and moved in with his girlfriend, the awful Hayley, and her family. When asked what on earth had led to my dear brother’s taking such a drastic step, she prevaricated, but promised to reveal all if only I would come home for a few days. In no mood for a family crisis, I insisted there was no way I could get time off. It was only then she felt obliged to break the news to me that Peter Short had asked her to marry him. “And are you going to marry him?” I was gobsmacked. Sobs down the line confirmed my worst suspicions and I almost slammed the receiver down. At first, I was furious. What had she expected, congratulations? No wonder Paul had upped and left. Even so, once the first shock waves had subsided, I began to feel oddly detached from it all. It had certainly made a big difference, living away from home.
I made what I hoped were appropriate soothing noises and tried to sound reassuring. Paul, I assured my mother, would be home again before she knew it. I also urged her to keep a low profile. “No announcement in the local rag,” I joked, “or Peter can count on meeting up with Paul in a dark alley one night!” But my clumsy attempts at light relief fell flat. A renewed burst of pleading with me to come home, even for just one night, sent my hackles into a frenzy of activity. “Sorry Mum, I have to go. Everything will be just fine, you’ll see. Bye.” I pocketed the phone, resolving to leave the damn thing turned off for the rest of the day. Mobile phones were a mixed blessing, and no mistake. What was my mother thinking of, pestering me with family stuff at work? Hadn’t I problems enough of my own, for heaven’s sake, without being expected to take on board her love life or Paul’s preoccupation with the likes of Hayley Morton?
“Ah, Rob, there you are!” Bo’s beaming face was a welcome distraction.
Listening to the teasing ring of Clive Rider’s mobile phone, I almost switched mine off. As it was, I decided to give the whole thing a miss if he did not answer in seconds. Suddenly, a voice came on the line. I tried to sound brisk and businesslike. “Mr Rider? It’s Rob Young here. I’d like to accept your offer. In principle, that is. Can we meet to discuss details?”
“My office, tomorrow morning at ten,” crackled the response, “And don’t be late. I’m a busy man.”
“I may not be able to get away from the café,” I protested.
“That hardly matters now, does it?” The crackling stopped.
I told Bananas that evening. I went round to his house, and he showed me into the neat but plainly unlived in lounge of a semi in End Street, behind my old school. He listened attentively while perched on the edge of an old armchair. “I’m sorry,” I finished lamely.
“Well, don’t be.” He shrugged and looked me shrewdly in the eye. “It’s a good move. Rider may be a bastard, but he knows his onions. I didn’t tell you about selling up because, frankly, I haven’t felt up to making the decision. But it’s only a matter of time. I know that so does Rider. Your coming here like this has made up my mind once and for all. You can be sure Rider knows that too.” He took a few deep breaths. The lined face wore a pensive, wistful expression. “You could do a lot worse than work for Clive Rider, Rob. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but he’s as straight as they come. He’ll work you half to death, you can be sure of that, but he’ll see you right.” He smiled and the pinched, tired face lit up, “We’re from much the same stable Clive and me. We were at school together, you know. He always had plenty of get-up-and-go, whereas I…Well, maybe I’ve settled for too little.”
I returned the smile and tried to convey something of the genuine affection I felt for the man. “I’m sorry,” I repeated parrot fashion. I was embarrassed and would have preferred to leave, but I felt obliged to stay if only because he had been so good to me.
“Don’t keep saying that,” he snapped irritably, getting up and crossing to the oak cabinet under a bay window. “If anyone should apologize it’s me, for not putting you in the picture sooner. “Now, do you appreciate a damn good claret yet or is it the supermarket plonk you go for?” Without waiting for a reply, he retrieved two glasses.
"I don’t mind,” I mumbled.
“Well, you should bloody mind,” he growled, ‘If you’re going to run a wine bar, you had better start learning to tell the difference.” He returned to the armchair, glasses in one hand, bottle in the other. I half rose to assist, but he shook his head, placing bottle and glasses on an occasional table. Watching him pour, I couldn’t help noticing how his hands were paper thin, blue veins protruding. He handed me a glass and raised his own. “Here’s to the end of a chapter, young Rob, and to the start of the rest of your life.”
“To the end of a chapter,” I agreed.
Bananas lapsed into another long, reflective silence. I shifted uneasily in my seat and leaned forward to rest my glass on the table. The sudden movement seemed to jerk him out of his trance. He studied the glass in his hand, saw that mine was empty and refilled it before I could protest. Animatedly, he raised his glass again. “To the future, whatever that means!” We drank, and I have to say my taste buds relished every drop of exquisite Bordeaux.
I rose, anxious to be on my way. Bananas took the hint, grabbed my arm and propelled me into the tiny hall. At the front door we shook hands. A violent tremor shook his skeletal frame. “You’ll stay until the end of the week?” I nodded, choking back tears. It felt almost as if it was he, not me, giving notice to quit.
I walked unsteadily down the path. At the front gate, I realised that I hadn’t even thought to ask after Ma B. I swung round guiltily, in time to see the shabby front door swing shut.
A little while later, I wandered into our kitchen. Paul was helping himself to cranberry juice from the fridge. I hardly took in what he was saying at first, so matter-of-factly did he remark how he’d heard Ma B was dead, and wondered how the old man was bearing up.
The following week found me at The Pavilion Club in London’s busy West End. Clive Rider - “You can call me Clive but don’t let it go to your head” - owned The Pavilion. It transpired that my training course involved taking a placement there for three months to learn the ropes. I would be expected to shadow staff from the ground up, do as I was told and generally pull my weight. “Get stuck in, lad, even if the old ego takes a bashing now and then. It’s the only way to learn,” was Clive’s parting shot. Oh, I had misgivings, and plenty of them. Even so, I put them all to one side and convinced myself I was not only up to but relishing the challenge.
Since the club stayed open until the early hours, I was given a tiny attic box room on the premises. Crammed into it were a single divan bed, one small table, a hard chair by the window and one battered chest of drawers with a broken leg resting on an old telephone directory. The cracked mirror over a badly stained washbasin in one corner served for shaving purposes, and to conceal a damp patch. Fortunately, a fitted wardrobe proved fairly spacious once I had cleaned it out and thrown away piles of old newspapers.
I saw little of Clive Rider while I was working at The Pavilion although I heard his name bandied about a lot. Mostly, the talk was grudgingly complimentary. Some people, though, were openly contemptuous in their dislike for the man. Me, I learned to keep my head down and my mouth shut.
My immediate boss was the club’s manager, Bo Devine. Bo - short for Boris - was delightful character. He was a slightly built man, bald, with ears reminiscent of Star Trek’s Mr Spock in shape if not (quite) in size. He would mince, wail, and frantically gesticulate his way through every crisis; these could be anything from scenes of mayhem in the kitchen or cellar to tackling lager louts spoiling for a fight during one of the late-night floorshows. Nor was he any pushover. And Bo always got results, not least because he took the trouble to get to know his staff and customers alike. Consequently, they looked upon him as one of their own and would gladly work (or drink) their socks off for him. At the same time, they knew the warning signs. If Bo appeared to be in a flap, it was time to duck and put to rights whatever was wrong before he lost his temper. The latter was not a pretty sight.
At our first meeting, I mistook Bo for a something of a wimp. By the end of the same day, I knew better. While commanding respect and affection from staff and punters alike, he would stand no nonsense. Nor was he a man to procrastinate. It was all the same to him whether it meant sacking staff for fiddling the till, bouncing a troublesome diner or using a small-print get-out clause to get rid of caterers for failing to meet the chef’s high standards; no matter if the chef had toothache and was feeling bullish. “Watch, listen and learn, dear heart,” Bo would say. In this case, “There are other caterers,” he explained. “A good chef, though, is worth his weight in platinum. Oh, my goodness, yes....”
My training progressed. Between sweeping floors, making tea for everyone and washing up, I learned not only to change barrels of ale but also how to wait correctly at tables. A formidable headwaiter showed me how to draw up menus and recommend what wines with what dishes. His name was Sebastian. To this day, I remain greatly indebted to him for hauling me through a unique spectrum of Customer Care with such amazing thoroughness. In his own way, Sebastian was no less a role model for effective management as well as organizational and interpersonal skills than Bo, even if the two men were as different as chalk and cheese.
Among other things, Bo instructed me in keeping a sound ledger. “By all means use a computer but don’t ever trust the wretched things. Garbage in, garbage out, and before you know it your business is up shit creek without a paddle. Always but always keep back-up files. Now, well may the world and its mother declare days of manual ledgers well and truly numbered. Not so, dear heart, not so at all. Not only is a ledger an absolute must but the fewer people who know of its existence the better.” He tipped me a knowing wink. “Computers are an absolute must, too, of course, but they do make creative accounting ridiculously easy. In the wrong hands…Well, need I say more?” I thought I detected a veiled threat but the broad, engaging smile seemed genuine enough. I relaxed and settled down to learning my new trade under Bo’s ever-flapping wing or Sebastian’s inscrutable gaze, as the case may be.
The first time I encountered Bo’s wife, Gabby, I waited on the table where she was dining alone. She gave me a dazzling smile and coolly introduced herself. My face must have registered my embarrassment. Gabrielle Devine was a Latin American beauty of the first order. Moreover, she exuded wealth and good taste. She wore a diamond brooch in the shape of a four-leaf clover on a blue dress the colour of her eyes with earrings to match and a diamond pendant on a silver chain around her neck. A strong, aristocratic face looked out from tumbling waves of black hair but kindly and not in the least condescending.
I felt my jaw drop. She laughed. It was a rich, pleasant sound like a waterfall and neither self-conscious or unfriendly. At the same time, it spoke volumes. I was left in no doubt that Gabby Devine was not only aware of the effect she had on men but thoroughly enjoyed it. “You did not know about me, right?” she asked in a husky voice that made my spine tingle. “You were thinking my Bo is a pouf, yes?” She laughed again. “Don’t worry about it. You are not the first one to think that. and you won’t be the last. It is our little joke. Now, sit down and tell me all about yourself. Bo tells me you are shaping up well. So you’ll forgive me if I am curious. If Bo says that, you must be damn good.” I blushed again, this time with pleasure. Neither Bo nor Sebastian, or any of my lesser mentors at the club, were quick to even imply praise or encouragement. After nearly eight weeks, this was the first indication that I was holding my own.
“I’m working,” I murmured apologetically.
She leaned across and whispered conspiratorially, “Trust me, no one will mind. Surely you cannot think it is by accident that you are assigned to my table?” She smiled reassuringly. Small, gleaming white teeth between full lips a glossy red invited me to sit down before my legs gave way.
“I’m working,” I stammered, summoning every ounce of willpower to stay on my feet. “There are other customers…”
“So? I have priority, surely?”
“Another time, Mrs Devine,” I mumbled and backed away.
“You can be sure I will hold you to that.” The lovely eyes sparkled. I was reminded of Nancy Devlin although there was no comparing the two women. Nancy was...Well, just Nancy. This woman was completely out of my league. Fleetingly, I wondered what it would be like to make love to a woman like Gabby Devine before hastily dismissing the very idea as sheer fantasy. Even so, it struck me as curious that I should feel increasingly confident about being gay yet still find some women very attractive.
“I should say so!” a familiar voice piped up at my elbow. It was Bo, a wicked expression on his face. “Fancy my wife do you, eh, dear heart? Not that I blame you. But you realize it breaks every rule in the book. Fraternise with the customers, within reason, by all means. One step further, dear heart, and it’s my boot up the backside you’ll be getting.” I fumbled for words. What did I do? Should I apologize, offer some lame explanation or excuse? I found myself wriggling like a fish on a line, and sweating buckets. Suddenly the pair of them burst out laughing. I looked from one to the other. Then the penny dropped. I had been set up.
At first I was angry. But the laughter began to taper off uncertainly and I saw they meant no harm. I rounded on Bo. “So what if I fancy her? You’ve only yourself to blame, leaving this gorgeous creature to dine alone.” I glanced at Gabby and was rewarded by peals of delight.
“Gallant too! Why, Bo darling, what a treasure!” she giggled, and this time I did not blush.
“Absolutely, dear heart,” Bo agreed although whether addressing Gabby or me I couldn’t tell. “Now,” clapping his hands, “we three shall wine and dine while Steve does the honours. Won’t you, dear heart?” turning to the waiter who had arrived on cue. Steve Murray slipped me a wink and dutifully hovered while Bo and I settled into our seats and placed our respective orders. It was no small measure of my hard won self-confidence that I did not hesitate.
It was a night to remember; excellent food, plenty of champagne and laughter. Gabby bullied me into dancing with her and even managed to coax some rhythm out of my two left feet. When I finally tumbled into bed at three in the morning, too exhausted to undress, I couldn’t help but toy briefly with the notion that this was a far, far, cry from making doorstep sandwiches in a back street café. Even so, it was Billy’s face I saw before embracing sleep with open arms.
I rarely saw Gabby Devine again during my stay at The Pavilion or ‘The Pav’ as many of us affectionately called the old place. Now and then I would catch a glimpse of her or a whiff of an enchanting perfume she always wore. Occasionally, we would exchange nods and smiles. Nor did I consciously think about her. At the same time, she haunted me. Not the person. Not the woman. It was her sheer physicality that constantly assaulted my senses. No, I didn’t covet Bo’s wife. Nor was she my excuse for wet dreams; that role belonged to Billy. So...Why? I began to suspect it had to do with my whole body feeling starved of any intimacy. I was weary of jerking off in my room every night, trying to stave off feelings of loss and loneliness. My career prospects might be promising, but precious little else was looking good as far as I could see.
The Half Moon, where I had danced away my eighteenth birthday with Billy, was but a few streets away from The Pav. At first, I could not bring myself to go there again. There was no sentimentality involved. I simply didn’t have the nerve to go to a gay venue on my own. Instead, I found myself thinking a lot about Steve Murray.
Looked upon by my colleagues as supernumerary and a protégé into the bargain, I was never made to feel one of the team at The Pav. Oh, people were mostly friendly, especially Bo. But I always felt as though I were on the outside looking in. I could only suppose this was to be expected since the main purpose of my being there was there to observe and learn. Even so, accepting the situation did not make it any easier to live with. I took a lot of stick, mostly good-natured. Certainly, I bore no ill will. This was a whole new experience for me and I was determined to make the most of it. Consequently, though, I made no friends.
Steve Murray doubled as a waiter/ barman as and when required. We were about the same age and it was he who showed me how to change a barrel and generally get to know the cellar. The morning after he’d waited on me, in the company no less of our boss and his wife, Steve and I were despatched to the cellar to take a delivery. The Pav served real ales as well as boasting a stock of the best wines. He kept ribbing me and called me an arse-licker. I wasn’t having that, and punched him playfully in the chest. He caught hold of my wrist defensively. We were both laughing. Our eyes met. I noticed for the first time that his were a curious blue-green. His grip on my wrist slackened. The touch of his hand, the very warmth of it in that cold and dingy place, was like an answer to a prayer.
A yell from above, “Hey, you down there, get a move on!” broke the spell, and Steve let go of my wrist. We continued to labour side by side in a silence that was neither companionable nor strained. I was conscious of a new intimacy between us, aware too of an erection in his overalls as well as my own.
Steve and I worked the same shifts that week. It seemed to me that he took every opportunity to be near me, brush against me and fling me loaded glances. I became confused and angry. My body lusted for his yet I had no clear idea how to handle the situation. Besides, suppose I was mistaken and it was just wishful thinking on my part? I considered asking him back to my room, ostensibly to share a few beers. The rest, I would have to play by ear. On one occasion I actually started to get the words out but my tongue snagged on a consonant and tailed off at an inaudible tangent.
By Friday, so intense was my frustration that I avoided Steve as much as possible. He kept giving me funny looks, but said nothing. The last punter did not leave until around 3.00am. Half an hour later, he came to my room. It came as no surprise to answer a tap on the door and find him lounging against the opposite wall, a bashful grin on his face. Even so, my instant pleasure was quickly dimmed by apprehension. I was gripped by a sudden panic. Suddenly, he appeared much less attractive. In the glare of a naked bulb, his average good looks and nonchalant manner assumed a furtiveness I found both disturbing and distasteful. It was as if I had come through swing doors, only to meet someone who had looked altogether different on the other side of glass panels.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, his tone slightly mocking, enough to make my hackles rise. I shrugged, loath to trust my tongue. He came towards me. I backed away. At the same time, I swallowed a heady cocktail of excitement and loathing. When he put his arms around me, my legs turned to jelly and I felt powerless to resist. His mouth on mine, he pushed me into the room and kicked the door shut. His tongue gently eased its way between my lips. I took it almost dispassionately at first before kissing him back on a floodtide of eagerness that surprised us both. Frenziedly, we tore off each other’s clothes. Soon we were having sex. Oh, how I wanted it! Yet I had no sense of my heart’s attaching itself to another, as I had known when Billy and I made love.
Sex was a comfort, a means to an end. But we merely went through the motions, Steve and I. His touch, the pulsating heat his body against my skin satisfied a need. My body consumed the intimacy it craved until spent. Spent, but not satisfied. As we finally slept, Steve laid his head on my chest. His short, hot breaths pricked my flesh. His thick, wavy hair tickled my chin. I turned over on my side. A tremor of muscles conveyed his disappointment. One hand encircled my waist and attempted to draw me into an accommodating hollow that his body shifted earnestly to provide.
I hadn’t the heart to reject him completely. Besides, our bodies moulded together comfortably enough. It wasn’t long, though, before an appalling realization penetrated my battered defences. Oh, I had enjoyed the sex well enough. Even so, it hadn’t even come close to the kind of experience I felt the slightest inclination, never mind desire to repeat, at least not with Steve Murray.
Teetering on the edge of sleep, I wryly confided to my pillow that I had at last discovered the thankless, twilight world of one-night stands.
During the days that followed, I avoided Steve at every turn. Fortunately, we were rarely on the same shift again so that made it easier. He’d try to slip me notes or leave them under my door, saying he loved me, and didn’t I realize my behaviour was hurting him terribly? One day, he cornered me in an empty toilet and demanded to know why I was ignoring him. I tried to push him away but he grabbed me by the waist and tried to kiss me. For a brief moment, I responded, but to the physical contact, not the person behind it. Such of his mouth that landed on mine felt clammy and suddenly repulsive. He dribbled down my chin. I brought up my knee and landed him one in the groin that sent him flying. He fell awkwardly and banged his head against a cubicle door. Nor did he attempt to get up but sprawled, dazed and sobbing on the floor. I watched a flow of blood from a nasty cut on the head run through his hair, down his neck and soak his collar. He just lay there, gingerly rubbing his head, now staring in disbelief at the blood on his hand, now staring up at me like a bewildered puppy that has been kicked. “Stay away from me!” I warned in a fury my conscience acknowledges if reluctantly was unjust, irrational and uncalled for. But I could not help myself, and left without a backward glance.
“Too right I will, you bastard!” I heard him yell after me. My alter ego heaved a sigh of relief. It was over, and I need have no regrets. Had Steve but known it, that futile spark of animal spiritedness effectively absolved me from any lingering sense of responsibility I might conceivably have felt for the man. He would, I reflected without emotion, no doubt shift his affections elsewhere soon enough. Not once did it occur to me that he might have meant it when he said he loved me. Why should he when I certainly wasn’t in love with him? Nor did it strike me that I was being heartless, even cruel. I was young, and the young have a gift for thinking well of themselves. All things considered, I thought I’d handled Steve Murray very well, certainly no worse than he deserved.
On my next free evening, I made the first of many visits to the Half Moon.
About this time, too, I was summoned home. I telephoned my mother once a week and had specifically asked her not to call me at the club. Didn’t I put up with enough sly innuendos already? I needed to be branded a mummy’s boy like I needed a hole in the head. It was with a mounting sense of betrayal therefore that I responded to a call on my mobile phone.
My mother was distraught. It turned out that Paul had left home and moved in with his girlfriend, the awful Hayley, and her family. When asked what on earth had led to my dear brother’s taking such a drastic step, she prevaricated, but promised to reveal all if only I would come home for a few days. In no mood for a family crisis, I insisted there was no way I could get time off. It was only then she felt obliged to break the news to me that Peter Short had asked her to marry him. “And are you going to marry him?” I was gobsmacked. Sobs down the line confirmed my worst suspicions and I almost slammed the receiver down. At first, I was furious. What had she expected, congratulations? No wonder Paul had upped and left. Even so, once the first shock waves had subsided, I began to feel oddly detached from it all. It had certainly made a big difference, living away from home.
I made what I hoped were appropriate soothing noises and tried to sound reassuring. Paul, I assured my mother, would be home again before she knew it. I also urged her to keep a low profile. “No announcement in the local rag,” I joked, “or Peter can count on meeting up with Paul in a dark alley one night!” But my clumsy attempts at light relief fell flat. A renewed burst of pleading with me to come home, even for just one night, sent my hackles into a frenzy of activity. “Sorry Mum, I have to go. Everything will be just fine, you’ll see. Bye.” I pocketed the phone, resolving to leave the damn thing turned off for the rest of the day. Mobile phones were a mixed blessing, and no mistake. What was my mother thinking of, pestering me with family stuff at work? Hadn’t I problems enough of my own, for heaven’s sake, without being expected to take on board her love life or Paul’s preoccupation with the likes of Hayley Morton?
“Ah, Rob, there you are!” Bo’s beaming face was a welcome distraction.
