The Beard (4 page)

Tom couldn’t believe his luck. She was either spinning him a yarn or he’d got it spot-on. “For Best PR Company and Best PR Account Manager?”

Amy looked shocked. “Yes, actually!”

Tom raised his eyebrows in nonchalant defiance and, through a broad smirk, added, “You didn’t think I’d forget something as important as that, did you?”

Amy had known Tom long enough. “No, I didn’t. But well guessed, anyway.”

Tom clutched his chest in mock horror. “A guess? I’m hurt at the suggestion!”

As Amy rolled her eyes, the front doorbell chimed. Tom, still feigning emotional injury, walked off to answer the door.

“Hola!” screamed Ashley as he raced past Tom and headed down the long, thin corridor to the kitchen. “Amy, baby, you’re looking better than ever!”

Amy smiled.
Not because she’d just been proffered a compliment, but because Ash’s effervescence was contagious. She also knew what was coming next. Turning to Tom, Ash held his hand up to his face in mock privacy and whispered, “You’re right, she’s ballooned! I won’t say anything.”

Amy punched Ash on the shoulder as he skidded away from the inevitable punishment.

“Hey!” he said in protest. “Don’t bruise the fruit – it’s taken!”

Tom and Amy exchanged knowing glances. “Oh?” said Amy. “And which man has swept you off your feet today?”

Ash looked her up and down. “Those colours do nothing for you. They make you look all, mmm, hippy. Although they do accentuate your bitterness perfectly.” Ash spun around, happy with his verbal volley, and collapsed into a wooden chair that had a packet of biscuits in front of it. Grabbing one from the pack and taking the smallest of nibbles, he swept his arm into the air and continued. “He’s called Stuart. We met yesterday. This, ladies, is The One.”

“Excellent,” said Tom. “So, erm, how did you meet?”

Ashley bounced with excitement. “Funny story. He offered to pay me for sex. I said I didn’t charge! We were so overcome with lust, we didn’t even make it home. He said I was his kind of guy, so I gave him my number. He said he’d most definitely call me again. He seemed very happy – walked off with a smile on his face.”

“I bet,” said Amy dryly.

“This is The One, you hideous cynics!” Ash protested.

Tom walked over to him, grabbing his shoulder as he did. “Just don’t get too hurt if it isn’t, eh?”

Tom and Amy knew what this meant, but were happy for Ash to indulge himself and be comforted by such a gentle fantasy for the briefest period.

Taking yet another biscuit from the packet, Ash looked Amy up and down, then did the same to Tom. “So,” he said, “what’s new in your dismal lives?”

Tom headed over to the kettle and set about filling it. He looked out of the window as he did so, before sighing, “I’m going to her work’s do and she’s coming to mine.”

“Boring!” said Ash, holding his hands in the air as if surrendering. Broken fragments of his biscuit tumbled everywhere. Tom glanced down at the newly swept floor as crumbs cascaded, carefree. He looked at Ash and raised an eyebrow.

“OMG! Are you two STILL keeping this fantasy going?” He gestured at them as if smelling something unpleasant. “Purlease! Why can’t you just be yourselves? You – a sad, closeted 30-something with thinning hair and no chance of love, and you…”

“Be careful,” said Amy testily. “I will slap you.”

Ash pouted at the pre-emptive reprimand. “And you, a young flower just waiting to bloom into the glory of womanhood.”

“That’s better,” Amy muttered warily.

“Even if that flower’s petals are blighted and wilting, and the bush could do with a bit of pruning,” added Ash cheekily.

“Oi!” shouted Amy, throwing some unopened mail from the kitchen counter at him.

Tom returned the kettle to its base and spoke, aloud but almost to himself. “I’m not closeted.”

It was Ashley’s turn to indulge a man kidding himself. “Excuse me?” he asked, deliberately camp. “You’re out, are you?”

Tom shuffled uncomfortably and looked at his feet. He kicked a cookie crumb across the floor. “Yes, I am. All the people who need to know do.”

Ash leapt to his feet, again protesting at the unfolding conversation. Gesticulating madly, he took exception to the limitless self-deception occurring around him. “That’s such a cop-out. All the people who need to know? That’s just scared, closet talk for, ‘I don’t have the balls to let everyone know.’ It’s when the people who
don’t
need to know, know – that’s when you’re out. When you cherry-pick people to know, then you’re ashamed and scared. Your closet isn’t open, it’s only ajar.”

Tom looked ruffled by this broadside. Having spent so long analysing and judging Ash, it had never occurred to him that Ash might be doing the same in return. Tom stared at his friend, who was sporting a gently angry expression back at him. Tom felt exposed and a bit foolish.

“I’m not exactly lying, I’m just not advertising my sexuality on a big banner.” It wasn’t a convincing riposte, but it was something.

“Oh. My. God,” cried Ash, wagging his finger at Tom. “You didn’t just go there, did you? So, you’re not lying, you just tell the people who need to know? OK, so why do people think you have a GIRLfriend? Why do you say you’re straight when you’re not?”

The charge stung Tom. It was impossible to side-step. “That’s at work – that’s different. It’s a very macho environment.”

“You work in rubber!” screeched Ash in exasperation. “That’s the default fabric of gay men!”

Amy snorted with amusement at this comment. As the two men swung a sharp look in her direction, she looked away.

“The bottom line, my dear, is that you’re afraid to tell them your bottom line!” Ash sent a precursory sideways glance to Amy, but she was still stifling her reaction.

Tom looked down, momentarily feeling the heat of shame and a twinge of embarrassment. Who did he think he was, standing on the moral high ground, looking down at others when he, himself, was no great role model? Yes, it was true that he was in the closet. Yes, it was true that he wasn’t honest and open. But how could he be? It was different for Ash. He’d come out minutes after birth and had been forced to make his way in life as a gay man. Tom hadn’t been afforded that luxury. Ash didn’t have any pre-judgement or expectations to overturn. Everyone knew that he was gay – game over. Whereas with Tom, everyone knew that he was straight – or, at the very least, thought it. Through the many years struggling with his sexuality, he’d done nothing to dispel their beliefs. He’d never exactly been sure himself, so why challenge their view? After all, they could be right…

In doing so, he’d spent years subliminally digging the deepest hole to bury this toxic matter. Having seemingly done this, he was left with the ongoing, noxious fall-out of the resulting emotional radioactivity. The disposal of unwanted feelings had only created more psychological pollution.

As such, having spent so many years actively ignoring the situation, he’d created an even bigger hill to climb come the day of reckoning. Coming out now would be considerably harder than it had been for Ash.

“It was easier for you,” Tom began hesitantly. “You…”

Ash wasn’t given to earnest moods but when he let his guard down, he left no one in any doubt as to where he was on his “emotional pantone chart”. “Sorry?” he interrupted tartly. “Did you just say that I had it easy?”

Tom knew that a swift, heartfelt and comprehensive apology was now needed. Despite this, he attempted to play out his point. “You know I don’t mean it like that, Ash. All I’m saying…”

He didn’t get very far, as Ash was genuinely affronted. The thought that being abused, made homeless and being alone was somehow an easier life than living in a comfortable closet was a scratchy irritant to Ash. “Are you suggesting that I’ve had it easy, Tom?”

Before Tom could attempt a reply, it appeared that Ash was discovering the art of rhetorical questions. Albeit with a hint of hysteria. “Are you saying I had it bloody well easy?”

Tom realised that his point, valid though it was, would have to be made in a different way. “No, I’m not, Ash,” he said with some force. Tom’s burgeoning anger was enough to take the wind from Ash’s sails. “I’m saying nothing of the sort. You’ve had a crap life and I’m not comparing the two. I’m just saying that everyone knew you were gay, so you had nothing to admit to. I’ve got to basically come out and say I’ve been lying or hiding or whatever. I’m just saying that if people have always thought you’re gay, it’s EASIER than when they haven’t. So stop being hysterical.”

Tom was breathing heavier than he had been. Ash sat down and looked chastened, but disgruntled. An awkward silence followed, and was only broken when Tom snapped, “And stop eating those biscuits,” for needless effect.

The situation had seemingly blown up out of nothing. No one was quite sure how they’d got to this point or where they should go from here. Amy looked uncomfortable and wasn’t sure if she should slide off in the hope that no one would notice. The truth was, this was a persistent and rather ugly elephant in the room. A subject only rarely discussed and usually motivated by some level of drunkenness.

However much Tom could hide behind an irritation at Ash’s histrionics, there was a valid point behind them. Why was he still not out? He used work, his family and the myriad of complications it would create as a justification – an excuse – for not doing what he needed to do, but that was simply not true. Deep down, somewhere alongside the buried toxic waste, was also the understanding that these reasons were, in fact, just lies. Lies wrapped up as excuses and delivered as reasons. The simple reality, that tellingly evaded his own comprehension, was that he wasn’t out to himself. Whether he liked to own up to it or not, he was well aware of his sexuality, but far from at peace with it.

As a result, any bold, frank and tacit admission was still too painful to contemplate. Accordingly, he sidestepped the matter and, in doing so, sidestepped life. He hid behind the dubious ‘justifications’ of work or parental upset to remain loveless and alone. He offset this transparent emotional transaction with good deeds, thus his volunteering work. By doing work openly at a gay charity, he was attempting to accept his sexuality while controlling it to the point of denial. “It’s just voluntary work. I could work in a kennel but that doesn’t make me a dog,” he’d kid himself. Equally, no one knew that every Tuesday night, he’d assemble with a mixed bag of delightful fruits to pack condoms into bags and listen to Ash detail his sexual conquests.

When anyone had asked, “Are you out?”, he’d reply, as dryly as he could, “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Simultaneously, he’d defer answering the question and use a smokescreen to create a false impression.

This semantic dance was becoming tiring. The waltz of denial was becoming repetitive: side-step, side-step, side-step. Accordingly, his convenient ‘reasons’ of closet justification were now looking shaky. As life moved on around him, his position was looking decidedly out of date. The fact that he had a bogus girlfriend – a ‘beard’ – was becoming, even to him, nauseating. Intellectually, he knew what he had to do but, emotionally, he was terrified of the unknown. He also knew that his parents – and, in particular, his mother – would be devastated. He was their Superman and was supposed to deliver them grandkids and eternal happiness. They continued to ask about his love life, evidently ratcheting up the pressure on him to deliver. The plan with Amy, therefore, helped to buy him more time… even more time. That was all he’d ever done – bought time, to buy even more. There’d come a point when the clock would strike twelve and his time would surely be up. His energy and creativity in finding new ways to hold back this march of inevitability and invent new delaying tactics would’ve been much better spent facing his issues and finding happiness. Yet he was simply still too terrified to do so.

“So, what you wearing to the Hulk’s pompous rubber-fetish shindig?” Ash said, breaking the silence. He turned in his seat and looked theatrically at Amy, pointedly ignoring Tom.

Ash had learned over the years that the best strategy for day-to-day survival was to move on from conflict as soon as practical. As such, his capacity to bounce back was as admirable as it was galling.

“Well…” Amy began, delighted that the tension had been punctured and an aura of calm had returned to the room. “I was thinking of a rubber catsuit. What do you think? D’ya reckon it’ll get everyone going?”

Tom looked up for the first time as he was admitted back into the circle.

“Hmm,” Ash muttered, surveying Amy. “Not with those hips, no. It’ll look like you’ve left two coat hangers in there.”

And with that, life had returned to normal.

Amy was in the shower at her house share when her phone started ringing. Every time the call went through to voicemail, the caller rang straight back.

When the phone entered its fourth consecutive cycle, Amy’s new housemate, a Chinese exchange student called Ah-Lam, worried that the repetition might indicate an emergency, began politely knocking on the shower door.

Tearing the shower curtain aside and enrobing herself in the wet nylon blanket, Amy’s shampoo-laden head popped free to shout, “WHAT?” at whoever was making the noise. Hearing someone talk, but not making out any discernible words, she turned the shower off, brusquely declaring, “Hold on!” as she did.