The Beard by Mark Sinclair Page B

darting home to see some poor, unsuspecting girlfriend. Tom had even slept with a guy who’d woken him at 5am the next morning. “This is looking good,” he’d thought to himself, until the guy explained that Tom had to leave – his best man was due soon, as he was getting married later that day.
    Accordingly, with his own delusions and others’ deception, Tom had decided to give dating a miss. What was meant to be a month turned into a year, and a year into a few years. The period of celibacy assisted with his persona as a down-to-earth straight guy. The longer it went on, the easier it became. The easier it became, the lonelier he was. No one in the closet could ever successfully have a relationship out of it. Tom knew that. He also knew that there was a statistical probability that Ash would bring home someone he knew. So he had a choice to make: how much longer would he stay locked up, peering through the cupboard door like a modern-day Rapunzel? Always looking out at a world that was near, yet beyond reach. When you can’t offer a room to a friend in need, just in case they bring someone back that you know, you have problems.
    Tom wandered into the lounge to see Ash sat in his favourite chair – formerly Tom’s favourite chair. As ever, he was watching daytime TV and answering questions on a quiz show with breathless excitement, as if he were there in the studio hitting the button.
    “Alright?” said Tom nonchalantly.
    Ash, engrossed in his show, ignored him.
    “Fine,” said Tom as he slumped onto the sofa and started leafing through one of Ash’s many magazines.
    Ash’s taste in magazines could never be described as cerebral. Picture after picture of celebrities Tom had never hitherto seen, stumbling out of nightclubs, restaurants and other anonymous celebrities’ apartments. Tom doubted if, when twisted, the magazines would even make good firelighters, such was the vacuity. 
    “Good Lord,” Tom muttered to himself, reading the gay confessions of someone who was once in a soap opera but now wanted a chat show. Page after page of meaningless drivel and people of no substance – and this is what Ash parted with his money for. Or, to be more precise, parted with Tom’s money for.
    “Oi!” said Ash, looking quizzically at Tom.
    Tom looked up to see the TV switched off and Ash looking at him. How long have I been reading this fodder? he thought, as he looked around the room for any visible clues as to how much of his life he’d lost thumbing through that magazine.
    Ash looked puzzled at Tom’s vacant expression and clicked his fingers. “Oi!” he repeated. “You with us?”
    Tom nodded and closed the magazines as if they were cursed.
    “I have some new-ooooohs!” Ash said, singing the words.
    Tom was still eyeing the publications nervously. He turned without any thought and said, “You’re moving back into your flat? Good. I think it’ll do you good.” It was a knee-jerk reaction and was meant to disguise Tom’s feelings and concerns about the house share.
    It didn’t have the desired effect. Ash stared at Tom with a distinct look of pain. The inevitable pouting lips and ruffled brow overshadowed this, however, as a lip distinctly quivered.
    Tom looked at this creased face of annoyance and mouthed, “Oh” to no one in particular.
    “Tom, sweetness,” Ash said with an air of exhaustion, “I’ve given notice on my flat. I’ve officially moved out.”
    Tom stared back at Ash in shock. “Moved out?” he said. “Where on earth are you going to live now?”
    There was a moment of tension as Ash prepared to reveal his new abode. Scanning Tom’s face for any clue as to his feelings, he took his time to make his announcement. “Well, here, obviously,” he said with as much joviality as he could muster.
    Tom knew that his face was being surveyed for the slightest movement or sign of acceptance. Accordingly, he remained stony silent and still.
    “Now, I know what you’re thinking…”