Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
WILL
Day Two
We sit across from the Parthenon, where marble flute columns stand tall and proud, allowing us a glimpse of the chamber inside.
Once a dedicated space to Athena, now photographed by tourists from all over the world.
I want to stay present in the moment and truly take it all in, but my mind keeps wandering to what happened on the walk up here, and what Sam has shared with me.
Knowing the reality of what life is like in Greece for those who aren’t tourists makes me worry for Sam.
I suppose I’ve had the luxury of feeling safe as a gay man in the centre of Cardiff, especially as I got older.
Sure, there have been incidents – I’ve had homophobic slurs thrown my way – and I do second-guess myself.
Ollie did, too. He never would hold my hand in public, and I understood why.
But Sam’s hiding himself in ways that I haven’t had to do. Not really.
Sam not having a girlfriend hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d created a straight image of him that gave me a pass to enjoy looking at him.
Now, knowing he is gay, that isn’t allowed. Especially when he is meant to be my fake boyfriend.
Sam sips his water as he observes the structure facing us. A tour guide walks into our vision, and I envy the umbrella she holds for shade.
‘Pericles commissioned this structure,’ she says to her group. ‘You see over there we have the Erechtheion? Those caryatids are the sisters of Athens. Replicas up here, but you can see the original five in the museum.’
‘But there are six,’ someone in the group says.
‘Ah, yes.’ The tour guide’s face darkens.
‘Yes, the British government refuse to give the other sister back, after Lord Elgin took it in the 1800s. The Greek government have tried many times to return her home. In the museum, there’s a space waiting for her, but the British government won’t return her. ’
I feel embarrassed for something I played no part in.
‘The temple is dedicated to Athena and also Poseidon. Very much adored by the Ancient Greeks.’
‘Greek mythology is wild,’ I say, as the group stroll out of earshot.
‘I love it,’ Sam says.
I lean back, taking a deep breath. Tourists stop for pictures, some more impressed with the view of the white homes in the city below than the surrounding history. Couples, holding hands, straight and without any concerns.
I can almost imagine the people shouting ‘why do we need pride?’, when men could love men, women could love women, and those in between could be their true selves.
Yet so much still has to be done. Constant gender recognition pushbacks, attacks on trans rights, so-called debates on human rights, and protests over the legalisation of same-sex weddings. Straight people make me wistfully sad.
‘Having you at the wedding with me will be great,’ I say.
Sam’s head jerks back. ‘Cool.’
‘I’m awful for even considering I could stop Ollie from marrying someone else.’
‘What made you see sense?’
‘Compassion,’ I say. ‘Morals. A scary receptionist called Lydia.’
Ollie’s the one. There can be no one else. There will be no one else. Ollie is my soulmate, and soulmates are meant to be together. Without Ollie, I’m half of a duo. A Dawn French without Jennifer Saunders. A Ross without Rachel. It hurts to be apart from him, like nothing makes sense without him.
‘It’s hard to accept he’s moved on.’ I sigh. ‘It’s hard to accept that maybe I should, too.’
Sam pats my knee, sending a jolt through my nervous system. I savour his touch, closing my eyes.
‘What do we do about us?’
‘Us?’ Sam asks, then realisation dawns. ‘Ah, yeah. The whole fake boyfriend thing.’
‘Yeah.’
Sam pauses. ‘Well, he’s got a fiancé. Their relationship is a bit more serious than what we’ve got.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Which is?’
‘A partnership of six months to a year.’ Sam laughs. ‘Whichever we decide.’
‘Let’s go with a year,’ I say.
We descend, but not before we take a photo of us together with the Parthenon behind us.
‘Wait, take one with the Polaroid, too,’ Sam says.
‘But I’ve got it on my phone.’
‘I like something physical.’
He winks, and I melt.
Taking his Polaroid, I follow his direction, taking a snap of us. The film spits out, and we let it develop. I’m beaming, and Sam … well, Sam is smiling, but he’s looking at me.
‘You didn’t look at the camera,’ I say, throat drying.
‘That’s all right.’
He pockets the photo, tapping it for good measure. We walk.
‘Do you remember how we met?’ I ask him.
‘Of course I do,’ Sam says.
‘Go on, then.’
‘Day one of primary school. We both had chickenpox. Why our parents sent us to school with chickenpox, I don’t know.’
‘Neither do I,’ I say. ‘They did things differently back in 1999. But I know that some other kids went down with it.’
‘We started a trend,’ Sam says.
‘That we did.’
A Greek flag on a pole flutters in the weak breeze, rippling delicately above our heads.
We stop for another photo with the Parthenon behind us, the side without the scaffolding this time.
I take one last look to drink it all in, the blue skies behind marble pillars, the mountains and terracotta rooftop homes splashed with green foliage in the distance.
Sam’s arms cross, as he observes the horizon.
‘Pretty hard not to be friends with someone you’ve been in quarantine with,’ he says.
‘It helped that I had my Pokémon cards with me. I don’t think you would have stuck around otherwise.’
‘True,’ Sam says. ‘I was only friends with you for your Pokémon card collection.’
Strolling slowly, the conversation turns back to our fake relationship.
‘We have to get our story straight,’ I decide.
‘In what way?’
‘How did we meet?’
‘When we had chickenpox.’
‘As adults?’ I ask. ‘I don’t think that will work.’
‘Oh, we need a fake meet?’
‘Yes.’
Sam takes a moment to think. ‘In this scenario, I’m not the coffee shop owner?’
In this world of fake romance with Sam, does he own a coffee shop? Maybe he owns a chain of coffee shops, and he is filthy rich and we travel around the world often, living the high life.
‘No,’ I say, because the logistics don’t work. ‘No. We linked on Tinder.’
‘Okay,’ Sam says.
‘In Cardiff.’
‘Right,’ Sam says. ‘So, I live in Cardiff now?’
‘This version of you lives in Cardiff, yes.’ I describe my apartment to him so that he knows where I keep my salt and pepper, and which drawer is the cutlery drawer. You know, in case anyone asks.
‘And Tinder brought us together and we went on a date to a coffee shop.’
‘You want to get a coffee shop in there somewhere, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Sam says. ‘But where do I work in Cardiff?’
A pause.
‘Starbucks.’
‘No.’ The sound that comes from Sam’s mouth is demonic. ‘No. I would never work at Starbucks.’
‘What? Why?’ I ask. ‘I love my caramel macchiato, and yes, I’m a pumpkin spice guy in the autumn.’
‘You hurt me.’ Sam grimaces, clutching his chest. ‘Pumpkin spice? I can’t believe you would like pumpkin spice.’
‘I love pumpkin spice. There’s a romance book I think you should read, by Laurie—’
‘And Starbucks, too.’ Sam is shaking his head, and in that moment, I think he’s re-evaluating everything about our friendship.
‘What’s wrong with Starbucks and pumpkin spice?’
‘What’s right with Starbucks?’ Sam gasps. He’s reacting like I asked him his opinion on something a lot more serious than a coffee chain. ‘Everything about Starbucks goes against what a coffee shop should be.’
‘What should a coffee shop be?’
Sam literally stops in his tracks.
‘Have I gone too far?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘Trade you a Charizard?’
Sam waves my joke away. Off the hook. ‘I’d rather a Bubble Mew.’
‘God, I’d love a Bubble Mew.’
‘Starbucks is cold,’ Sam explains, back to business.
‘It’s corporate. It’s a place where people buy overpriced coffee, and sit on their phones and laptops and don’t speak to one another.
There’s a lot of questionable things about the company, too, if you ask me.
As for the pumpkin spice, well, where do I begin?
Nobody likes pumpkin spice. That is pure corporate capitalism.
A fad for the social media influencers who think it gives them a personality.
And yes, I’ve read The Pumpkin Spice Café, and yes, I loved it, and Laurie Gilmore can do no wrong, but that’s as far as my pumpkin spice love goes. ’
‘Pumpkin spice is my personality,’ I insist. ‘For an introvert like me, not speaking to anyone is perfect.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Sam says. ‘And I can say that because I’m an introvert.
No, a coffee shop needs to be a community.
You should know your barista. They should know you, and not because they have to ask for your name.
Your barista shouldn’t be someone who feigns interest in your life because they have to meet targets.
Or because their manager is always watching and breathing down their necks.
You’re supposed to go into coffee shops and they know your order.
You sit down in a familiar seat, and you see the same people, and you read the newspaper, read a book, relax and unplug from technology.
Get to know your neighbours. Support local makers and small businesses.
Starbucks is to coffee shops what Tesco is to the greengrocer. ’
‘Convenient?’
Sam’s mouth drops.
‘I can’t have this conversation.’
‘You feel strongly about this, don’t you?’
‘One day, the world will be a lonely place,’ Sam says, ‘because Starbucks ruined it all.’
Silence falls between us, except for our feet crunching on the ground. I imagine a post-apocalyptic world, where only the green tinge of Starbucks’ logo survives. Perhaps zombies would trail around holding Grande lattes asking why their loyalty points no longer got them discounts.
‘You know their logo is a siren?’ I ask, breaking the tension.
‘I do.’
‘Greek mythology.’
‘Right,’ Sam says.
A pause.
‘Where do you think the nearest Starbucks is?’ I ask.
We lock eyes, and both of us burst out laughing.