Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

We didn’t ask so much of each other anymore. We just got closer and closer. We had great sex with other people and great companionship with each other. It wasn’t what I had planned on, but it seemed to work better than anything else.”
Wilfred’s brow furrowed. “But … that’s not really a lover.”
“Oh, I know. And we made damn sure our boyfriends knew that, too. We’d say: ‘Jon’s just a friend…. Michael’s just my roommate…. We used to be lovers, but now we’re just friends.’ If you’ve ever been the third party in a situation like that, you know that the difference doesn’t mean diddlyshit. Those guys are married … and they’re always the last to know.”
“But you knew,” said Wilfred.
Michael nodded. “Toward the end. Yeah.”
“Then … that’s better than nothing.”
Michael smiled at him. “That’s better than everything.”
“Does your family know you’re bent?”
“Sure,” said Michael. “Jon and I went to visit them in Florida a few months before he got sick.” He grinned at the memory. “They liked him a lot—I knew they would—but God knows what they were envisioning between the two of us. That’s funny, isn’t it? They didn’t have a damn thing to worry about. I spent five years getting them used to the idea of me sleeping with men … only to bring them one I didn’t sleep with anymore.”
“Where did you meet him?” asked Wilfred.
“At a roller rink. We collided.”
“Really?”
“I got a nosebleed. He was so fucking gallant I couldn’t believe it.” He gazed out the window at two mouse-gray villages crouching in a green vale. “We went home to my place. Mona brought us breakfast in bed the next morning.”
“You mean … the one at Harrods.”
“Right. We were roommates at the time.” Several ragged scraps of blue had appeared above the distant hills. He felt a perverse little surge of optimism. “I hope you get to meet her. She’s not really … what was it you called her?”
“A twitzy-twee bitch?”
“Yeah. She’s not like that. She’s just a good, basic dyke.”
Wilfred looked skeptical.
“You’ll see,” said Michael. “I hope you will, anyway.”
When they arrived in Moreton-in-Marsh, the Stationmaster directed them to the village center, a former Roman road called Fosse Way. It was lined with buildings made of grayish-orange Cotswold limestone, tourist facilities mostly—china shops, map stores, tearooms. The one at the end, closest to the town hall, was a pub called the Black Bear. They found two empty seats in the corner of the smoky room.
“See a barmaid?” asked Michael.
“I think Doll is it.”
“Who?”
“Behind the bar, mate. The one with the eyeliner.”
“How do you know her name?”
Wilfred smiled smugly and pointed to a sign above the bar: YOUR PROPRIETORS—DOLL AND FRED . “Any more questions?”
“Yeah. What about … our little friend?” He pointed to Dingo’s box.
“Right. In a bit. How ‘bout a cider?”
“Perfect.”
While Wilfred was at the bar, Michael combed the titles on the jukebox and found Duran Duran and the Boystown Gang, San Francisco’s own gay-themed rock group. The global village was shrinking by the second. He returned to his seat and took refuge in a reverie about ancient inns and craggy wayfarers and Something Queer Afoot.
“Success.” Wilfred beamed, setting the ciders down.
“How so?”
“I asked ol’ Doll about Roughton in Easley-on-Hill.”
“And?”
“Well … Roughton is Lord Roughton, for one thing.”
Michael whistled.
“For another, the house is very grand … one of the grandest in the Cotswolds.”
Michael thought for a moment. “We can’t just walk up and ring the doorbell, I guess.”
The kid grinned mysteriously. “Not exactly.”
“Wilfred … don’t be coy.”
“I’m not. There’s a tour.”
“You mean … of the house?”
Wilfred nodded. “Takes us right there.”
“Then we could …”
“I’ve booked us on it. Tomorrow morning.” It was almost too good to be true. Michael shook his head in amazement.
“Was that wrong?” asked Wilfred.
“Are you kidding? It’s perfect. Did she say if there’s a place to stay?”
“Upstairs. They have rooms. The bus leaves here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Ten pounds for the two of us. That’s the tour, rather. The room is another eight pounds.”
Michael rose, feeling for his wallet. “I’d better …”
“It’s done, male.”
“Now, Wilfred …”
“You can pay for dinner. Sit down.