occurred to me that he might be embarrassed to be seen with me, my teardrop, piercings and all-black wardrobe.
Because of the frequency of his trips abroad, he often arranged for me to join him in Paris, Amsterdam or Barcelona on a Friday night after his business had been completed and we would spend the weekend together before returning to London on the final Sunday-night flight.
This proved problematic and I found myself quite unpopular with the other assistants at the music shop in Denmark Street when I frequently elected to forego work on a Saturday under the pretext of family circumstances. I think Jonno guessed a man of some sort must be involved – he invariably signed me off on the rotas with a knowing wink.
The folk at the fetish club and the imperious She seemed less concerned, as they had a bevy of part-time helpers at their beck and call. In any case, I was careful to make myself available on any weekend when Leonard was not on the tail end of a business trip, as I would then spend most evenings with him during the actual week in London.
‘You’re never home, or answer your phone, these days,’ Neil remarked one day, a month or so after I’d first got together with Leonard, as we sat indifferently nibbling at sandwiches at the nearby Pret A Manger, nursing our coffees alongside.
‘Just busy, you know.’
‘Busy doing what?’ he queried.
‘I’ve met someone,’ I revealed.
The look on his face betrayed his disappointment. He had repeatedly tried to convince me, since he had also moved up to London, that we should go out on a date, but I had insisted it would be better to just remain good friends.
‘Do I know him?’ he asked.
‘No.’ And I left it at that.
How could I tell a boy of barely twenty-one who innocently yearned after me that I was sleeping with a man who was old enough to be his father, or even mine. That I enjoyed the age difference between us. That our gap in years made me feel feminine and desirable in a way that I never felt dating people my own age. That I had grown used to Leonard’s worldliness and the comparative coarseness of his skin and the way the wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed or smiled made me feel joyful. The way we could both sustain lengthy silences when we were together or, alternately, talk for hours about everything and nothing and he could sit calmly, watching me and listening to me talk about my past life, and appear genuinely fascinated by the humdrum of my day-to-day existence. I knew such revelations would only hurt Neil further, so I kept them to myself.
The conversation with Neil quickly petered out after that and, anyway, we both had to go back to work, me to Denmark Street and him to Chancery Lane where he was doing an internship with a big PR firm.
A DHL van was parked outside the shop and a large delivery was taking place when I got back.
Heavy boxes were being passed from hand to hand in asteady relay as some of the other staff carried the new consignment of guitars from the US factory down to the shop’s basement. I joined the fray, although I heard the familiar message signal on the phone buried deep at the bottom of my jeans pocket. It was a quarter of an hour later when I had the chance to read it.
Leonard. This time it would be Paris. The reference code for the electronic ticket for Eurostar was attached and the name and address of the hotel we would be staying at. He’d been in Greece and Turkey all week, but had arranged a stop-over in the French capital on the way back to spend the time with me. I’d been hoping he might fly me to Istanbul, but I reckoned Paris was as good as the Grand Bazaar.
I made a quick call to the club and managed to swap the coming Saturday for a couple of weekday nights.
Later that afternoon, as I was daydreaming of Paris and what sharing it with Leonard would be like, three men walked into the store. They were speaking to each other in a language I couldn’t recognise – but then, I didn’t
Because of the frequency of his trips abroad, he often arranged for me to join him in Paris, Amsterdam or Barcelona on a Friday night after his business had been completed and we would spend the weekend together before returning to London on the final Sunday-night flight.
This proved problematic and I found myself quite unpopular with the other assistants at the music shop in Denmark Street when I frequently elected to forego work on a Saturday under the pretext of family circumstances. I think Jonno guessed a man of some sort must be involved – he invariably signed me off on the rotas with a knowing wink.
The folk at the fetish club and the imperious She seemed less concerned, as they had a bevy of part-time helpers at their beck and call. In any case, I was careful to make myself available on any weekend when Leonard was not on the tail end of a business trip, as I would then spend most evenings with him during the actual week in London.
‘You’re never home, or answer your phone, these days,’ Neil remarked one day, a month or so after I’d first got together with Leonard, as we sat indifferently nibbling at sandwiches at the nearby Pret A Manger, nursing our coffees alongside.
‘Just busy, you know.’
‘Busy doing what?’ he queried.
‘I’ve met someone,’ I revealed.
The look on his face betrayed his disappointment. He had repeatedly tried to convince me, since he had also moved up to London, that we should go out on a date, but I had insisted it would be better to just remain good friends.
‘Do I know him?’ he asked.
‘No.’ And I left it at that.
How could I tell a boy of barely twenty-one who innocently yearned after me that I was sleeping with a man who was old enough to be his father, or even mine. That I enjoyed the age difference between us. That our gap in years made me feel feminine and desirable in a way that I never felt dating people my own age. That I had grown used to Leonard’s worldliness and the comparative coarseness of his skin and the way the wrinkles around his eyes when he laughed or smiled made me feel joyful. The way we could both sustain lengthy silences when we were together or, alternately, talk for hours about everything and nothing and he could sit calmly, watching me and listening to me talk about my past life, and appear genuinely fascinated by the humdrum of my day-to-day existence. I knew such revelations would only hurt Neil further, so I kept them to myself.
The conversation with Neil quickly petered out after that and, anyway, we both had to go back to work, me to Denmark Street and him to Chancery Lane where he was doing an internship with a big PR firm.
A DHL van was parked outside the shop and a large delivery was taking place when I got back.
Heavy boxes were being passed from hand to hand in asteady relay as some of the other staff carried the new consignment of guitars from the US factory down to the shop’s basement. I joined the fray, although I heard the familiar message signal on the phone buried deep at the bottom of my jeans pocket. It was a quarter of an hour later when I had the chance to read it.
Leonard. This time it would be Paris. The reference code for the electronic ticket for Eurostar was attached and the name and address of the hotel we would be staying at. He’d been in Greece and Turkey all week, but had arranged a stop-over in the French capital on the way back to spend the time with me. I’d been hoping he might fly me to Istanbul, but I reckoned Paris was as good as the Grand Bazaar.
I made a quick call to the club and managed to swap the coming Saturday for a couple of weekday nights.
Later that afternoon, as I was daydreaming of Paris and what sharing it with Leonard would be like, three men walked into the store. They were speaking to each other in a language I couldn’t recognise – but then, I didn’t
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