out of politeness. “Was it a hard transition?” Guy asked sympathetically. His main course, which Americans for some reason called an entrée, arrived; it was beef Wellington, rare and in a crust that for once wasn’t soggy. He vowed to eat only half of it.
“Coming out?” Fred was tucking into his dish, which was flounder stuffed with crabmeat and shrimp—Guy should have taken that, it would have been lighter. Oh, well, nothing but yogurt for lunch tomorrow. Damn, there was his reflection again. He looked very young in candlelight, he thought, though he usually blew candles out, they hurt his eyes. Like all Frenchmen he preferred a well-lit restaurant and no background music.
“Yes, it was agonizing, but it had to be done.” Fred made it sound like pulling an infected tooth.
Guy realized with a start it was his turn to say something. “Was your wife very hurt?”
“Ceil?” Wasn’t a seal an animal, a phoque ? But then Guy realized it must be short for Celia. “Angry? Livid. Ceil had thought for years she must not be desirable, that was why I was shunning her, but when she realized I was gay from the get-go, boy, was she pissed, I’d condemned her to a loveless marriage, ruining the best years of her life.”
“But you gave her children—and grandchildren,” Guy reminded him, “and probably a nice house.”
“A showplace. But she has that famished look of a woman that hasn’t been touched in years—you know the look.”
Guy wasn’t sure he did know the look.
Fred said, “And to come out at sixty-three—okay, sixty-six—is no joke. If you’re a romantic and looking for love.” Fred expected Guy to say something—but what?
Guy pointed out, “There are plenty of other available gay men in their sixties.”
“Nah,” Fred said, and actually shuddered as if he’d seen a ghost. “Older guys have too much emotional baggage. They’ve already lived their lives. I’m only just starting out on mine. I want another youngster, if that makes sense.”
“Perfectly,” Guy said, though he didn’t quite understand.
“A young, handsome guy—a masculine, muscular one. Masc-musc , as we say in L.A.”
Guy wondered if he qualified, though he wasn’t at all attracted to Fred. The minute someone announces a casting call , Guy thought ruefully, I always wonder if I’ll get the part .
Fred was on his third martini. “All my life I’ve been staring at those guys, wanting them, never daring to talk to them, volunteering to coach Little League—”
Little League. Oh, dear , Guy thought, isn’t that children?
“Going down to the beach and staring at the surfers. Say, we’ve got to get you out to L.A. for some screen tests.”
“Aren’t I the wrong color for your films?”
Fred laughed. “Put a little slap on you. Seriously, I’m coproducing a wonderful art-house movie about a schizophrenic who falls for an anorexic.”
“Schizophrenic? So you thought of me?”
“I can’t stop thinking of you,” Fred said in a lower, sexy voice. “No, the schizophrenic’s confidant, a pastry chef.”
“And this pastry chef is French?”
“Why not? We need some textures.”
“Do you have a director?”
Fred sat up in his chair. “We haven’t signed anyone yet, but this is such a high-end property we’re talking to some of the European and experimental guys in the business.”
“I’m not sure I’m much of an actor.” Guy flashed on his recent debacle in the dungeon.
After dinner Fred invited Guy up to his place in a new building overlooking Washington Square.
“I thought you lived in Los Angeles.”
“I’m bicoastal,” Fred said suggestively. “Nah, I was born in Brooklyn. I need New York the way a fish needs air.”
Guy tried to work that one out.
The apartment, which was a dusty neglected penthouse with dead plants and a view of the graffiti-covered Washington Square arch and the seething, dangerous park beyond it, was glitzy-Oriental, with three gilt life-sized statues of
“Coming out?” Fred was tucking into his dish, which was flounder stuffed with crabmeat and shrimp—Guy should have taken that, it would have been lighter. Oh, well, nothing but yogurt for lunch tomorrow. Damn, there was his reflection again. He looked very young in candlelight, he thought, though he usually blew candles out, they hurt his eyes. Like all Frenchmen he preferred a well-lit restaurant and no background music.
“Yes, it was agonizing, but it had to be done.” Fred made it sound like pulling an infected tooth.
Guy realized with a start it was his turn to say something. “Was your wife very hurt?”
“Ceil?” Wasn’t a seal an animal, a phoque ? But then Guy realized it must be short for Celia. “Angry? Livid. Ceil had thought for years she must not be desirable, that was why I was shunning her, but when she realized I was gay from the get-go, boy, was she pissed, I’d condemned her to a loveless marriage, ruining the best years of her life.”
“But you gave her children—and grandchildren,” Guy reminded him, “and probably a nice house.”
“A showplace. But she has that famished look of a woman that hasn’t been touched in years—you know the look.”
Guy wasn’t sure he did know the look.
Fred said, “And to come out at sixty-three—okay, sixty-six—is no joke. If you’re a romantic and looking for love.” Fred expected Guy to say something—but what?
Guy pointed out, “There are plenty of other available gay men in their sixties.”
“Nah,” Fred said, and actually shuddered as if he’d seen a ghost. “Older guys have too much emotional baggage. They’ve already lived their lives. I’m only just starting out on mine. I want another youngster, if that makes sense.”
“Perfectly,” Guy said, though he didn’t quite understand.
“A young, handsome guy—a masculine, muscular one. Masc-musc , as we say in L.A.”
Guy wondered if he qualified, though he wasn’t at all attracted to Fred. The minute someone announces a casting call , Guy thought ruefully, I always wonder if I’ll get the part .
Fred was on his third martini. “All my life I’ve been staring at those guys, wanting them, never daring to talk to them, volunteering to coach Little League—”
Little League. Oh, dear , Guy thought, isn’t that children?
“Going down to the beach and staring at the surfers. Say, we’ve got to get you out to L.A. for some screen tests.”
“Aren’t I the wrong color for your films?”
Fred laughed. “Put a little slap on you. Seriously, I’m coproducing a wonderful art-house movie about a schizophrenic who falls for an anorexic.”
“Schizophrenic? So you thought of me?”
“I can’t stop thinking of you,” Fred said in a lower, sexy voice. “No, the schizophrenic’s confidant, a pastry chef.”
“And this pastry chef is French?”
“Why not? We need some textures.”
“Do you have a director?”
Fred sat up in his chair. “We haven’t signed anyone yet, but this is such a high-end property we’re talking to some of the European and experimental guys in the business.”
“I’m not sure I’m much of an actor.” Guy flashed on his recent debacle in the dungeon.
After dinner Fred invited Guy up to his place in a new building overlooking Washington Square.
“I thought you lived in Los Angeles.”
“I’m bicoastal,” Fred said suggestively. “Nah, I was born in Brooklyn. I need New York the way a fish needs air.”
Guy tried to work that one out.
The apartment, which was a dusty neglected penthouse with dead plants and a view of the graffiti-covered Washington Square arch and the seething, dangerous park beyond it, was glitzy-Oriental, with three gilt life-sized statues of
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