CHAPTER 13
Bradford
“The flu? Really, Bradford?” Mum’s voice startles me, coming out of nowhere as usual.
“Well, I had to tell Bruno something, didn’t I? I couldn’t let him see me like this .” I’m staring in the bathroom mirror, checking the bruise Jarrod left on my face—the one that has only now just faded after seven days. Craning my head to the side, I move my tunnel of vision till I spot my mother’s reflection in the doorway.
“Have you left the house at all this past week?”
Her question makes me wince. I’m never sure how much mum knows or doesn’t know. Maybe she just wants me to say it out loud, like it’s of some kind of therapeutic benefit. “Only to take Brendan for his walks. Even then, I had to wear dark glasses and they messed with what little sight I have left. Brendan was all confused because I was being so slow and careful when I walked.”
Mum’s reflection cuts to directly behind my shoulder. The reprimanding look on her face is tempered only by the worry I can see in her eyes. “Darling, you can’t make problems disappear by simply ignoring them.”
“I know. You’re right, but Jarrod won’t leave! I have no idea what I’m going to do.” A guttural groan charges out of my body. “I suppose I should consider myself lucky he didn’t punch me. With all those hipster rings he wears, I might’ve ended up with a nasty gash instead of just a bruise.” I can’t believe I’m actually voicing all this stuff. Sure, it’s only to mum—alive or dead, I’ve always been safe with her. Nevertheless, it’s still grossly uncomfortable. I’m racking my brain to try and find a positive angle. “At least Jarrod’s avoiding me. He’s been out a lot of the time and I hide in my room whenever he comes home.”
Mum reaches out to touch me, but as usual, her hand stops short. I see the flicker of frustration in her expression before she turns it into a kind smile. “Where does Bruno fit into all this?”
Bruno. My one ray of sunshine. “He’s been amazing, Mum. He even pushed to come over and play nursemaid. I told him I’d ordered all my groceries online and I had everything I needed. I only convinced him to stay away by pointing out he’d catch whatever virus I had.”
Mum studies me for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “He’d help you, you know. He’d be here in a flash if he had any idea what was going on.”
“No. It’s far too humiliating. There’s no way I want my private shame and embarrassment to be compounded by anyone else knowing about it.” I turn around, sucking in a deep, fortifying breath. “I’m aware that I need to do something about Jarrod, but I just don’t have the energy to fight right now. I haven’t seen Bruno in a week. Honestly, that’s the only thing I want to do.” Yeah, Bradford, that’s right—bury your head in the sand. “I’m pathetic, mum. Weak as piss.”
“I won’t hear that kind of talk,” she says, moving closer to me. “ You are not pathetic. ” I avert my eyes. I can’t even meet her gaze, it’s too intense, too knowing. “Look at me, Bradford.” It takes some effort, but I do as I’m told, and her expression pierces right into my soul. “You’ve been going through all this alone and you don’t have to.”
“Mum, Bruno has his own life and his own partner. He doesn’t need to deal with all my dramas as well. I certainly don’t want to give him any excuse to run.”
“Don’t underestimate him. He’s a lot more present than you might realise,” she says cryptically.
“What do you mean?”
Her left eyebrow raises ever so slightly, but her face is giving nothing else away. And without another word, she vanishes.
***
“So, this Italian club, it’s kind of like an RSL or a footy leagues club, is it?” I ask Bruno, as our taxi heads west through the Cross City Tunnel.
“Well, maybe not quite that huge.” Bruno grins over at me. He’s absolutely gorgeous tonight—dressed up for his big fiftieth celebration in an expensive-looking button-up shirt and dark jeans that make his arse look more toothsome than ever. I’m glad said arse is now planted firmly on the back seat next to me, otherwise—taxi driver or not—I’d be groping it for the whole journey. “Gabriela’s booked out a function room with a dance floor and karaoke, and we’ve nutted out a full three-course dinner menu. A lot of people are coming, so prepare to be swamped with overbearing Italian family members.”
It’s fair to say I’m more than a little nervous tonight. I haven’t met a single member of Bruno’s family. In fact, other than our fleeting chat with Henry and that debauched afternoon with his soccer team, I haven’t met anyone associated with Bruno at all. For more than three months, we've been operating on the down-low.
Twenty-three days have now gone by since that awful night with Jarrod. I’m still doing my level best not to run into him. Shunting back and forth to Bruno’s apartment several times a week has certainly helped.
I still haven’t said a word to Bruno about what happened with Jarrod, though maybe he’s had his suspicions. Since our reunion, he’s been extra protective of me—always holding me close, always reluctant to see me leave. His quietly-concerned expression has become a mainstay. There’s a desperate urgency in the way he has sex with me. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe he’s just in hyper-passionate overdrive, making the most of the time he has left while his partner is away.
All good things come to an end. Bruno will go back to his old routine and I’ll have to settle for the role of Friend With Occasional Benefits. I’m trying not to panic; I just have to remind myself that he wants me in his life for good. I need to believe in this.
“You’re very quiet tonight. Is everything OK?” Bruno reaches over and squeezes my hand, his voice cutting right through my thoughts.
I’ve been so busy stewing over my situation I’ve forgotten to put on my cheery face. I’ve had to be vigilant about this with Bruno. I don’t want to find myself in a situation where I have to answer difficult questions. There’s no way I'm going to taint a single moment that we get to share together. And right now, the last thing I’m keen to do is put a dampener on Bruno’s big night.
“I’m great,” I say, flashing him my best smile. No, Bruno. I’m crawling on the edge of a knife, scared stiff over what Jarrod might do next.
“How are things with… you know…?” Bruno’s being as delicate as possible. I can hear the trepidation in his tone. He knows it’s a touchy subject, but he still checks in with me every time I see him.
I’m not going to lie to Bruno. But I’ll only ever offer him the side of the truth I can cope with. “Still tense. Still trying to keep right out of his way,” I concede. “I’m really glad I've been able to escape and come spend time at your place.” As soon as the words have left my lips, I kick myself. “Not that I ever need an ulterior motive to see you.” God, I need to get a bloody grip.
Bruno fixes his big dark eyes on mine. “I’m always here, OK? Anything you need. You got that?” His tone is emphatic. He definitely knows more than he’s letting on.
I’m dying to say something. Mum was right—I’ve been staggering blindly through all this crap with Jarrod on my own. But it’s my punishment for being such a pushover. I got myself into this nightmare and it’s my job to get out of it again. Of course, Bruno would rush to me and do anything he could if he knew the gory details. His heart is as big as Tasmania. But do I really want him saving me like some damsel in distress? Do I really want that dynamic between us? Absolutely not. More than anything, I want Bruno to see me as a whole person. Someone who’s strong and capable and can meet him as an equal.
“Thank you,” I tell him, putting on the most confident, manly air I’m capable of. “That means a lot, it really does.”
You’re the only thing that’s keeping me sane right now, Bruno.
***
The Italian club does seem a bit like an RSL, with its patterned carpet, sign-in booths, and various bars, restaurants and gambling rooms. Pokies, Keno and all manner of sins clearly play a large part in financing the impressively-sized venue. Bruno, Brendan and I navigate a wide carpeted staircase to a foyer, which leads us through double doors to our function room. Before we even enter, I can hear the ear-splittingly tuneless sound of some dear old matron warbling away in Italian.
“The joys of karaoke,” mutters Bruno as we scan the scene in front of us. It’s like a wedding, except where the bride’s table should be is a low stage next to a DJ booth and huge video screen. Tables full of guests are chatting raucously in that distinct Mediterranean style—shrieks, laughs and overdramatic campiness permeate the air-conditioned atmosphere. The whole place is garishly sterile, like one massive plush office floor, yet it’s strangely comforting. Somewhere I could sink into with ease. I think I’m going to enjoy this.
“There you are!” Squinting into the low-lit yonder, I spot a woman rushing towards us. As she nears, I can see her masses of dark curls—the kind of hair women paid a fortune to have permed that way in the eighties. Her slender, curvy-hipped figure is hugged by a tight dress, and she’s skilfully whisking across the carpet in strappy heels.
I take a step back, allowing her some personal space to hug Bruno, but she comes right for me instead, wrapping her arms around my upper body in a Chanel-soaked cloud. “I’m glad you could make it, sweetie! Bru’s told me so much about you.”
He has? “Um, all good things, I hope.” I’m busy trying to shake off my initial surprise and act all charming and confident. Let’s face it, insecurities are boring.
She pulls her head back, clasping her hands to my shoulders. “Are you kidding? He raves about you.” She glances over to Bruno. “You’re right, Bru. He’s absolutely gorgeous. Come on, you’ve gotta meet everyone.” Instantly, she’s grabbed my hand and I’m being carted off across the function room floor.
“So, I guess you’ve now met Gabriela,” Bruno murmurs in my ear.
“Well, I could see the resemblance.” I shoot Bruno a grin, noticing the way his eyes twinkle back at me.
“Mum, Dad—you gotta meet Bruno’s new man,” Gabriela calls out, as we approach a table of several people.
Bruno’s new man? I’m a little stunned, but I love the sound of it. If Gabriela is going to exaggerate in the name of theatrics, I’m all for it.
“Bradford, this is Valentina, our mum, and Giovanni, our dad.”
Valentina is a stately, grey-haired Italian matron, impeccably dressed with a calm air about her. She smiles primly and offers me her hand, which I shake delicately as we exchange pleasantries. I then turn to Giovanni to do the same, but he chortles and struggles to his feet. Rattling off something in Italian, he pulls me into a hearty hug. “No bloody formality, please,” he says in a heavy accent. He’s well-dressed in a blazer and tie, with an open, ready smile and a fedora still on his head even though we’re inside. I watch as he carefully sits down again. Bruno has painted a pretty accurate picture; he does seem quite frail.
Once again, I’m steered by Gabriela towards a tall, imposing-looking man in his fifties. He’s flashily-dressed, wearing a sharp-looking suit with an open-necked shirt, a thick gold chain, and chunky rings on each hand. “And this is my husband, Claudio,” says Gabriela.
Claudio’s grip on my palm is bone-crushing and he claps me on the shoulder with his free hand. “Good to finally meet you, brother,” he says, with more than a hint of that Aussie-Euro tough-guy inflection in his voice.
I’d better butch it up. Filling my lungs, I drop my voice a tone or two lower than usual. “Pleasure’s all mine. I’m honoured to have the invite.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Gabriela playfully slaps the shoulder that Claudio’s just pummelled. “We’ve all been dying to see who’s been putting that spring into Bruno’s step lately.”
I glance over to Bruno, who’s been standing meekly in the background with a bemused grin. Getting this kind of feedback is more powerfully validating than I could have imagined. I really had no idea Bruno had said much about me at all—to anybody . Turning to Gabriela, I square my shoulders and pile on the charm. “Is the rest of your family here? Bruno always talks about his nephews.”
“Oh, no.” Gabriela guffaws at my gaffe. “They don’t wanna be around all us oldies. We set them up with pizza and ice cream and their favourite babysitter. Plus,” — she tilts her champagne glass against her lips and drains it — “we’re gonna have quite a bit of this.” Wiggling the empty flute between her rouge-noir polished fingers, she scans the table, presumably seeking more.
“Birthday boy and girl at the head of the table,” announces Valentina, in an accent as pronounced as her husband’s.
“Mother has spoken,” sing-songs Gabriela, before grabbing my hand and fairly dragging me and Brendan around to sit next to her.
Brendan dutifully lies on the carpet between my chair and Giovanni’s. The elderly man leans down and begins making a fuss over him. I can see that Brendan’s trying to behave as best as he can, but his exuberant personality is bubbling below the surface as he happily soaks up the attention.
“We have so much to talk about,” says Gabriela, clutching onto my arm with one hand while holding her glass out to her husband for a refill.
I squint over at Bruno, who’s taken the seat between the two of them. His face is a bit of a blur, but I know it well enough now that I can see the muscular raise of one cheek as he winks at me. Everything about his expression says, I told you she was overbearing. What Bruno isn’t aware of is just how familiar I am with this scenario. I’m in my element: all the gorgeously camp sopranos I've sung with adopted me as their cute little gay tenor friend during performance runs. Next to those Amazonian divas, a stocky short bear like me was the ideal accessory, and it was a role that I relished.
Gee, how life has changed. I didn’t realise how much I missed it till now, with Gabriela chatting away at me, telling me all about her family. “Dad never takes off his fedora,” she chirps. “He’s always been embarrassed about his baldness. I wasn’t the least bit surprised when Bruno’s big head went exactly the same way.”
I glance over at my gorgeous paramour, who’s chatting animatedly in Italian to Claudio. “I’m obsessed with Bruno’s bald head,” I say dreamily. “I literally cannot stop kissing it.” I think of the nights I spend with my lips pressed against Bruno’s smooth scalp as he’s sleeping snuggled into my chest.
Snapping out of my reverie, I look back at Gabriela, whose face is piqued with amusement.
“Sorry,” I say. “TMI? I mean, you are twins, after all. Don’t you guys share everything?”
Gabriela throws her head back and whoops with laughter. “Darling, nothing is off limits with us.”
My mind races to imagine exactly what Bruno has been blabbing to her about. I turn scarlet as I think about the kinky shenanigans the two of us men get up to. What on earth is Gabriela picturing right now? Never mind, she’s moved on…
“Marco’s nine. He’s still very much a little kid. He was the surprise, really. I mean, me with a second baby at forty ? It was already a miracle having Stefano when I was nearly thirty-eight. Mum was the same way. She and dad were in their early thirties, which may as well have been a hundred in an Italian family. Her pregnancy was a shocker, which she’s reminded us of practically every day of our lives. That’s why they never had any other kids.” She stops to take another gulp of her champagne. “Stefano’s twelve and already starting to go through puberty. He’s definitely developing a bit of a teen attitude. God help me. I’m just glad I didn’t have a daughter, we’d be screaming at each other for a whole decade.”
I love how she’s spilling all this to me. Her energy is infectious. I’m just sitting here with my Cheshire cat grin, nodding and giving encouraging responses, doing my best to be as charming as possible.
“Bru tells me you also have just one sister?”
“Oh, yeah. But not twins. Summer was from mum’s second marriage, so she’s thirteen years younger than I am.”
“Oh? And is she just like you?”
I can’t help but laugh to myself. No, Gabriela. She’s actually more like you. “She’s got long dark hair and she’s a total extrovert. Also a bit of a hippie. She and her partner Nathan are moving to Sydney soon; maybe you’ll meet them.”
I’m always careful when I talk about future plans with regard to Bruno. I don’t want to jump the gun and jinx everything. Our connection is precious and I’ll do whatever I can to hold onto it. It’s a delicate balance, trying to show him how interested I am without letting him see how much I’ve come to rely on his love.
Oh, JESUS! How the hell did that word just pop into my head?
With my thoughts deviating, I’ve missed Gabriela’s response. She’s pushing a folder under my nose. “I’ve signed all of us up. So you’d better flick through this.”
“Sorry? Signed up for what?” I open the folder and hold it close to my face. I have to squint really hard and scan at a snail’s pace, which is why I never read print. In the space of a minute I’ll end up with a huge headache. I’m confronted with list after list of songs, all in Italian. My attention tunes back to Gabriela.
“... of course you’re going to sing! Bruno never stops talking about your talent.” Gabriela thrusts a pen and small piece of printed paper at me.
Mild panic rises in my chest. “Oh God, no. I can’t. I… don’t know anything. I was an opera singer. I don’t think Wagner is going to go down too well in this place.”
In amongst Gabriela’s protests, I can hear some young girl screeching out an off-pitch rendition of Umberto Tozzi’s Ti Amo . My mind goes into problem-solving overdrive. Umberto Tozzi. I remember dancing around the living room when I was eight to Laura Branigan’s version of his song Gloria . Later, as a party-hard opera student, I drunkenly taught myself Umberto’s original Italian lyrics. But that was, what? Over twenty-five years ago?
Snapping my head around, I search for the huge video screen I’d noticed earlier. The lyrics projected onto it seem quite big. If I squint hard, maybe it’ll help. “OK,” I say, filling in the piece of paper with my song choice. “But I’m going to need a couple of stiff rum and cokes first.”
“Of course, darling. We can’t have you going in there dry . I’ll get you a double.” Gabriela snatches the piece of paper and disappears. By the time she’s come back, the MC is calling out my name. “Looks like I’m too late,” she trills, plonking my drink on the table and waving me off. “Don’t worry, it’ll be here when you get back.”
Bloody hell! My heart jumps as I realise what I’ve just been railroaded into. Rising to my feet, I make a conscious effort to put on my theatre persona. It’s just an act, Bradford. You’ve done it countless times before. Nobody wants to see a lack of confidence, so I just have to shove it right down and pretend like it’s nothing.
“I look after your boy,” pipes up Giovanni, as I cast a sideward glance at Brendan.
“Will you be OK?” This comes from Bruno, who’s starting to get up.
“Nah, it’s fine,” I say in my most reassuring tone. “I’ll just look down.”
My trip to the stage involves me keeping my eyes glued to the floor in front of me. That’s the greatest hazard right now. My hands brush against chairs, warning me in advance of their proximity. The dance floor is easy, there’s nothing in the way. And the two steps up to the rostrum will be OK, so long as I watch where I put my feet.
It’s only now that I notice the music has well and truly kicked in, having started at the beginning of my journey. I’ve barely had the mike shoved in my hand before I have to sing the first “ Gloria .” There’s literally no time to stew over how I’m going to sing this, so I launch into it with the gusto of a seasoned seventies variety TV performer.
As I prattle off the first verse, reciting the part I know best, it dawns on me that I can’t just stand still onstage. This is where my penchant for daggy seventies and eighties music kicks in. I’ve danced around mimicking to the video clips of countless disco songs—when I was a kid, when I was a drunken uni student. I used to be fun once upon a time.
Right—it’s time to go full-on camp. Bugger it, I can’t see anybody anyway, so it’s not like I’m going to be put off by their reactions. I make my best effort to channel John Travolta and add his swagger to my act.
I’m impressed at how my voice has automatically adjusted. Without conscious thought, I’ve thinned out my tone, reined in my operatic vibrato and added a raspy edge to my phrasing. I can’t believe what a massive buzz this all is.
The Italian gets a little hairy at one point and my pulse rises sharply. Squinting to my right, I realise the lyrics on the video are almost visible. I can’t really see them, but the general shape of the words gives me an instant reminder of what I might possibly have forgotten.
As soon as I’m back on track, I turn towards my blindest spot on the left of me and I’m hit by the amount of people on the dance floor. I’ve been so busy coordinating my little act that I literally had no idea. There in the middle is Gabriela going wild, twirling around on her heels, with her big bald bouncing bear of a brother thrashing rhythmically beside her. It’s so damn cute that I nearly forget what I’m doing.
As I start belting out the home stretch of chorus repeats, other people raucously sing along. The dance floor is now throbbing with animated verve. I’m gobsmacked. I’m also gyrating like a refugee from the Village People, but it seems to be working. As the synth trumpet toots the outro, people start whistling and clapping, and Gabriela rushes towards me.
“My God, you were fabulous !” she shrieks, flinging her arms around my neck. “You have to get up again later.”
I’m almost hyperventilating, coming down from my intense performance high. “Nah, they’ll be well and truly sick of me. Someone else’s turn.”
I don’t really hear Gabriela’s reply, because Bruno’s lips are suddenly mashed against mine. His big hands clasp the back of my head and air rushes from his nose. “Jesus,” he pants, his lips buzzing against my moustache. “I never wanted to fuck the living shit out of you more than I do right now.”
Back at our table, Brendan has firmly transferred his affections to Giovanni, who is not-so-surreptitiously handing him morsels from the appetiser platter. Valentina catches my eye, claps her hands together and launches into an ebullient tirade of Italian. I nod and smile politely, unsure of what’s going on.
“Oh, Mum,” Bruno calls across the table. “Bradford doesn’t actually speak Italian.”
Valentina’s eyebrows shoot skywards. Her eyes bore into me with confusion. “But you sound like natural!” she says. “What you mean you not speak Italian?”
“We had to learn to pronounce it properly when I was an opera singer,” I say, with a sheepish shrug of my shoulders. “I still have to use a dictionary to translate.”
Valentina looks back at Bruno with a dubious expression. “Well, you teach him, you hear?” She follows this up with a coda in her native language, something that makes Claudio, Gabriela and Bruno all laugh.
A couple of heavily-laden waitresses sidle up to the table. “ Vitello tonnato ,” says one of them, placing large plates of what looks like cold meat salad in front of Gabriela and Valentina. “Chi è vegetariano?”
“Over here, Melina,” says Gabriela, patting my shoulder. A huge caprese salad is slid graciously in front of me. I look over at Bruno, who’s grinning across the table. Trust him to take care of the menu—he knew exactly what I’d like.
While everyone is talking and tucking into their veal, I marvel at the vibrant tomatoes, the piquant basil, the smooth virgin olive oil dressing and the decadent buffalo mozzarella adorning my plate. It’s hard to pace myself politely and not just wolf it down. There are huge baskets of crusty bread and I’m getting stuck into that too. God, I love Italian food. None of these teeny-tiny elegant serves. We are expected to eat.
After we’ve finished our entrees, while Valentina is involved in a lively cross-table discussion with her twins, Giovanni motions for me to come closer. “How long you know my son?” he says.
“Um, we met in January.” I’m not quite sure where this is going, but I don’t elaborate. I just watch quietly as Giovanni mulls this over.
“He been very happy this year. I not seen him like that in a long time.” He grins at me and I spot a twinkle in his eye—the same one I see in Bruno sometimes when I’m lucky. “ You do this,” Giovanni continues, patting me on the shoulder. “You make my son smile again.”
I’m so taken aback I almost feel choked up. All this—everything I’m seeing tonight—has been happening behind the scenes. I had no idea anyone really knew I existed. I’m still processing this when the thought of Brendan pops into my mind. Bruno’s Brendan. Nobody here seems to mention him. Maybe they’re being polite, given I’m at this party as Bruno’s sort of surrogate date.
My mind flicks back to a week or two ago. I’d originally planned to take Bruno out to dinner tomorrow—April twenty-first, his actual birthday—knowing he had his proper family celebration tonight.
***
“I’d really, really love it if you could come to Gab’s and my fiftieth,” Bruno said. “I want you to meet everyone.”
“Me?” I was so surprised I almost spat the word out. “I mean, what about Brendan? He wouldn’t want me tagging along, would he?” At the sound of his name, my dog suddenly appeared by my side, touching his wet nose against my leg.
Bruno looked down and laughed, wiping his hand across his face. “Oh, God. I have to tell you this. Brendan will kill me, but we can’t go confusing your poor dog any longer. I actually call him ‘Brie.’”
“‘Brie?’ Like, as in triple cream?”
“Yeah. ‘Brie-Ann Jatz’, to be exact. He used to do drag at Annie’s Bar in the noughties and that was his stage name. He hates it, but he's stuck with it as far as I’m concerned. Anyway—” Bruno grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Brie has other plans.”
“Really? Plans more important than your fiftieth?”
Bruno looked visibly uncomfortable. I wondered if he and Brie had had some kind of falling out. Surely not? Bruno hadn’t seemed upset or rattled lately. He’d been his usual affable self. “Brie has never really got involved with my family much. He’s been to the occasional thing, but…” Bruno’s voice trailed off and he closed his eyes. “Well, we’ve led our own separate lives for a very long time now.”
I already knew this. But the way Bruno said it right then gave it a lot more gravity. I didn’t want to pry, though. It was none of my business and Bruno already seemed upset. Instead, I just leaned forward and kissed him. “Thank you. I’d be honoured to be your guest.”
***
With the tables cleared of entrée plates, it’s open season. People come left, right and centre to our little group, congratulating the birthday boy and girl, paying their respects to the parents, and—surprisingly—gushing to me about my performance. “He was an opera singer for many years,” chimes in Bruno. The pride I can hear in his voice makes my heart swell. It’s deliciously possessive of him, and my mind floats off to a world where I can truly be his. One day I would love that more than anything. It’s my fantasy and I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks.
The MC calls Gabriela’s name and she guzzles the last of her champagne before swanning off to the stage. I stand up and turn to try and get a good view. After all Bruno’s said about her singing, I’m dying to hear what she can do. A warm arm slides over my shoulder and hugs me close just as Love is a Battlefield begins to blast through the speakers.
“I didn’t know there was an Italian version of this,” I say to Bruno.
“There isn’t, as far as I know,” he replies, just as Gabriela launches into the spoken intro in English.
“What do you mean? All the songs in that folder were Italian.”
Bruno breaks out into guffaws.
“What?”
“Only the ones at the beginning of the folder.”
“Oh, God! You mean I gave myself a panic attack trying to sing the only Italian pop song I even partially know, and it was all for nothing?”
“Well, you were a hit, weren’t you?” says Bruno. He grabs my hand and yanks on it. “Let’s go and dance.
“No, no, no no no…” I sound like a whining child. “I don't dance.”
“Rubbish,” he chortles. “I just saw you do it onstage, remember?”
I resist Bruno a moment longer, seizing my rum and Coke. “I'm gonna need some more Dutch courage.” Tipping my head right back, I swill the whole damn lot in a couple of gulps.
“That was a double, you know,” says Bruno.
“Oh. No wonder I’m getting pissed.” I can feel my head spinning as he steers me into the crowd on the dance floor.
By now, Gabriela has launched into the opening chorus and—as I expected—she’s a powerful belter who gives Pat Benatar a run for her money. Not only is she singing with so much clout she has to hold the dodgy mike away from her face, she’s also dancing frenetically—heels and all.
I have been paying such close attention to her singing, I haven’t even bothered to be inhibited about my own dancing. Bruno and I are bopping about with gay abandon, grinning like idiots at his sister.
I can hear the instrumental section approaching. Bruno leans closer to me and speaks loudly in my ear. “Gab and I used to practise the dance routine for this bit in the lounge room when we were about ten. We got it down to a fine art.”
“You mean like this, Harry ?” Right on cue, I fling straight into the quintessentially eighties boob-shimmying.
Bruno takes one look at me and laughs, joining in perfect sync. We turn to face the stage, grinding around like total twats. I can just imagine the sight of it—two chunky, chubby bears humping the air like we’re jazz ballet queens from 1984.
“Oooh!” squeals Gabriela into the mike. Straight away, she’s clacking down the stairs towards us. She barges in between Bruno and me, swivels to face the same way, and suddenly it’s three of us in our own little Solid Gold display. We do every attitude walk and air punch, getting so carried away that Gabriela has completely forgotten to return to the stage by the time she has to sing again. She doesn’t even miss a beat, though, turning back and singing into the mike right there on the dance floor while she continues the routine one-handed.
Like the pied piper, everyone follows Gabriela on the final strut till we get to the fist pumps at the end. It’s shambolic—I can only imagine the alcohol-fuelled spectacle we’re all making, but the whole place is rumbling with electric energy. There’s a palpable sense of unity here that I haven’t felt in as long as I can remember.
Amidst all the whistling applause, Gab throws her arms around Bruno and me. “Bloody hell, Bradford,” she laughs. “You were amazing… we have to do this more often!”
Back at the table, they’re already serving the mains. “I’ll just go find Claudio,” says Gabriela, and saunters away. With both her and her husband in absentia , Bruno commandeers the spot next to me.
“Claudio’s been off on his phone all night,” I observe. “Is he a workaholic or something?”
“He’s got his fingers in all sorts of pies,” says Bruno. “I gather he’s been more on the straight and narrow since he became a dad, but he certainly seems to know a few shady people, if you catch my drift.”
“So… don’t get on his bad side, eh?” I’m being a cheeky little bastard, but Bruno knows it’s all in good fun. He chuckles, reaching across and brushing his thumb up and down over my nipple. The sensation shoots straight to my dick, flooding it with a delicious, tingling warmth.
“He’s actually a really great bloke,” says Bruno. “He loves my sister, he loves his boys and he’s been like a brother to me.”
With perfect timing, Gabriela waltzes back to the table with her husband in tow. Come to think of it, he does look like he just stepped off the set of Goodfellas.
“What did we miss?” chirps Gabriela.
“ Pollo Ripieno ,” Bruno replies, as he stuffs a hunk of polenta-crusted chicken in his mouth. “Hurry up, it’s getting cold.”
My own main course is a decadent mushroom ravioli in parmesan cream sauce. It’s so divine I’m pretty sure I might even lick the plate clean. Of course Bruno was behind all this. There’s not a drab roast vegetable in sight; none of the usual humdrum fare that clouds menus put together by people who neither know nor care about catering to vegetarians. I want to gush and tell Bruno how touched I am, but I don’t trust myself in my semi-drunken state. After Bruno’s little nipple caress, my dick is now hard and I can feel the pre-come oozing through my shaft. Too much rum, too little recent masturbation, and a sexy man within groping distance mean my inhibitions are fast flying out the window.
After dessert—and a dreadfully-warbled tribute ballad courtesy of some septuagenarian aunt—the MC addresses the room. “For our final song tonight, we have a very special couple coming to perform. But before we get them up here, let’s sing them both a huge Happy Birthday!”
With that, he launches into a cringey rendition of the hackneyed dirge, scooping and ad-libbing like he’s some sort of modern-day R&B crooner. The entire room joins in, but their tuneless mirth is a hell of a lot more fun to listen to.
“What the fuck? No bloody way, Gab! I am definitely not singing.” Bruno’s face is one part amusement and three parts panic.
“You bloody well are!” Gabriela retorts, grabbing his hand and tugging hard. Gee, she certainly seems to do that a lot. “You know the song, you’ll be completely fine.”
“Oh, fucking hell ,” Bruno grumbles to me under his breath.
I vaguely recognise the introduction which plays as Gabriela’s carting Bruno onto the stage. The second she opens her mouth, I know exactly what it is. Sarà perché ti amo .
It’s a much simpler song for Gabriela to sing, because it covers only a small range right in the middle of her vocal register. Still, she gives it her professional polish, committing to every word.
The real revelation is Bruno. When he gets to his verse, he’s skilfully thinned out his tone so he can belt as high as Gabriela did. It’s raw and untrained, but he’s good. And after one or two lines, he’s settled in and he turns to look directly at me.
“What’d I miss?” Claudio’s gruff voice is directly behind my right shoulder.
“Just the agonising Happy Birthday rendition.” I smile and glance sideways, but he’s still out of my sight range. “You must never stop working.”
Claudio chuckles. “Gotta make the big bucks. Gab has expensive tastes.”
My eyes are still fixed on Bruno, waiting for his second solo verse. Sure enough, he turns to me and grins, once again directing the whole thing my way. I may have had more double rums than I can remember, I may not actually speak Italian, but I can pick out enough words to know what he’s singing about.
By the time Gabriela and Bruno reach the final choruses, the entire room is shout-singing along with it. Bruno is positively beaming, and when he gets to the very last line, he points right at me. “Sarà perché ti amo ,” he sings, and I know exactly what he’s saying. Maybe it’s because I love you.
I can barely see Bruno now because of the tears welling in my eyes. As they begin to spill down my cheeks, Claudio leans in from behind and mutters into my ear. “He’s fuckin’ nuts about you, you know.”
***
Back at my apartment, Bruno and I stumble through the door, rip our clothes off and fall into bed. There in the dark, he draws me close and nestles his head into my chest. I sling my leg over his hips, pulling them towards me till his cock presses against my taint. I slide one arm under his pillow and cradle his head with the other. Resting my lips against his smooth scalp, I breathe in his special scent. The room spins gently in my drunken state of happiness.
And this is how I fall asleep, with the collective joy of tonight radiating through my soul.
Sarà perché ti amo
Sarà perché ti amo
Sarà perché ti amo