tried to find the right word, “ – temperamental,” he said finally.
Yes, Ollie thought, all of your lovers had tempers and all tended to be mental.
“But lesbians – they’re perfect, they love to wear uniform and they’re reassuringly dependable which, of course, fits in perfectly with my own modus operandum.”
Ollie had heard Johnson’s philosophy spiel before. He made the decorator stew for a few seconds before asking, “Which is?”
“Well,” the decorator began, happy to tell his story again, “you know the secret of my success is to be reassuring and dependable. I can always be relied on to find something ‘just so’ for a library or guest suite, and I’m always there to walk them to the opera or some ghastly ball and they
know
I’ll make them enjoy it.”
Listening to Johnson Ollie could see what his clients saw in him. Everything about him was reassuring, his voice was calm and rich, his looks were ruggedly Harrison Ford – albeit Harrison Ford on a bad day as Johnson always said.
“Or Harrison Ford on a fag day,” Ollie joked.
“Harrison doesn’t have fag days,” Johnson smiled at his guest, revelling in the ease with which he dropped the star’s first name. “But Harrison on a bad day is better than 98% of men on their best days.”
Ah, that ever-elusive 2% of men – wherever were they? Lulled by Johnson’s warm manner Ollie looked at the rain outside and wondered how Rion was coping. With Jake’s experience he was sure she was doing just fine.
“And of course I’m gay, which the wives find reassuring – they know that with me they’re not going to get some minimalist crap pressed on them by some devoutly hetero family man with an obnoxious puritanical streak, no, with me they can swag and tassell with handmade Venetian fabrics until they drop.”
Ollie looked around him. Apart from a riot of gilt, some dubious trompe l’oeil columns and the odd tiger print cushion, Johnson’s house betrayed more of the minimalism his clients hated than the swagging they loved.
“And the husbands find it reassuring ‘cos they know that I’m not going to jump their wives and that, whilst with me, their wives are not going to jump the lithe surfer poolboy or the studly stable manager with the sexy Gloucestershire burr – Lady Chatterley is still an inspiration to
many
of these women.”
Ollie’s thoughts wandered once more to the wellbuilt guy in Meanwhile Gardens. Did what he said really classify as small talk? Ollie was brought back to the conservatory in Hampstead by the clapping of hands. He looked up to find Johnson beaming at him.
“But let’s see this table shall we?”
Ignoring Hum’s reproachful look from the passenger seatOllie opened the back of the van. He observed the new house‘boy’ as she helped carry the two carved wooden pedestals, and the blanket-wrapped plate of glass that fitted securely on top, into the morning room.
The only thing Ollie noticed was the complete lack of spots or the beginnings of stubble that the seventeen-year-old boy she looked like would have. But then being twenty-two and female her hormones would be entirely different.
Johnson looked at the pedestals, “Do I know the model?”
The two wooden bases, both exactly the same, showed a male form on his knees, his muscled back flat over his body. His head and neck were straight as if looking at something on the floor in front of him. The figure’s arms were curled behind him, his hands demurely covering his backside.
“Not unless you’re 2000 years old.”
Johnson looked in one of a pair of gilt Louis XV mirrors. “That reminds me,” he put his hands beneath his temples and lifted them up to make the already smooth skin on his face even smoother, “it’s about time I saw Dr Richardson.”
“Dr – ?” Ollie gave Johnson an enquiring look.
Johnson lightly slapped his temples. “Fillers,” he explained.
Ollie lifted the sheet of glass, easily slotting it into the two
Yes, Ollie thought, all of your lovers had tempers and all tended to be mental.
“But lesbians – they’re perfect, they love to wear uniform and they’re reassuringly dependable which, of course, fits in perfectly with my own modus operandum.”
Ollie had heard Johnson’s philosophy spiel before. He made the decorator stew for a few seconds before asking, “Which is?”
“Well,” the decorator began, happy to tell his story again, “you know the secret of my success is to be reassuring and dependable. I can always be relied on to find something ‘just so’ for a library or guest suite, and I’m always there to walk them to the opera or some ghastly ball and they
know
I’ll make them enjoy it.”
Listening to Johnson Ollie could see what his clients saw in him. Everything about him was reassuring, his voice was calm and rich, his looks were ruggedly Harrison Ford – albeit Harrison Ford on a bad day as Johnson always said.
“Or Harrison Ford on a fag day,” Ollie joked.
“Harrison doesn’t have fag days,” Johnson smiled at his guest, revelling in the ease with which he dropped the star’s first name. “But Harrison on a bad day is better than 98% of men on their best days.”
Ah, that ever-elusive 2% of men – wherever were they? Lulled by Johnson’s warm manner Ollie looked at the rain outside and wondered how Rion was coping. With Jake’s experience he was sure she was doing just fine.
“And of course I’m gay, which the wives find reassuring – they know that with me they’re not going to get some minimalist crap pressed on them by some devoutly hetero family man with an obnoxious puritanical streak, no, with me they can swag and tassell with handmade Venetian fabrics until they drop.”
Ollie looked around him. Apart from a riot of gilt, some dubious trompe l’oeil columns and the odd tiger print cushion, Johnson’s house betrayed more of the minimalism his clients hated than the swagging they loved.
“And the husbands find it reassuring ‘cos they know that I’m not going to jump their wives and that, whilst with me, their wives are not going to jump the lithe surfer poolboy or the studly stable manager with the sexy Gloucestershire burr – Lady Chatterley is still an inspiration to
many
of these women.”
Ollie’s thoughts wandered once more to the wellbuilt guy in Meanwhile Gardens. Did what he said really classify as small talk? Ollie was brought back to the conservatory in Hampstead by the clapping of hands. He looked up to find Johnson beaming at him.
“But let’s see this table shall we?”
Ignoring Hum’s reproachful look from the passenger seatOllie opened the back of the van. He observed the new house‘boy’ as she helped carry the two carved wooden pedestals, and the blanket-wrapped plate of glass that fitted securely on top, into the morning room.
The only thing Ollie noticed was the complete lack of spots or the beginnings of stubble that the seventeen-year-old boy she looked like would have. But then being twenty-two and female her hormones would be entirely different.
Johnson looked at the pedestals, “Do I know the model?”
The two wooden bases, both exactly the same, showed a male form on his knees, his muscled back flat over his body. His head and neck were straight as if looking at something on the floor in front of him. The figure’s arms were curled behind him, his hands demurely covering his backside.
“Not unless you’re 2000 years old.”
Johnson looked in one of a pair of gilt Louis XV mirrors. “That reminds me,” he put his hands beneath his temples and lifted them up to make the already smooth skin on his face even smoother, “it’s about time I saw Dr Richardson.”
“Dr – ?” Ollie gave Johnson an enquiring look.
Johnson lightly slapped his temples. “Fillers,” he explained.
Ollie lifted the sheet of glass, easily slotting it into the two
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