Then he lay down again and slept and half-slept, in a tumult of bright dreams that shrank away when a child shrieked or the pebbles clattered, but then crowded back at once with their unlikely predicaments and jabber of new arrivals. He was aware of Alex talking and had the sense of himself as a joke, lying there while they talked about him and said “I don’t think he’s really asleep.” He smiled to show that he wasn’t, and after a necessary moment’s calculation said, “Hello Terry,” without opening his eyes. “Come and join us.”
Terry had evidently said goodbye to his lunch companion and had time on his hands before going up to Broad Down to sort out the disco. Danny made a space for him, and Alex moved too, without much enthusiasm, and said, “You do things over at Bride Mill, don’t you Terry?”
“I have been known to,” said Terry.
“And what’s it like? I gather it’s on the expensive side.”
“Gor, the prices there. It’s very nice, mind, it’s beautiful.”
“I thought I might take Danny for lunch tomorrow.”
“Well, very nice,” said Terry. “It’s, you know, it’s posh. It’s mainly for people of the older persuasion.”
“You don’t have to do that,” said Danny quietly; though what sounded like a flattered demurral masked a moment of decision for him. He couldn’t go to the Mill with Alex. He couldn’t sit with him in the oak-beamed dining-room, and chatter at him over the fresh-cut roses and the leather-bound folio of the wine-list, and smirk with him about the chorus-line of cow-licked young waiters as if nothing was wrong that couldn’t be made right by a little fine living. He could feel the quality of anxiety in Alex’s extravagance, and foresee the claustrophobic cou-pledom of Sunday lunch under John and Roger’s velvety patronage. So whatever was going to happen would have to happen before then. He found he had a deadline, and that meant he had a few words to prepare.
Terry said, “I got that Billy Nice, is it, CD.”
“Oh, Ricky Nice,” said Alex, before Danny could say anything.
“Yeah. It’s great when you’ve had a few.”
“A few what…?” said Alex.
“You want to hear him live,” Danny said, and pushed at Terry’s knee impatiently. “You’ve got to come and see me in London, man. I’ll take you down to BDX.” He hadn’t planned the first person singular, but it was true to his mood and his instantaneous vision of Terry naked and face down in his Notting Hill room.
“Yeah, we’ll show you a good time,” Alex said.
After a minute, Danny said, “Gosh, I’d like an ice cream, or a cold drink.”
“Yeah,” said Terry, with a slow nod and a look of ready but undirected cunning.
Alex said, “I am a bit dry…”
“Perhaps,” said Danny, “darling, you might be a complete hero and go and get us something. I don’t think I could face walking all the way back. What do you want, Terry, a Coke? I think I’ll have an ice lolly. Oh please…” and he made a feeble gesture of supplication and fell backwards on to the towel.
Alex pulled on his shoes, and began his long tramp over the shingle, holding his money in his hand. When he was thirty yards away Danny and Terry both got undressed, with the absent-minded rapidity of something often rehearsed. Under his jeans Terry had on a pair of very tight yellow swimming-trunks, cut square across the thigh, with a gold medallion like a belt-buckle sewn on the wide waistband; either they were camp sixties retro or had remained in stock since that time in one of the slower-moving Bridport outfitters. Danny was in his usual boyish shorts, stone-coloured but semi-transparent when wet. He passed Terry the sun-block and got him to massage it into his back as he lay with his chin on his fist, and his stiffening dick pressing into the sand. Terry himself was a wonderful colour – the patchy burns from different outside jobs had fused by now into a steady Greek or Spanish brown. When he’d finished he stretched out beside Danny, on Alex’s towel, and said, “I suppose this is as far as it goes.”
“Um…I’m not sure about that,” Danny said. He had a funny little sense of responsibility.
“You two not getting on so well any more?” said Terry, in his blunderingly intuitive fashion. Danny looked up to where Alex could still be seen moving away, his long strides hampered by the slipping pebbles. “I reckon he’s still tipping his hat at you, anyway,” Terry said.
“He’s a really sweet guy,” Danny said. “I love him very much. But, you know how it is. I used to jump on him, now he jumps on me.”
“Well then. You’re not in love with him.”
Danny wondered if Terry knew what he was talking about. “I’ve only been in love once,” he said; and decided in a second not to elaborate. He’d seen George chatting up Terry at the party, and had been careful not to find out what happened -it was one shake of the sex-dice he didn’t want to contemplate. He said, “You know me, Terry. I’m not ready to settle down. I have to keep things from him all the time. We’re just not meant to be together.”
“Still a chance for me then,” said Terry, touchingly enough. Danny looked him over, his eyes coming back to play between his legs, where a stealthy upheaval had already taken place.
“There will always be a place for you in my, um…” he said, and reached out to snap at the elastic of his trunks. He wondered if there was some futuristic way they could have sex here, in the middle of the beach, without anyone knowing. Then he said, “Or do you mean a chance with Alex?”
Terry pondered it. “I’d say he’s quite nice-looking. And I dare say he’s quite well endorsed.”
“Okay. Sure – none of that’s a problem.” Danny remembered the days of his rapid initiation into the scene, and how anyone who had split up said “The sex was never that great”; so that he wondered after a while why anyone had a partner, and after a while more whether any couples actually had sex – at least with each other. And now he found the same words at the front of his mind, as an easy alternative to the more peculiar truth.
“How come you two got together?” said Terry. “I wouldn’t have thought he was your type.”
“I don’t have a type, darling,” said Danny, whose Utopian policy was to have everyone once. “I thought you knew, he used to go out with Justin.”
Terry wasn’t expecting that. “Well I wouldn’t have thought he was his type either.”
“Oh, you know,” said Danny: “shy top and bossy bottom, it happens all the time,” and watched Terry absorb this crude but worldly insight.
“Right,” he said. “So how did Justin get off with your dad?”
Justin himself was quite free with the story of the Clapham Common Gents, but a kind of family pride, or maybe just snobbery, dissuaded Danny from passing it on to Terry. “Oh, they met in London someplace.” In fact his laughter when Justin first told him had covered a few lost seconds of incredulity and shock.
“I suppose if I was Justin, I’d probably prefer…Mr Woodfield, rather than Alex,” said Terry, enjoying the new mood of frankness. “I always thought he was a bit of all right, your dad.”
“Hey, no you don’t! Hands off my old man!” said Danny, as if speaking in subtitles; and noticed the now uncontrolled mutiny in Terry’s trunks. “Justin’s fair enough…”
Terry blushed and turned on to his front. “And so’s Simon,” he said, “I suppose,” with an effect of hurriedly covering one piece of mischief with another.
Danny worked it out behind the black sheen of his shades. He wasn’t totally easy with knowing about Justin’s indiscretions; they troubled him because they were bad jokes against his father, who had always seemed immune to attack and powered by a scandalous personal authority. “You’d better tell me,” Danny said.