Chapter 11
THE unthinkable happened.
In the third quarter Richmond came from thirty-one points down to muster an unbelievable rally, and with the game in overtime they were only three points behind. New recruit Farid Al-Hanin managed to intercede the ball and drive it down toward the goals with the entire Richmond fan base on his side, trying to harness control over the ball with the power of thought and will it into a six-pointer, Al-Hanin gave a mighty kick, and it soared perfectly between the two centre posts.
I gave such a mighty scream, Maggie fled for the sanctuary of the bedroom. I believe I shrieked gratitude to every god and goddess I could think of. Al-Hanin’s name became instantly sacred to me, as it probably did to every other Richmond fan nationwide. Richmond had won their first game of the season.
I just wished Roger or Declan had been there. It felt a bit lonely not being able to share it with anyone.
On a rare but venerable high, I decided to take the bull by the horns. I jumped in my car and drove to Roger and Fran’s house, tooting my horn triumphantly whenever I saw somebody with a Richmond sticker on their bumper. They, of course, hooted in reply.
I wondered if this was an omen that things might be turning around—I could only hope. Declan would return to form, Roger and I would patch things up, Richmond would win the Grand Final (next season, I was no fool to believe it was possible this year), and I would win the lottery so there would be no embarrassment between Declan and I when it came to paying for dinner.
My dreams were quickly dashed when Roger opened the door and glared at me. “What do you want?”
Ouch. “I came to talk to you.”
He looked out beyond me, perhaps surprised I was alone. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
Huh. That was an entirely new side to him. I counted to three in my head before answering so this wouldn’t get any worse. “Probably somewhere over the Bass Strait by now.”
“What happened to your date?”
“Are you going to let me in?”
“We’re not your second best, you know,” he said childishly.
I decided to call his bluff. “Okay.” I turned my back and stomped back toward my car.
“Hold it!”
That certainly wasn’t Roger’s voice.
I turned to see Fran whacking Roger over the head, and he howled in righteous indignation. “Let him in!”
Roger rubbed the back of his head. “Get in here, you dickhead.”
“Ask him nicely!” Whack!
“Simon, would you like to come inside?” Roger asked, a forced tone to his voice.
“Why, thanks, Roger, that would be nice,” I replied as I climbed back up the porch steps.
As he moved away from the door to let me through, and I pushed between him and Fran in the narrow hallway, I was given an extra special greeting in the form of a slap upside my head from his lovely wife.
“Ow!” I cried, now reflecting Roger’s gesture from earlier as I rubbed the offended area.
Fran glared at me. “That’s for ignoring me the other day on Elizabeth Street.”
“I didn’t see you until the last minute!” I protested. “And then I was stuck there trying to decide what to do—”
Her unchanged expression told me I was digging my grave even deeper. “I gave you plenty of time to come after me.”
“It didn’t seem that long,” I said sheepishly, and I received another whack for it.
“You hurt my feelings,” Fran said, and her tone of voice made me feel what could have been the guiltiest I ever had felt in my life.
“I’m sorry,” I said in all honesty. I was now rewarded with a hug.
“Hey, my feelings were hurt too!” Roger said.
“Because you hurt mine in the first place,” I reminded him, pulling away from Fran.
“Well,” he replied defensively, “you hurt mine again after that.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Fran muttered. “Just hug and make up like normal people.”
Pushed into it, we did so; although “normal people” was also pushing it.
“Just letting you know, I’m still upset,” Roger pointed out, his elbow digging into my ribs as we embraced awkwardly.
“Same here,” I replied, rubbing at my side unhappily and accidentally stepping on his foot.
We pulled apart, and the three of us now stood in the cramped hallway, all looking uneasily at one another.
“So, how about a beer?” Roger suggested, falling back on old faithful for backup.
I nodded gratefully.
Fran clapped her hands together. “Finally! Something we can all agree on!”
“HE LOOKED crushed on the news,” Fran said, reaching for another handful of chips.
We were on the back porch, despite the cold, staring out into the yard which was desperately in need of a mow. Fran and Roger usually liked to wait until one of their more industrious relatives decided to do it for them.
“The picture on the front page of the Sun was even worse,” Roger pointed out. “Extreme closeup, looking like he was about to cry, and that new name they’ve given him—”
“What new name?” I asked quickly, feeling dread gnawing at my guts in anticipation.
“You haven’t seen it?” Fran asked.
“I hid my newspapers,” I admitted.
Fran and Roger exchanged glances.
“He was miserable enough,” I said defensively.
“Well, he’s probably seen them now.” Fran grimaced.
“Show me.”
She sighed. It was clear she didn’t want to but knew she would be pressured into it eventually. She disappeared into the house and was back just as quickly, her arms full of the morning’s papers.
“The Age was kinder, as per usual, but the Herald Sun loved it.”
The Age was nicer, with just a picture of Declan looking devastated.
The Herald Sun had the more emotive picture. Roger was right. Declan looked like he was about to cry as he sat alone on the bench, away from his other team members.
The headline crowed HERE WE GO AGAIN! THE TEMPORARY DEVIL.
“Fuck.” It wasn’t the most coherent response I could have given, but it certainly summed up my feelings enough.
The Age’s account was straightforward, giving the facts with a few statements sprinkled in from the coach and doctor; the Herald Sun was given to hyperbole, lamenting about Declan’s performance in comparison to his salary, how the fans were disappointed in him and turning against him even more now that they had “received another slap in the face,” and how Declan might also quite possibly have contributed to the problems in East Timor through his downright suckiness.
I tossed the tabloid aside. “What can you expect from a paper that publishes Andrew Bolt’s columns?”
“Not much,” Roger said, and he clinked his bottle against mine.
Fran smiled at us proudly, as if this simple act had resolved all grievances between us. And she was probably right. It didn’t take much.
“When do you think you’ll see Declan again?” she asked.
I shrugged. “It’s all up in the air. Depends what they’re making him do in Tassie.”
“It sucks,” Fran said passionately.
“I know,” I said, my tone completely opposite to hers. It was too tiring to feel that much at the moment.
“No, it really sucks,” Fran repeated with emphasis. “If that was me, all I would want is Roger there to make me feel better. I bet you that’s what Declan wants.”
“Roger?” I asked, to deflect having to think about it.
Luckily I was out of reach from her slapping hand. “You, you idiot.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t oh me.”
“You’re pushing her,” Roger mumbled, passing me another beer. “And you know what happens when you push her.”
I had never pushed Fran, although I had seen Roger do it plenty of times; the results weren’t pretty. I had to head her off at the pass. “Fran, we’ve only been seeing each other for about a month. And of that month, we’ve seen each other maybe four days. I don’t think I’m the beginning and end of his world just yet.”
“At the start of a relationship, where every emotion is turned up to eleven? I doubt that,” Fran countered. “And what, you’re trying to tell me you don’t speak practically every day? I know you’re long-distance, but I bet you’re finding ways to overcome it.”
“What are you saying, Fran?” I asked derisively. “That I should jump on the plane and go to Hobart?”
She folded her arms over her chest and looked considerably pleased with herself.
“Finally, he gets it.”
Roger snorted, and I turned to him. “Is she serious?”
“You know her.”
I did, and she was way past serious. I sputtered almost incoherently as I tried to make her see sense.
“Fran, that’s crazy.”
“Why?”
“There are lots of whys.”
“Name some.”
Oh great, a quiz. I looked at Roger again; he stared at the long grass at the bottom of the steps like it was growing before him. He wasn’t going to be any help.
“Fine. Work.”
“Make it a two-nighter. Fly out today, fly back Monday morning.”
“Maggie.”
“You know we’ll feed her, Simon.”
This was getting harder. “The cost of the ticket.”
“I know you always have money stashed away. You’re a good saver. It’s like your one responsible quality.”
This was true. Fuck it, she did know me too well. “That’s for emergencies.”
“This is one.”
“It fucking well isn’t!”
Fran glared at me. “It would prove to Declan that you really care about him. He probably needs that right now.”
“I could prove that with a phone call.”
“Guys are such arseholes,” she muttered.
Roger and I were both stunned.
“Fran!” Roger protested.
She jumped to her feet and towered over me. It was pretty impressive and intimidating. “You know what, Simon? There are two reasons you don’t want to do it. You’re lazy, and you’re chickenshit!”
And with that barb, she thundered off into the house, slamming the door behind her for good measure.
In the eye of the storm, Roger and I compared wounds.
“Lazy and chickenshit?” I practically whimpered.
“Well, she had the lazy part right,” Roger said.
“And the chickenshit!” we heard Fran yell from inside.
“Does she have a bionic ear or something?” I asked.
“Shit, mate, you know she’s psychic.”
I put my beer down and headed in to the house. Fran was only just a couple of feet inside the door. She didn’t look at all apologetic for her behaviour.
“Why am I chickenshit?”
“So you’re accepting the lazy part?”
“Just answer me, Fran.”
“You know why you’re chickenshit. Because if you do this, you’ll be showing him a part of yourself you hate showing. That you care. You do it enough to us sometimes. That day when Roger came in with the Hawthorn scarf, I almost thought he was lying and that he’d bought it himself. We know you love us, but you like to pretend you’re all aloof and unreachable. That’s what makes you chickenshit. Getting on a plane will show Declan how you feel, and you’d hate to be that transparent.”
“I don’t know how I feel yet,” I said, still bleeding from the wound caused by the sword she had stabbed me through the stomach with.
“Don’t lie.” Her tone indicated it was a warning. “We can all see it. Even Nyssa knows you’re up to something, although she hasn’t quite figured it out yet. Why are you so scared of showing that you like someone?”
I didn’t know how to answer without sounding like I was throwing a pity party. But that’s the thing when you grow up feeling different to everyone else. And I know when you’re a teenager everybody feels different and alien to the other people around them, but there seems to be an added dimension when you’re queer. It’s because for that period of time you’re more isolated than anybody else, and you truly think you are the only one of your kind so you create fantastic barriers and defence strategies for yourself to survive. And when you get older and realise that you can take them down, it’s an internal and eternal struggle to do so. Fear is the best de-motivator in the world.
So all I could do was stare at her. Fran returned my stare, her eyes showing a sadness that made me feel even worse.
“Jesus, Simon,” she said finally. “You can’t go on like this.”
There was still that part of me battling madly against everything she was saying, this logical Vulcan inside me that was coming up with a thousand reasons why this was impossible. But Fran’s sad face combined with knowing Declan was unhappy pushed me over the edge.
“Get me your phone,” I instructed her, even though my mobile was in my pocket. If I had to pay out for a short notice ticket she could at least pay for the phone call.
She hugged me, almost crushing my ribs in the process. “I love you, Simon.”
And as her reward, I mumbled, “I love you too.”
It made her cry. Jesus. “I’m so happy,” she sobbed. “This is a beautiful moment.”
“Would you like a tissue?” I asked.
“Don’t ruin it,” she warned.
The door opened, and Roger stepped in to see this strange little tableau. “What the hell is going on?”
AND that is how I found myself on a six o’clock flight to Hobart. I barely had enough time to rush home, beg for Maggie’s forgiveness, throw some clothes together in a bag, and run back out into my front yard where Fran and Roger sat waiting in their car. They had followed me back home so they could drive me to the airport. Fran was overflowing with excitement, imagining the gay romantic comedy she was writing in her head. Roger was amused by the fact I was actually doing this crazy thing, and I was sure he would be bringing it up for years to come: the day Simon went wildly insane for love.
On the way to the airport, it dawned on me. “I don’t know his address.”
That put a dampener on Fran’s plans. “What?”
I repeated myself.
“How can you not know his address, Simon?” she practically shrieked.
“Uh, because he lives in another state, and I’ve never been to his house because of that very reason!”
She drummed her fingernails on the steering wheel, thinking furiously. “Right. Call him.”
“And say what?”
“That you want his address, stupid!”
“For what reason?”
“To send him flowers.”
“No way!” Roger and I said together.
“Fucking men,” Fran fumed. “Just do it!”
Too scared to raise her ire any further, I opened my mobile and called Declan.
“Hi,” he said warmly as he picked up. “I was just about to call you.”
“What’s your address?” I blurted out.
Fran and Roger groaned at my finesse.
“What was that noise?” Declan asked.
“Trolls,” I replied casually.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Just a little bit.”
“You’re not driving?”
“No, Fran is. She only had one beer.”
“Oh. Where are you going?”
“I’m asking the questions.” I was getting a little panicked. “What’s your address?”
He gave it to me, and I scribbled it down. “Can I at least ask why?”
“I’m sending you flowers.”
“Wow, you are drunk.”
“What, you don’t like flowers?” I could hear Roger snigger behind me. “Fine, it doesn’t have to be flowers. They have those things online where you can send cartons of beer or boxes of freckles and caramel buds. Would you rather have beer and caramel buds?”
“I’d like beer and caramel buds,” Roger murmured. I ignored him.
“Really?” Declan asked, sounding slightly dubious. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be using my credit card so freely while under the influence.”
“Fine. Fine, I’ll choose it. And you’ll probably get something really crap.”
“Simon, are you okay?”
It was a question I should have been asking him. But if I spoke to him for much longer, I would give the game away. Fran had already drummed into me this was meant to be a surprise. She was my romantic counsellor, apparently.
“I’m fine. See you.”
I hung up on him. And turned off my mobile so he couldn’t call back.
“You could have handled that a bit better,” Fran said.
“I was about to crack.”
“That happened a long time ago,” Roger muttered as he stared out the window.
I HAD to wait an hour for a cab from the Hobart airport. I wasn’t going to risk attempting public transport.
It was in the taxi, with the buzz of the beer finally wearing off, that I started to have doubts about what I was doing. Hobart was a small town, with roughly two hundred thousand people in comparison to Melbourne’s four million. Declan would be even more recognisable here than back home. And there I was, a guy, arriving on his front door step.
If there was a doorman, should I cover myself up by claiming to be Declan’s cousin? Or would that be even more suspicious?
The beer buzz was now heading into paranoiaville.
The apartment complex Declan had given me the address for was in Battery Point, which seemed to be a rather pretty, perhaps blatantly touristy maritime village. You could tell back in the convict era it was probably a hardened seaport, but now it was gussied up and yuppified and more likely to sell patchouli oil and vegetable-based soaps than seafood. I tried not to be too judgemental about it all as I stared up at the fancy seven-storey building before me and entered the lobby.
There wasn’t any doorman, but it seemed that after a certain time of night the interior doors were locked. I found myself in a small alcove before the main lobby and a wall with all the apartments listed with a buzzer next to each.
There went the surprise. I pressed Declan’s number and waited.
A fuzzy-sounding Declan answered. “Simon? What the hell?”
“Uh, surprise?” I said, just as confused as him. “How do you—?”
“Wave to the camera,” he instructed me wryly.
I turned to see the small squat box, attached to the wall, following my every move. I did as he said and gave a small wave. A buzzer sounded, the interior door swung open, and I had access to the lobby.
I scratched at my wrist unhappily as I rode the elevator to Declan’s floor. This was a mistake. A huge mistake.
I was still contemplating heading back downstairs and getting a ride to the airport, even as my feet took me to Declan’s door. I knocked with a heavy heart, and the door swung open to reveal Declan with a huge smile upon his face. He pulled me in and crushed me against his chest as he kissed me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked again, breathily.
“Like I said,” I was still trying to catch my own, “surprise.”
“I TAKE it you’re not mad, then?” I asked groggily as we lay in bed.
“Fuck, no,” he laughed. “It’s the best surprise I’ve ever had.”
Now starting to feel the cold, I pulled the doona up over us. “Fran and beer helped me decide.”
“When I finally meet Fran, I’m going to give her the biggest kiss she’s ever had in her life.”
“Roger and I might be unhappy about that.”
“Fine, does she like wine?”
“She’s Italian—are you kidding?”
He rolled over onto his side so he could look at me properly. “Seriously, I feel so much better. I hated leaving you today. I want to kidnap you and keep you here for a week rather than two days.”
“It’s not kidnapping if the victim wants to be kept.” I yawned.
“I guess not. But when I say a week, I really mean a month.”
“Is that all?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
I pressed against him. “Bad pun.”
“DEC?”
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“I was worried about coming here.” Half asleep, and in the dark, as usual it was easier to be more forthright.
“Why?”
“Because this is your territory, and it’s a much smaller town—”
“I’m happy you’re here.”
“But it could be a problem—”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I did, but—”
“Simon, no buts. Not right now.”
“Okay.” I didn’t say anything about his bad pun.
It seemed as if Declan had his concerns as well, but he was pushing them away. It was easier to exist in our little bubble, as if the world around us didn’t exist. It felt safer, but it was illusory. Which I guess is why we liked being with each other so much. It was like we could go on perfectly together if the rest of the world just didn’t get involved.
“SIMON?”
“Yep.”
“I’m going to sound like a fucking idiot for saying this—”
“Then don’t say it,” I laughed.
“Just—you and me, that’s all there is, right?”
I struggled up onto my elbows to look down on him in the dark. “What?”
“Don’t get insulted.”
“I’m too confused to be insulted right now. What are you asking?”
“You’re not seeing anyone else, right?”
Okay, I was slightly insulted now. “I find it hard enough to get one partner, let alone juggling more than one.”
“Don’t get pissy. I want to make sure we’re—”
“Were you seeing anyone else?” I asked, scared of his answer.
He must have heard the tinge of panic in my tone, as he sat up. “No!”
“Okay, so it’s just us. That’s sorted.”
“Hey—”
“Dec, just leave it.”
“No. I didn’t mean to insult you, Simon. Just—”
“What?”
He drew his knees up to his chest, and picked uncomfortably at the bandage.
“What, Dec?”
“I’ve been a bit paranoid about it since… well, the last guy I went out with.”
“He cheated on you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“He cheated on you?” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah, it happens, Simon.”
“But to you?”
“Will you stop saying that?”
“I’m sorry, I’m… shocked as hell that somebody would cheat on you.”
“I don’t get you sometimes. You seem so unfazed by me, unlike the rest of the public, and then there are just some times when you say things like that.” Declan thumped his knee in frustration, and I grabbed his hand so that he couldn’t do it again. “As if I’m special. Simon, I’m just like any other guy. And sometimes that means you get cheated on, and that fucks you up.”
I slipped my arm around his waist. “I’m sorry. But you are special. People are always going to see you differently. And although it really doesn’t matter to me that you’re Declan Tyler, god of football—”
He laughed weakly.
“—sometimes I will be amazed if someone does something against you. And not just because you’re Declan Tyler, god of football. But because you’re Declan Tyler, guy I like.”
He kissed me. “Good answer.”
“I can be surprising sometimes.”
“HERE, babe. Coffee.”
My eyes sprang open. Did I just hear what I thought I heard?
I wasn’t sure. I rolled around and found a mug in my face. I sat up, and Declan handed it down. He then climbed in beside me, holding his own.
I sipped at my coffee in silence, wondering if I should say something about what had been said. There was an awkward air hanging between us, and Declan drummed his fingers against his mug.
“So—” I began.
“Too soon, right?” he asked.
Relieved, I laughed. “I didn’t imagine it!”
“You thought—”
“You called me babe,” I laughed. “Babe!”
“Okay, you don’t like terms of endearment.”
I took his mug off him, and set both of them next to the bed. He looked at me quizzically as I pulled him over onto me and kissed him. “Oh, babe, babe, babe,” I teased, covering his face with kisses.
“Okay, I get it. I won’t say it anymore.”
“Don’t you dare stop it,” I warned him. “Just, not in front of anybody else. I have a reputation to consider.”
“You?”
“Yes. Me.”
“Sure thing,” he said, grinning. “Babe.”
FRESHLY showered and caffeined up, we moved into the kitchen. In the daylight and not as distracted by Declan’s charms, I now got to see exactly what kind of apartment I was in.
I felt like I was in a Modern Home layout. Dec had opened the blinds, and I was greeted by a picture-postcard view of the harbour and Mount Wellington rising up just behind it.
“Like the view?” Declan grinned.
“It sure beats my view of Mr. Grimmauldson’s veggie garden,” I said wryly, watching the boats bob upon the waves below me.
“Mr. Grimmauldson might argue with that,” Dec replied, filling the coffee machine.
“I could stare out there forever.”
“You do look slightly hypnotised.”
“This isn’t the penthouse, is it?” I asked.
Declan scoffed at me. “There’s no penthouse in this complex.”
It sure seemed like a penthouse, but I was only comparing it to my own weatherboard shack in North Brunswick.
Declan’s lounge room was tastefully and sparsely furnished. A faux-vintage coffee table sat upon a large dark rug. Two expensive leather couches sat at opposite ends to each other, facing a large entertainment unit.
But there was something vital missing.
“Where’s your telly?” I asked.
He moved beside me and picked up a remote control from the coffee table. The entertainment unit slid open to reveal a huge plasma television that was practically half the size of my lounge room wall at home. “Holy fuck,” I breathed. There may have been angels singing hallelujah as well. “I’m bringing my DVDs here.”
“You’re easily pleased,” Declan murmured, nuzzling my neck.
“Do you have surround sound?” I asked, still distracted.
He laughed; it felt soothing against my skin. “Yes. I actually had the subwoofer inserted into the bottom of the couches. You should feel the Death Star blowing up in Star Wars.”
Puzzled, I grabbed his head and gently turned it so I could look him in the eye. “I thought I was meant to be the geek? That’s even geekier than anything I’ve ever said in my life.”
Declan looked pleased with himself. “I guess I like surprising you every now and again.”
The coffee machine began hissing, letting us know the coffee was ready. I gave him a quick kiss and jogged over to start pouring.
“You know, the fastest I ever see you move is when you’re going after coffee,” Declan remarked.
“At least I’m consistent that way,” I said, pulling the milk out of the fridge.
His fridge was well-stocked. “You must have a maid hidden somewhere,” I murmured.
“What was that?” Declan asked from the lounge.
“Nothing,” I called back as I shut the fridge and turned my attention back to the coffee.
We both froze as a knock came at the door.
“Dec! Open up!” a loud, deep voice reverberated through the wood.
I looked at Declan, sure that I had turned pale.
Declan, however, looked as relaxed as he had moments before. “I think it’s time you met some of my friends,” he said casually.