We exchange greetings and Ben, who looks troubled, suddenly fixes me in a gaze. — Dad, there’s something I need to say to you…
— I know, I know, I’ve been a self-absorbed wanker. I’ve just had so many things on, this mess back in Scotters, with your uncle freaking out and your aunt being in pieces, it means I’ve had to –
— This isn’t about you! Or them! he snaps, like he’s at the end of his tether. His neck is red and his eyes glisten.
This startles me. Ben has always been a cool, taciturn lad, more placid Englishman, or even stoical Scot, than tempestuous Italian.
— I told you I was seeing somebody.
— Aye, this wee bird you’re knocking off, you sly –
— It’s not a bird… he pauses, — it’s a bloke. I’m gay. I have a boyfriend, and he spits the word out, indicating how he resolves a certain issue I now presume he has to contend regularly with. He’s looking at me with a belligerent counter-aggressive set to his chin, as if he expects me tae freak out and gie him the shit he probably got from those cunts in Surrey.
But all I feel is a warm, relieved glow. While I never saw this coming I’m absolutely delighted, as I’ve always secretly hoped for a gay son. I would have hated to have that hetero-shagger competitive thing that my dad had with me. — Excellent! I sing. — This is great! I’ve got a gay son! Good on you, bud! I punch his arm.
He looks at me in shock, his brows rising. — You… you’re not upset?
I jab a finger at him. — We’re talking gay, totally gay, not bi, right?
— Yeah, I’m only into guys. Not girls at all.
— Brilliant! This is the fucking best news ever! Cheers! I raise my glass in a toast.
He looks flabbergasted, but clinks it with his own. — I thought you’d, well…
I take a gulp of Stella back, smacking my lips together. — I would probably have been a bit jealous if you were bi, as you’d have more shagging options than me, I explain. — You see, I always wanted tae be bisexual. Could never get it on with men, though. But I do like a lassie to put on a strap-on and give it tae me up the –
Ben starts flapping and cuts me off. — Dad, Dad, I’m delighted you’re taking this well, but I don’t want to hear all this stuff!
— Fair enough. But it’s no skin off my nose; we’re Hull v Wasps, different codes, union v. league. You’re not likely to bring in some hot wee torpedo-titted vixen, to make me jealous, like I did with my father. What about the Surrey people?
— Mum is pretty upset, while Gran is just inconsolable. She can barely bring herself to look at me, he says, genuinely saddened.
I shake my head slowly in disgust, as old bile, dredged up, ferments in my gut. Fuckin old boiler. Wisnae shy aboot taking a Jocko-Eyetie portion, back on that Tuscan holiday, yet would deny her first grandchild the same pleasure. — Fuck those bigots: it’s the twenty-first century. I don’t care who you shag, as long as you shag with a vengeance!
His face lights up at that one. — Oh we do. In every conceivable way. I’m moving into his flat in Tufnell Park, and already the neighbours have been complaining about the noise!
— That’s my boy, and I punch his arm affectionately again. — Right, you fucking raving arse bandit, up to that bar and make mine a double Macallan’s!
He complies and we both end up in a bit of a state. My son is gay! What a fucking blessing!
As I’m on my way home in a cab, I look at my phone and there’s a text from Victor Syme:
Get your arse up here. I’ve found your boy.
What the fuck? Either Syme wants me urgently, or Euan really has returned to Edinburgh. A year of absence my hairy hole, he’s only been away a few months! I type a response:
Euan McCorkindale is in Edinburgh?!
Aye. Get your arse up here.
Jumping on a shuttle first thing in the morning. See you.
A reply from that maggot would have been too gracious.
15
SHAGGING HOORS WILL NOT BRING YOU PEACE
He realises that he hasn’t dodged the lines between the paving stones since he was a child. Now he’s avoiding them in an even stride, enjoying the rhythm of his feet on the cold slab. The brogues: always a good stout shoe for this sort of weather. Trainers – those incubators of foot disease – not so much. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s told Ross not to constantly wear them. The strange dislocation he feels, that sense of being completely in touch with the other, one of the multitude of alternative characters we repress in order to complete our chosen daily life; it makes him sick and giddy with fear and exhilaration. To walk this familiar city as a man without a home is just like walking new streets in a new world.
On his return to Edinburgh, he got a new phone and email address. He wanted to call Carlotta, but couldn’t face the further humiliation of having only been able to stick less than four months in Thailand, after his declaration that he would be away for a year. At first he felt fabulous out there. He was free. The break, the new place, and Naiyana, the girl he’d taken up with. But the novelty quickly wore off, supplanted by an emotional downer. He missed Carlotta and Ross, craved the order of his old life. Now he is home.
Euan McCorkindale doesn’t know at this stage whether or not he will return to his podiatrist duties at the Royal Infirmary following his career break. Everything is still up for grabs. After checking into the cheapish-but-clean budget chain hotel on the Grassmarket, his next move was to reset the Tinder app on his new phone.
And then he’s off onto the streets and into a cafe, sitting opposite Holly, thirty-four, recently divorced, two kids. She says she doesn’t want anything ‘too serious’ at this point in time. Euan finds he’s augmenting himself in such encounters, not necessarily lying – women generally find his career as a podiatrist quirkily interesting enough – but adding to himself, pushing his parameters further. He once took Spanish classes with Carlotta in preparation for a holiday. After the event, he was keen to continue, but she didn’t see the point. That tuition will be resumed and from now on he will be self-describing as a Spanish speaker. And although he’s only played a few times with a colleague from work, he is designating himself a squash player. Life is about perceptions, of the self as well as others. You can either sell yourself short or claim something, own it, and grow into it.
Holly is a strong prospect, but Euan leaves her an hour and twenty minutes later, with nothing more than a peck on the cheek. Never give it up right away, if they’re worth fucking more than once, keep them waiting for it. Then slam the very fucking soul out of them, leave them wanting more. To his complete dismay, Simon Williamson’s oddly restrained words resonate in his ear. This psychotic pig is still guiding me! Marianne was right!
Euan’s spirits sink further, despite re-emerging onto brighter, warming streets. Summer is digging in, Scotland’s most anticipated guest, who generally arrives late and is usually the first to leave. Euan was uncertain of where he was going but he instantly knows when he gets there. It’s where he was yesterday, a building down a side street with an orange sign that says TOUCHY FEELY SAUNA AND MASSAGE.
Thankfully Jasmine, whom he visited the previous evening, is working her shift again. This time she takes him to what she describes as the ‘special suite for preferred customers’. It certainly seems impressive enough. There is no bed, just piles of giant red cushions of all shapes and sizes strewn over a floor with indented lights. There’s a big TV set on one wall and, most theatrically, a red velvet curtain on the other. The cushions, though decorated with gold lace trimmings, are designed to facilitate various sexual positions; some are wedged, others rectangular, and Jasmine is skilled at the configurations they offer. Euan is excited, yet senses that something is off in her performance. He finds Jasmine tense and wary, her distracted eyes tinged with trepidation, a contrast to the highly engaged, cheerful and performative woman who serviced him yesterday in the less salubrious chamber. He wonders if it is bad protocol to visit the same girl two days in a row; if it marks him in her eyes as desperate, damaged or sleazy. Then he’s aware of another presence in the room. He turns to see a man in a suit, his face hard and weaselly, all sharp angles, standing over them. Sweating, the man rubs at his neck with a hanky, although it isn’t hot. Euan realises that he’s been behind the red curtain, which is open, indicating a small, recessed stage. — What’s… what is this…? and he ceases his activity. He looks from Jasmine to the menacing interloper.