only thought Martin gave to his parents’ failed marriage now was trying to work out how they ever got together in the first place. These days, the differences in their outlook on life were more pronounced than ever. His father saw himself as a free spirit. His ex-wife saw him as just another victim of male menopause.
Caroline had met Martin’s father once before and found him rather sweet—a bit of an old hippie perhaps, but a damn sight more fun than her mother. She was certain he didn’t keep old photos of Martin around the house, just to embarrass him. Plus he had probably experimented with more drugs than his son. She could think of worse people to have as a houseguest. “Well, I think it’ll be nice for you to spend time with him,” she said, Hoovering up her line.
“Are you
mad
?” Martin said. “Next weekend is Gay Pride. I tried telling him that, but it only made him more determined. He said it would be the ideal opportunity for him to get to know my people, whoever they are. The biggest gay party of the year, and I’m going to have my father in tow. What am I going to do?”
Caroline laughed. “Finish your dinner,” she said, pointing to the one remaining line of coke. “Then get dressed. I’m taking you out.”
Four
N o, not there,” Caroline said, grabbing Martin’s arm and steering him toward an empty table at the opposite end of the bar. On a video screen above their heads, Ricky Martin was shaking his bonbon for what was probably the third time that evening. In the middle of the room, a man with terrible skin was dancing with a fat girl in a fuchsia-pink party dress. Brightly colored drinks in hand, they sashayed between the tables, doing their best to imitate Ricky’s moves and failing miserably.
“The lighting is terrible over there,” Caroline explained as she and Martin sat down. “Look at that girl at the far end, the one in the yellow top. She’s probably fairly attractive, but she looks awful in that light. I just can’t understand girls like that. You’d think someone would have told them by now. What’s the point of going to all that trouble with your hair and makeup and then ruining the effect by sitting under a bad light? She might as well go home. There isn’t a man here who’ll chat her up while she’s sitting there.”
Martin smiled politely. He had heard Caroline’s theory about good lighting many times before, and he was still no closer to understanding it. To him, the girl in question looked perfectly presentable. And if the men weren’t exactly queuing up to talk to her, that was probably because most of them here happened to be gay. They were in Soho after all, albeit a short walk from the gay stronghold of Old Compton Street. Martin preferred slightly more mixed venues like the Escape Bar—places where straight women and even some straight men came to hang out with gay friends, and everyone appeared to have a good time, even if they were sitting under the wrong kind of light. It was so much more relaxing than standing around in a bar full of gay men where nobody really talked to each other and you were left feeling like a piece of meat. He could still remember the first time he took Caroline to a gay bar—the Brief Encounter on St. Martin’s Lane. Some old queen in a tuxedo who had stopped off for a swift drink on his way to the Coliseum announced very loudly that he could smell fish in the room and that it was making him feel sick. Martin had felt sick, too, not to mention angry that another gay man could even think like that, let alone talk like it. Of course that was in the days when he still believed that the gay world was one big happy family, rather than a vipers’ nest full of people waiting to ruin your one chance of happiness by stealing your boyfriend.
“You okay?” Caroline said. “I thought I’d order a bottle of champagne to get us in the party mood. My treat. What do you say?”
Martin looked up. “Sorry? I was miles away. What are
Caroline had met Martin’s father once before and found him rather sweet—a bit of an old hippie perhaps, but a damn sight more fun than her mother. She was certain he didn’t keep old photos of Martin around the house, just to embarrass him. Plus he had probably experimented with more drugs than his son. She could think of worse people to have as a houseguest. “Well, I think it’ll be nice for you to spend time with him,” she said, Hoovering up her line.
“Are you
mad
?” Martin said. “Next weekend is Gay Pride. I tried telling him that, but it only made him more determined. He said it would be the ideal opportunity for him to get to know my people, whoever they are. The biggest gay party of the year, and I’m going to have my father in tow. What am I going to do?”
Caroline laughed. “Finish your dinner,” she said, pointing to the one remaining line of coke. “Then get dressed. I’m taking you out.”
Four
N o, not there,” Caroline said, grabbing Martin’s arm and steering him toward an empty table at the opposite end of the bar. On a video screen above their heads, Ricky Martin was shaking his bonbon for what was probably the third time that evening. In the middle of the room, a man with terrible skin was dancing with a fat girl in a fuchsia-pink party dress. Brightly colored drinks in hand, they sashayed between the tables, doing their best to imitate Ricky’s moves and failing miserably.
“The lighting is terrible over there,” Caroline explained as she and Martin sat down. “Look at that girl at the far end, the one in the yellow top. She’s probably fairly attractive, but she looks awful in that light. I just can’t understand girls like that. You’d think someone would have told them by now. What’s the point of going to all that trouble with your hair and makeup and then ruining the effect by sitting under a bad light? She might as well go home. There isn’t a man here who’ll chat her up while she’s sitting there.”
Martin smiled politely. He had heard Caroline’s theory about good lighting many times before, and he was still no closer to understanding it. To him, the girl in question looked perfectly presentable. And if the men weren’t exactly queuing up to talk to her, that was probably because most of them here happened to be gay. They were in Soho after all, albeit a short walk from the gay stronghold of Old Compton Street. Martin preferred slightly more mixed venues like the Escape Bar—places where straight women and even some straight men came to hang out with gay friends, and everyone appeared to have a good time, even if they were sitting under the wrong kind of light. It was so much more relaxing than standing around in a bar full of gay men where nobody really talked to each other and you were left feeling like a piece of meat. He could still remember the first time he took Caroline to a gay bar—the Brief Encounter on St. Martin’s Lane. Some old queen in a tuxedo who had stopped off for a swift drink on his way to the Coliseum announced very loudly that he could smell fish in the room and that it was making him feel sick. Martin had felt sick, too, not to mention angry that another gay man could even think like that, let alone talk like it. Of course that was in the days when he still believed that the gay world was one big happy family, rather than a vipers’ nest full of people waiting to ruin your one chance of happiness by stealing your boyfriend.
“You okay?” Caroline said. “I thought I’d order a bottle of champagne to get us in the party mood. My treat. What do you say?”
Martin looked up. “Sorry? I was miles away. What are
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