A Stringed Instrument Ch. 09

We'd planned to retire to our room and enjoy the goodies that we'd bought for our picnic, but Keith invited us to dine with him and Iain "— our only other guests cancelled, we could do with the company —" and we accepted, bringing our stash to the table. We had no cause to regret it. Iain was a splendid cook, and both of them were excellent conversationalists. Like any old couple they'd long since heard all one another's stories, and were pleased to have an audience, so we sat back and listened while Kirby patrolled the carpet for crumbs.

As I'd guessed from the name of the place, Iain was an ex-lawyer: "Queen's Counsel. And queens' counsel too, for that matter." After knocking back a couple of glasses of the Shiraz he'd loosened up enough to tell us about the "ex-" part: in the mid-nineties, he'd had a close shave with a newspaper editor obsessed with exposing a supposed conspiracy of gay pedophiles. None of his accusations had ever been substantiated, but one of Iain's friends had committed suicide after his fondness for anonymous hookups made the news: "That's his bed you slept on last night. I represented a couple of the others pro bono. We took the bastards to court, fought for a couple of years, squeezed a little bit of blood money out of them in the end. But it all took a lot out of me. Keith made me go to a doctor and the quack said I'd be dead in five years if I didn't do something about my blood pressure, so I hung up my wig and we bought this place."

Keith had been almost famous, an actor in a long-running TV soap. It sounded like an exciting existence: cast as an unlikely sex symbol, kidnapped by a drug syndicate, jilted at the altar by the woman who nobody knew was his own sister. Off-screen he'd been stalked by a besotted fan ("little did she know!") and at the studio's advice he was married off to one of his co-stars ("a member of the sisterhood") when the show needed a ratings boost. He showed us a few of the cards she'd sent him over the years: "Love from your Sham Wife," "Merry Christmas from your best beard," "To 'Oscar' from 'Constance'," and so forth.

"And then, of course, there was the time I grew my leg back."

"How did you lose it?" asked Phoebe.

"End of... was it Season Three or Season Four, Iain?"

"Four. Not that I watched that tripe."

"Of course you didn't, Iain. Yes, end of Season Four, the producers decided to do a bit of spring-cleaning. Great big bomb went off, killed off a couple of people who were asking too much to renew their contracts. My character was looking a bit too settled and happy at the time, so the writers told me 'Good news darling, you're losing a leg!'"

"Sounds painful."

"Excruciating. They strapped my leg up with my foot against my arse so it was all tucked away inside the trousers, but not what you'd call comfortable. And it slowed me down and mucked up the shooting timetable. So after they'd milked it for a few episodes we moved onto something new — Iain, was that the sex-change lady?"

"Something like that."

"So we agreed they'd just manage the cameras so I was only seen from the waist up. Great relief all round. By the middle of Season Six, we'd all forgotten about it. We'd had a serial strangler, a big gay kiss between the only two straight men in the cast, two Christmas specials, God knows what else. And then we had one episode at the beach where I was wearing shorts. Legs and all. We only remembered after it went to air, the writers were having kittens, but nobody out there noticed. Thank God we didn't have the Internet back then for people to complain about that sort of thing. So I got to have my leg back."

"Impressive." I cut myself a couple more slices of a nice sharp cheddar. "So tell me, how did the two of you end up together?"

"Well, it's a —" Keith began, but Iain interrupted him: "Do you want the truth and the whole truth, or the version we tell Keith's parents?"

"Oh, let's hear both," chirped Phoebe. She was leaning forward, both elbows propped on the table, and from the way she spoke and the wideness of her eyes I thought she was just a little bit under the influence. She was also playing footsie with me under the table.

"Well," said Keith, "after the show got cancelled, I went back to theatre for a while — that's my first love — and Iain was so smitten by my Orsino that he insisted on meeting me after the show. He invited me to his Christmas party, and romance blossomed."

There was a respectful pause while Keith refilled his wine glass. Beside him, Iain finished another, before clearing his throat for the other version of events. "We met in a bath-house on Oxford Street. Both regulars. After we'd been shagging for a few months we exchanged names and phone numbers, and a few months after that Keith invited me to the theatre."

"Iain and I were both getting tired of the scene, so we thought we'd settle down for a few months and see how it worked out. And thirty-four years later, here we are."

Iain scowled. "Oh god, don't make me feel ancient."

"You've always been ancient, Iain. You're so lucky I like older men. So, young ladies, how did you meet?"

I fielded that one. "Also a Christmas party. I was pissed off at my boss, thought I was about to get fired, and his daughter was absolutely gorgeous, so I kissed her and one thing led to another. Erm, in her dad's wardrobe."

"And is that the version you tell the parents?"

"God, no!" blurted Phoebe. "We just tell them we're friends."

The conversation went on, with Keith telling funny stories about some of the other guests they'd had over the years. But I found myself withdrawing from the conversation, drawing back and letting the three of them chat among themselves. Was I sulking a little? I shouldn't have been bothered by what Phoebe had said — it was quite true — and yet the emphatic way she'd said it had altogether taken the wind out of my sails.

I tried to get back into the spirit of fun, but I just couldn't recapture the good mood I'd been in just a few minutes earlier, so I decided to make my exit. "Sorry lads, but you've fed me so well I'm falling asleep here. I'm going to toddle up to bed."

"Already?" Phoebe enquired.

"Lots of driving tomorrow. Don't let me spoil your fun, you stay." I wasn't sure how sincere I sounded, so I just gave her a light kiss on the forehead and made my way upstairs.

Although it was still early, I'd barely climbed into bed and switched out the light when I heard Phoebe slipping into the bedroom.

"Yvonne?"

I lay there, facing the window, listening to the rivulets of rainwater splattering down from the gutters.

"Are you awake, love?"

I felt petty trying to ignore her... and I resented her for making me feel petty. "Yes."

"You don't sound... are you upset?"

"A little."

She came around the bed and sat beside me. "Oh, love, it doesn't sound like a little. What's wrong? Was it about not telling family? I thought you were okay with that."

"I can deal with not telling them. I don't love it but I can respect why you don't want to. But please don't talk like it's ludicrous to even think of acknowledging me in front of them."

"Oh, love." She touched my hair, tentatively. I wasn't sure whether I wanted that. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It's... I wish I could tell them, but it's not that easy."

"So did you tell them about Luke? Was that so hard?" Bitterness seeping through, decades of old resentments.

"Yes. You know I did." She sounded miserable, and instantly I felt like a prat.

"I'm sorry. That was bitchy of me. I know it's not the same."

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Yvonne. I hate the thought of hurting you." Still stroking my hair.

"It wasn't really you, love." I sat up and put my arms around her. "Well, not much of it. I just, I've spent all my life being told my feelings aren't as big and important and real as the next guy's. All the happy straight couples getting their love stories on the telly out in the sunlight. And maybe if I'm lucky I'll get to fuck some girl who wants to put on a show for her boyfriend. Or be her little secret hobby until she finds a nice boy to marry and forgets about me. Maybe a few years down the track she wants to sound bohemian and adventurous, she'll tell her friends how one time she experimented with another girl. And then she'll forget all about it, and I'll still be..." I couldn't finish. My face was wet, and now she was holding me instead of the other way around.

"Oh, honey, honey, honey." She pulled my head into her chest, stroked my hair, rocked me in her arms. "Oh, sweetie. Oh darling Yvonne. Look, I'm still a bit sozzled and I don't have the words right. But please believe me, you're not an experiment. You mean more than that to me."

"I know. I should know, at least. Wish I wasn't so fucking insecure. It's stupid, if I'm expecting you to call and you're late, I start getting paranoid, thinking you've lost interest in me. I have to make myself think through it, remind myself that you're not that sort of person. Sometimes I have to go through old texts and emails just to look at the bits where you tell me you love me." I snuffled loudly, and she handed me a hanky to blow my nose. "Thanks. I'm sorry, I... hi, I'm Yvonne, if you hadn't noticed, I have a bit of baggage."

"Don't we all?" She hugged me tight again. "Those things you said, that stuff happened to you?"

"Not to me. But happened to friends, more than once. It's all part of the experience. Living in a world full of fuckwits who keep telling me any relationship with me in it doesn't count."

"It counts for me. Hey, do you really go back through my texts?"

"Saved 'em all."

"Well, then." She reached down and took my hand, folded hers around it. "Tomorrow, when you go home, and you step off the plane and switch your phone back on, the first thing you'll see is a message from me saying I love you and I miss you. You should save that one too."

I squeezed her hand, and we sat side by side as rain battered at the window. I was crying again, but if I wasn't exactly happy, I was far from sad: just sitting there, holding Phoebe's hand, knowing she wasn't going anywhere.

After several minutes of companionable silence: "Yvonne, do you like poetry?"

"Sure. Well, some of it, there's a lot of stuff I don't get. Why?"

She hesitated a moment, marshalling a memory, and then spoke:

"I wonder by my troth, what thou and I

Did, until we loved? Were we not weaned till then?

But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?

'Twas so; but for this, all pleasures fancies be.

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee."

"...is that Shakespeare?"

"John Donne. Had to learn a couple of his in school, that one stuck with me."

"It's beautiful. Now I feel tingly all over." I kissed her cheek. "Later you can read me more like that, but right now I should get some sleep."

"Mmm-hmm." She rose, giving me a peck on the forehead. "Keep the bed warm, I'm just going to brush my teeth."

When she returned, she slipped in behind me, and this time it was my turn to fall asleep wrapped in my lover's arms.

We were sorry to leave the next morning. But I had a plane to catch, and a long drive back to Sydney before that. And so, just as the skies cleared at last, we said goodbye to Iain and Keith (and Kirby) and got on the road again. A few hours later, we said goodbye to one another at the airport, and I walked to the departure gate.

And when I stepped off the plane at Tullamarine, there it was, just as she'd said:

I love you and I miss you. See you soon - P.