Three

Should I have said something to Dale about my date with Toby? He might think I was taking revenge on him for coolly charming my prize away at the Give and Take. Better surely to say nothing; Toby might have decided one night with me was enough. Although my constant hope was to find a boyfriend, for months and months my love life had not progressed further than casual one-nighters.

I left a ‘See u again?’ message on Toby’s phone the next day. For more than a week no reply came; clearly he was not yearning for my company. Then at last he rang, and asked me to go to a club in South London with him that same evening. I said yes, trying to sound moderately pleased, while hiding the euphoria that hearing his voice again had engendered.

The club was a short walk from Brixton underground station. Mixed straight and gay, it had everything to make a great night out – good dance music, terrific lights, and an attractive crowd full of life. Not knowing who you might run into in a new club is part of the excitement. Toby had lots of friends there. He used his phone every few minutes to send or receive messages. At first I thought he was contacting people outside, but seeing so many inside the club use their phones, then gesture to friends across the room, I realized that most of these messages were to other clubbers. They were the most practical way of communicating, since making yourself heard over the loud music was near impossible.

As often as not, when he received a message, he went off to see someone on the crowded dance floor, and would come back to me after ten minutes or so. Once he disappeared for about twenty minutes, and I sent him the text message ‘gon ome ave u?’ He came back and opened his hand to show me some pills.

‘Want one?’
‘What are they?’
‘Specials. Like Ecstasy. New love drug.’
The incident of Jake lying unconscious in the bath did not encourage me to try suspect pills.

Anyway, being with a man as stunning as Toby was enough of a love drug for me; no chemical assistance was required. ‘I don’t need it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and put one in his own mouth.
What made him so sure, I wondered, that what he was taking was a new love drug, and not something meant for worming cats? His willingness to take a god-knows-what-might-be-in-it pill surprised me.
Soon the noise and flashing lights became overpowering. The club had filled up, and the bigger crowd made the atmosphere frenetic. Up at the bar I had to shout my order several times to be heard. Beer frothed over the top of the plastic glass onto a bar surface already awash with liquid. A lad so young he was probably still at school jostled his way past me in a dash for the toilets, slopping everyone’s drinks as he hurried by. He threw up, slipped over and crashed to the floor, his legs splayed out in his vomit. An older guy helped him up and pushed him towards the exit, his adventures over for the night. No one tried to clear up the mess.
Thinking this might be a good time to leave, I shouted to Toby, ‘Things are getting a bit frantic.’ He pulled me into the middle of the dancers, where somehow we found enough space to move our limbs a little in time with the music. Happiness at being with him returned. Everyone could see we were together, that I was with the most stunning guy in the place.
During a brief lull in the sound he said, ‘There’s someone I need to talk to. Shouldn’t take long. After that we’ll go.’
He passed the patch of vomit, now marked by a sign saying ‘Danger Wet Floor’, and disappeared through the doorway leading to the toilets. Beyond them, past a couple of seats, was an outdoor area for people to smoke or cool off after the heat of the club. What was he doing out there? Dealing in drugs? When he came back he said, ‘Had enough of this?’
‘Yes.’
Outside he asked, ‘What did you think of the club?’
‘Great. Exciting – a bit hectic.’
‘You need to unwind more, Ben. Take an Ecstasy or have a few lagers before you go in.’
‘Oh, well… I’m not dragging you away?’
‘I’ve seen the people I came to see. So what now? My place or yours? Suppose I could say your old place or your new place?’
At Fulrose Court we might, of course, encounter Dale, so we went to the flat that had once been mine and was now his. The Jays must have gone out, for the house was quiet. In the main room Toby said ‘Let me undress you,’ as though I was the one whose looks made an inch-by-inch exposure of flesh thrilling. He said, ‘Wide shoulders, slim hips, yes, you’ll do for me.’ He made me feel more attractive and desirable than anyone ever had before, but how much of his desire was due to me, rather than the ‘love drug’ he had taken?
‘That’s it, keep still,’ he said as he struggled with the button on the waistband of my jeans. Though I held my tummy muscles taught, he continued to fumble. I wanted to help but he pushed my hand away and lightly smacked my thigh. ‘No, keep still now. Let me.’ I suppose he wanted to be in control, but as it took him about two minutes to undo that one button it was a strange bit of foreplay. Still, anything that pleased him was enjoyable for me too. Any doubts about what he had been up to in the club vanished in the glow of making love.
After sex he said, ‘Now be a good boy and go and make me some coffee.’ I had to hunt for the mugs and coffee jar, as they were not where I used to keep them.

Going out with him always meant spending more money than usual. He would call a cab, even when a bus would have been almost as quick. His favourite club charged admission, and their drinks were expensive compared with the Give and Take. It was not somewhere you could go wearing any old clothes. Hard up after a particularly extravagant night out, I asked Dale if he would mind waiting a week for a contribution to the kitty for cleaning materials and household items only a few pounds. As we had a good stock of essentials this was no big problem, but it meant him knowing I was out of money. He offered me a loan, but on my modest pay, borrowing would only put off the hardship until later. Economies were the only answer. If necessary I might even have to turn down a night out with Toby.

By this time I had told Dale that Toby was my boyfriend. He did not appear surprised or concerned, but inevitably our friendship suffered. Visits to the Give and Take together became less frequent, and our once regular Sunday afternoon outings became rare. We were still good friends, but inevitably time spent with Toby was time not spent with Dale.

To save money I avoided the High Street shops, where an impulse buy might be tempting, and went more often into charity shops. Most of the men’s clothing they had was not worth bothering with, but the bric-a-brac and second-hand books made interesting browsing. The volunteers were usually happy to have a few minutes chat, even without me buying anything. One, that raised funds for cats’ and dogs’ homes, had flimsy shelves that had bent under the weight of second-hand books, mostly crime stories and other cheap fiction. On the floor underneath the bottom shelf were some cardboard boxes, full of odd items shoved down there out of the way. From the bottom of one of these I extracted a huge old hardback. It turned out to be a Complete Works of William Shakespeare, printed in an antiquated style, the letter ‘s’ confusingly like the modern ‘f ’. The lady behind the counter who served me checked inside the front and back cover but no price was marked, and she let me have it for five pounds. ‘You don’t happen to know where it came from?’ I asked.

‘Not the vaguest idea. People bring in all kinds of old cast-offs. A lot of them go directly to the bins. A book like that will always be useful, though. An aunt of mine used one that size for pressing flowers.’ In Jeremy’s bookshop we had sold a couple of old volumes of Shakespeare to collectors for hundreds of pounds. Of course my find might not be worth much, but on the way home I began to feel guilty about the idea of making a profit at the expense of a charity shop. If it should turn out to be worth a fortune, a donation to the cause would ease my conscience.

Back at Fulrose Court I examined the illustration on the title page again. It was a head and shoulders engraving of Shakespeare, the alert eyes glancing to one side. Above the picture were the words Mr William Shakespeares (sic) Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies, Published according to the True Original Copies. Below was written London. Printed by Isaac Iaggard, and Ed. Blount. 1623. It could not, surely, be a genuine first folio edition? Copies were worth hundreds of thousands, possibly millions. My spine tingled. The book was old, but surely not that old. A hundred or more years maybe, not nearly four hundred. The cover, a thick, dark green woven fabric, had an elaborate embossed design, which was very even and regular. It had surely been machined rather than hand tooled. Imagine, if a genuine sixteen-twenty-three folio edition of Shakespeare really had somehow been left in the bottom of a charity shop box. If only that were possible. My purchase might go for auction at Christie’s or Sotheby’s. Was it conceivable, even, that the pages of a seventeenth century book might have been rebound in a Victorian cover? If only. Thinking that was as pointless as dreaming of being as handsome as Toby or as sensible as Dale.

In the bookshop, Jeremy’s professional eye quickly assessed my discovery. He wasted no time in bringing my pipe dreams to an end. After all of twenty seconds he said, ‘It’s in excellent condition. A Victorian copy, of course. You realized that, I hope. You didn’t pay a lot for it?’

‘Five pounds,’ I said flatly, suddenly fearing the charity shop might have done well to get that much for it.
‘Oh, well done. It’s not bad. A charity shop, eh? Always worth keeping your eyes open. If you want to sell I’ll get you at least fifty for it, easily, at the next book fair. You’re developing the knack for this business, aren’t you Ben?’
He was good-hearted, and using his knowledge of the trade would get me a fair price, keeping nothing for himself. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘The Booksellers’ Guild’s annual dinner is in a few weeks’ time. Be nice if you came along. Help to give you a broader picture. As well as rare book dealers, quite a few of the independent booksellers will be there.’
‘Errrh, nice of you to ask, but I don’t have clothes for a formal dinner,’ I said, thinking that the event sounded boring.
‘The Booksellers’ Guild dinner is not an occasion for formal attire. Smart casual… newish jeans… will be fine. You really should come. The after dinner speaker will be the veteran novelist Loyd Larcher. I know him slightly.’
‘Do you know many famous people, Jeremy?’ I asked.
‘No. I met him at a chiropody clinic.’
‘A chiropody clinic? You’ve never said anything about having trouble with your feet.’
‘I’d dropped a heavy box of books and broke a toe nail. At least it got Larcher and me off on a good footing,’ he said laughing.
I could have followed up with a comment about corny jokes, but it might have sidetracked us into hitting the nail on the head or needing to keep instep. Instead I asked, ‘We don’t have anything of his in the shop, do we?’
‘He hasn’t published anything for years. I think we sold the only book of his we had. Not a Rennie More, Not a Rennie Less, I think it was.’
‘Strange title.’
‘Yes. It was about industrial espionage in the pharmaceutical industry. One of the big suppliers made a fuss, threatened a lawsuit over the use of their trade name. If you really want to read something of his, I might have his saga of North Sea fishing at home, Not a Blenny More, Not a Blenny Less, though it wasn’t his best book, in my view.’
‘Blenny? A little fish that’s not much sought after?’
‘Exactly.’
A few days later he proudly showed me the invitation card to the Guild’s dinner. Below the details, printed in scrolled decorative letters, the words Jeremy Stimplebaum and Guest had been added in light blue ink in beautiful copperplate handwriting.
On the day of the event I put on a clean shirt and my newest jeans; he wore a black polo neck with a gold pendant, and amazingly baggy trousers with acres of dark twill cloth between waist and knee. I could not decide if this garment had come from an expensive boutique for more mature men, or if it had been handed down by a very elderly relative. Fortunately, among fellow members of the guild, we did not appear particularly odd. Some of the women wore necklaces with beads the size of golf balls, while others sported highly ornate spectacles that covered half their faces. The suits that some of the men wore were like heirlooms left over from the days of the Boer War. They had probably been stored in mothballs for generations. Several fifty-plus men had long hair tied back in thin greying pony-tails.
Larcher himself, like other dignitaries at the top table, wore a dinner jacket. I guessed he was in his seventies, his hair white above a very pink face. The Guild’s members and their guests sat at four long tables running the length of the hall. Several same-sex couples arrived, making me worry that people would think I was Jeremy’s bit of stuff.
As the meal progressed, large quantities of wine were consumed. The booksellers talked more and more freely, and the noise level rose steadily. The Guild’s chairman tapped his glass and knocked loudly on the table to call for quiet. To thin applause Larcher rose to speak. He embarked on a merciless tirade against modern novelists. Among his accusations were that thin material was padded out to five hundred or more pages, as though a book’s worth could be measured by the kilogram, that modern novelists had nothing to say worth the effort of reading, and that their books were mere ornaments, purchased to match the colour of the lounge curtains. Modern fiction was, he claimed, bought as a shelf-filler to impress guests, destined never be taken down and read, the output of a small and shrinking band of self-proclaimed literati, or of hacks who conspired with greedy publishers to peddle tripe to people with third-class brains.
‘Wow. Is he always like this?’ I asked Jeremy, after Larcher had finished speaking.
‘He knows his audience.’
A sharp-faced woman opposite overheard us, gulped down half a glass of red, and leaning forwards said, tripping over her words, ‘He’s too soft on them. If you want my opinion of modern authors, they should be g-gutle-gulleted like fish.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Jeremy said. He turned quickly to me. ‘Great thing about Loyd these days is, since he’s no longer writing, he can say what he likes.’ He grabbed my arm, accidentally bonking me on the head with his gold pendant as he stood up. ‘Come on, if I know him he’ll be off now he’s earned his fee.’ He pulled me to my feet and hurried me towards the side entrance. We were just in time catch Loyd on his way out.
‘Jeremy! How long has it been? Who’s this you’ve got in tow, you old rascal?’
‘Let me introduce Ben, who works at the bookshop. He loves books. He’s my right-hand man. He kindly came along to keep me company, on condition that I did my utmost to bring him before you.’
This was not true; in fact, had Jeremy not pressed me to go I would not have been there at all. A smiling Larcher grasped my hand warmly. ‘Is that so? Right-hand man, no less. Lucky to have help like him Jeremy, in that wonderful cultural emporium of yours. How is business these days?’
‘It’s much better since Ben joined my little enterprise.’
‘Matter of fact, I could use a bit of help with some work that is in the offing. Just a few hours administrative, clerical type of stuff for a week or two, nothing more exciting I’m afraid, but the fee could be a couple of hundred, and the work can be fitted in to suit you. If Jeremy has no objection, Ben, dear chap, are you interested? Good. I’ll be in touch.’ He gave me his card and strode out through the side door.
I was so delighted at the prospect of assisting the famous Larcher that I could have given Jeremy a kiss, except that it would confirm any suspicions the diners had about us.

Telling Toby about the dinner, or meeting Loyd Larcher, would have been pointless. He was only ever interested in things relevant to his immediate needs. Even the Give and Take, with its mixed age group, he referred to as ‘that old dive you used to go to, more dead than alive.’ Other gay pubs, clubs and venues were an essential part of his world, but not the one where I had been a regular. To make a change from going to his favourite bars, I persuaded him to meet me at Hammersmith Bridge one Sunday afternoon, hoping he would like the busy riverside path. However he was not interested in any of the lively pubs we passed, not even those where we could have sat facing the river. After half an hour he was bored, and could not be bothered to visit the monument to the painter Hogarth in the graveyard of the old village church at Chiswick. We walked glumly on, coming to the path below terraces where, once a year, people stood to watch the ‘Oxbridge’ Boat Race. He asked pointedly ‘Are we going anywhere, or are we just walking?’

His reaction, when I said we would reach a big pub after we crossed Chiswick Bridge, was a bored shrug. My attempts at conversation met with little or no response. Was this his way of telling me he was simply not interested in going anywhere at all that I might suggest?

When we were walking across the bridge a spectacular road accident took place right in front of us. It began when a lorry pulled forward sharply, and shed seven or eight sacks of building materials. They lay on the road and partly across the footpath at the side. Unaware of leaving this hazard behind, the driver did not stop. Cars swerved haphazardly to avoid the obstruction, and disaster soon followed. One car bounced over a sack in the road, then crossed the central white line, forcing an oncoming van to swing sharply left. Mounting the footpath, it hit a pile of several sacks and careered over the parapet, plummeting into the river. It landed in three or four feet of water. The driver opened the cab door, saw us and shouted for help.

I held up my phone and shouted back, ‘I’ll call 999.’ After I had called the police, Toby and I rushed back along the bridge to the bank. The driver had lowered himself into the river and was wading towards us. With my camera phone I took some pictures of him, his partly immersed van in the background. His clothes were soaking wet. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked. ‘I’ve called the police. Should we get an ambulance?’

I suggested he sat down on a low wall nearby. He was a fit-looking man in his late thirties. After a few deep breaths he cursed, ‘Fucking bridge, fucking Sunday deliveries, fucking river, fucking soaking, fucking shite all over the fucking road.’

‘Shook up, but no. Couple of bruises maybe.’ He sat quietly for a minute or so. ‘Thanks for stopping. No other fucker did. You got through on the phone?’
‘Yes. You see, over there, that’s a police launch on its way. I got a few pictures.’
I showed them to him and he said, ‘Not bad. The fucking van can stay in the river for all I care.

Sorry. Take no notice of me. Suppose it could have been worse. At least it was the return trip with an empty van.’ When he stood up his wet trousers clung to his skin and he pulled the cloth loose. Defying misfortune he joked, ‘Suppose it’ll save having a bath, won’t it?’

I laughed, glad he felt recovered enough to make a joke. Toby, however, was becoming edgy. He said, ‘Listen mate, we’re already late. Help’s on its way. You mind if we…’
‘Yeah, no need for you to hang about. Do you have a phone number, in case I need a witness?’
I gave him mine, and agreed to send him the pictures from my phone. We shook hands. It was mean to leave him like that, but Toby was already off over the bridge at speed. When I caught up with him he said, ‘Began to think we’d be stuck there all day. The wet trousers turning you on, were they?’
How different he was from Dale, who had he been present would have taken charge of the situation, made absolutely sure the man was not hurt, and known exactly what to do. Over lunch in the pub I said, ‘All of the times I’ve come down to the river, this is the first time anything really out of the ordinary has happened.’
‘Oh, fantastic things happen to me all the time,’ he answered. ‘Quite sexy, the way his wet trousers clung, wasn’t it?’
‘How can you talk about the poor man like that? He was lucky not to have been badly injured, and all you can think about is his clinging wet trousers!’
‘You were getting an eyeful too, don’t pretend otherwise. Anyway, what about wet T-shirt competitions? Everyone thinks they’re sexy. Wonder how you’d look in one? Have to get you under the shower in a T-shirt and a pair of white shorts. See what it does for you.’
Having my super-attractive boyfriend enjoy the idea of seeing me like that drove any doubts about his attitude to the accident from my mind. All I wanted was to get back to his flat to have sex.