entirely to themselves. The day was as damp and misty as it had been early that morning. The unmoving sea was a sludgy colour between brown and grey, and the sky looked as if it had been concreted over. The emptiness and greyness depressed Tara further. Coming here had been a mistake. The two hours they’d spent trapped in the car with each other, smoking their heads off, had been even more electric with tension than their morning in the front room. Despite the uninviting weather she insisted that they get out and walk, hoping that the fresh air would perform miracles. Heads down, they trudged along the gravel and, when they got to a breakwater, stopped. They sat on the damp gravel and stared out at the stagnant sea. As beneficial as looking at a switched-off television. No birds sang.
After fifteen silent minutes they slogged back to the car and returned home. On the drive back to London it started to rain.
12
Fintan and Sandro were having a far nicer day than Tara and Thomas. They’d had a lively, chattery lunch with a crowd of friends at Circus, and now they were at home reading the Sunday papers. Fintan was stretched full-length on their so-hip-it-hurts tan leather sofa, his feet in Sandro’s lap.
Perfectly in tune with each other, they barely needed to speak to communicate.
‘Did you read –’
‘– Michael Bywater?’
‘Mmmmm. Funny.’
‘Mmmmm.’
A long comfortable silence followed.
‘Do you think –’
‘– a shag-pile rug? I do. We could look –’
‘– next weekend. We will.’
Another blanket of hush.
Sandro folded up the Culture bit of the
Independent
and opened his mouth to ask Fintan to pass the Real Life section, but Fintan had beaten him to it and was already proffering it.
Fintan and Sandro had met six years previously when Fintan was sharing the flat in Kentish Town with Tara and Katherine. Sandro had literally been the boy next door.
The day Sandro had moved into the flat across the hall,Fintan took one look at his small, jaunty frame, his elfin face, his shaved head and round glasses, and fell in love. He was ripe for it. For about a year he’d been complaining, ‘I’m tired of playing the field. I’d like to settle down. I want a significant other.’
They knew from his mail that the new boy’s name was Sandro Cetti. He was always smiley and friendly if he met any of them in the hall, so one morning Tara brazenly questioned him and established that he was an architect, originally from Rome.
‘An Italian stallion.’ Fintan said later.
‘Hardly a stallion,’ Tara said. ‘An Italian pony is more like it.’
And the name stuck.
‘I just don’t know if he’s gay,’ Fintan agonized. ‘I’m not picking up any signals.’
‘But neither am I,’ Tara said. ‘I’m not sure he’s straight either.’
‘Maybe he’s an alien,’ came Katherine’s voice from the bathroom.
‘He’s going out, he’s going out,’ Tara yelped, and Fintan rushed to the window and discreetly watched Sandro walk buoyantly down the road, neat and dinky in his trendy little suit and shiny Doc Martens.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ Fintan sighed. ‘As cute as all get out?’
As the weeks passed, everything Sandro said and did simply served to increase Fintan’s devotion. One night there was a car crash outside their house and Sandro was full of dancing-eyed excitement by the front door the following morning.
‘I was lying in my sleep and BOOM!’ He lifted both hands as if conducting an orchestra. ‘I hear a big, big noise so I run to my window and I see glass in all the places!’
Later Fintan repeated every word that Sandro had said. ‘ “I see glass in all the places.” How could anyone resist that? “I was lying in my sleep.” The boy’s an angel.’ He sighed, love-sick. ‘This is getting worse.’
Time went on and Fintan continued with his high-octane life: pubs, partying, clubbing, always with one eye out just in case Sandro showed up in any of the gay clubs.
After fifteen silent minutes they slogged back to the car and returned home. On the drive back to London it started to rain.
12
Fintan and Sandro were having a far nicer day than Tara and Thomas. They’d had a lively, chattery lunch with a crowd of friends at Circus, and now they were at home reading the Sunday papers. Fintan was stretched full-length on their so-hip-it-hurts tan leather sofa, his feet in Sandro’s lap.
Perfectly in tune with each other, they barely needed to speak to communicate.
‘Did you read –’
‘– Michael Bywater?’
‘Mmmmm. Funny.’
‘Mmmmm.’
A long comfortable silence followed.
‘Do you think –’
‘– a shag-pile rug? I do. We could look –’
‘– next weekend. We will.’
Another blanket of hush.
Sandro folded up the Culture bit of the
Independent
and opened his mouth to ask Fintan to pass the Real Life section, but Fintan had beaten him to it and was already proffering it.
Fintan and Sandro had met six years previously when Fintan was sharing the flat in Kentish Town with Tara and Katherine. Sandro had literally been the boy next door.
The day Sandro had moved into the flat across the hall,Fintan took one look at his small, jaunty frame, his elfin face, his shaved head and round glasses, and fell in love. He was ripe for it. For about a year he’d been complaining, ‘I’m tired of playing the field. I’d like to settle down. I want a significant other.’
They knew from his mail that the new boy’s name was Sandro Cetti. He was always smiley and friendly if he met any of them in the hall, so one morning Tara brazenly questioned him and established that he was an architect, originally from Rome.
‘An Italian stallion.’ Fintan said later.
‘Hardly a stallion,’ Tara said. ‘An Italian pony is more like it.’
And the name stuck.
‘I just don’t know if he’s gay,’ Fintan agonized. ‘I’m not picking up any signals.’
‘But neither am I,’ Tara said. ‘I’m not sure he’s straight either.’
‘Maybe he’s an alien,’ came Katherine’s voice from the bathroom.
‘He’s going out, he’s going out,’ Tara yelped, and Fintan rushed to the window and discreetly watched Sandro walk buoyantly down the road, neat and dinky in his trendy little suit and shiny Doc Martens.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ Fintan sighed. ‘As cute as all get out?’
As the weeks passed, everything Sandro said and did simply served to increase Fintan’s devotion. One night there was a car crash outside their house and Sandro was full of dancing-eyed excitement by the front door the following morning.
‘I was lying in my sleep and BOOM!’ He lifted both hands as if conducting an orchestra. ‘I hear a big, big noise so I run to my window and I see glass in all the places!’
Later Fintan repeated every word that Sandro had said. ‘ “I see glass in all the places.” How could anyone resist that? “I was lying in my sleep.” The boy’s an angel.’ He sighed, love-sick. ‘This is getting worse.’
Time went on and Fintan continued with his high-octane life: pubs, partying, clubbing, always with one eye out just in case Sandro showed up in any of the gay clubs.
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