Chapter 13 Painter Man
PAINTER MAN
MICHAEL
Ring Ring.
I twirled the coiled wire of the telephone around my little finger, my heart thumping in my chest. Each time I’d telephoned Mick, my body behaved the same way.
Ring Ring.
I checked my watch again. Quarter past seven. After work, after dinner, but not an unreasonable time.
Ring Ring.
Did I have the right number? I had dialled from memory, maybe I’d done it wrong.
Ring Ring.
I’d better hang up and try again later.
“MacDonald residence, Mrs MacDonald speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”
Shit, it was Mick’s Mum. I hadn’t been expecting that. I’d been lucky enough that Mick picked up the phone every time before.
“Erm, yes. Of course. It’s Michael. Michael Prentiss, I’m a friend of Mick’s. Is he there?”
“Wait one moment, I’ll go and see.”
Mick’s mum had that affected accent of the working class ‘made good.’ I doubted she’d pass among real middle-class people, but she probably impressed the other housewives on her street. Or they all thought she was a snob.
There was a muffled sound as she covered the receiver with her hand.
“Mick! Get down here. There’s a man on the phone for you!”
I stifled a giggle as I heard her scream for her son, the Irish lilt more obvious than in her telephone voice. I heard some banging and then Mick’s voice.
“Who is it, Ma?”
“Someone called Michael. Tell him not to call at such an ungodly hour in the future.”
“It’s seven o’ clock Ma, not the middle of the night.”
“Don’t you talk back to me, young man.”
“Sorry, Ma. Can I have the phone?”
More rustling, then Mick’s voice.
“Michael?”
“The very same. Sorry for the late-night call.”
He snorted. “Don’t worry. It’s not late. She’s just moaning. She’s not happy unless she’s got something to complain about.” His voice was low. The telephone was probably in the hallway, not in the same room as his mother but close enough that he had to be careful what he said.
“Anyway, what can I do you for?”
I laughed at the silly expression.
“Do you have any time this weekend to go to an art gallery?”
I heard the groan he made but tried to hide.
“Another one?”
I smiled; I’d expected some resistance after his experience at the last gallery, but that was why I wanted to take him to this one.
“Yes, but very different from the last. You’ll like it, I promise.”
He made a low hum noise. “I suppose I could get away for a bit on Saturday. Where is it?”
“Bond Street. A place called The Kasmin Gallery. I can meet you outside the tube station at 2 o’clock?”
“Yeah, alright.” He did not sound convinced.
“I tell you what. If you don’t like it, dinner’s on me. Have you ever been to an Indian restaurant?”
“Er, no.”
“Excellent. There’s one nearby I like. I’ll take you there anyway–even if you do like the show.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.”
He grumbled a bit but didn’t say anything.
“I’ll meet you at Bond Street Station, Saturday at two.” I reiterated.
“See you there.”
“Tata!”
I heard the click of the receiver and put mine down as well. That had been much easier than I’d expected. Good. I’d wanted him to say yes. Of course I had or I wouldn’t have asked him. I just hadn’t imagined he would.
Now, I had two problems. I was going to spend time with just Mick again, which meant I ran the risk of making my feelings for him apparent. And I had to wait until bloody Saturday to see Mick again. And yes, those two worries contradicted each other, but my heart and mind were contrary so-and-sos.
I needed a distraction. I looked at my watch again.
It was nearly half past seven. Oh and it was a Thursday, excellent.
Top of the Pops would be on in a minute.
Just enough time to make a cup of tea. Dancing around the kitchen and humming to myself, I knew exactly why I was in a good mood all of a sudden.
Knowing that I’d be seeing him again in just a few days filled me with contentment.
Seeing him with his friends had been nice; I’d enjoyed meeting them.
But I was selfish and greedy, and I wanted to spend more time with just him.
It was ridiculous. I was nothing to him, nothing more than a friend, but when we were alone, I could sort of pretend.
It was pathetic. I was pathetic. But the heart wants what it wants, and mine wanted him. I couldn’t have him the way I wanted, so I’d settle with spending time together as friends.
After making myself a cup of tea, I crossed my tiny living room to my tiny television set and switched it on. As it flickered into life, a plummy voice announced that Top Of The Pops was about to start. Well, how was that for timing?
I wondered if Mick was watching at the same time, twenty-odd miles away from here.
‘Lazy Sunday’ by The Kinks played over the opening titles, which I assumed meant it was number one this week.
Mick was a big Kinks fan. He and his mates loved the guitar-driven beat music like that.
The younger lads on the scene tended to prefer it to soul music.
They were the ones that were more likely to call themself mods, too.
I didn’t hate the term, but it felt a bit juvenile sometimes.
All that rivalry with other kids who liked other music was too much for me.
I had enough battles to fight; I didn’t need to go around creating new ones.
Not to mention, poofs had been dressing the way we did for a decade before the mods picked it up. But I liked the music and the clothes, so I didn’t mind being called a mod. Once in a while straight boys would wander into Le Duce and get the shock of their life.
That’s what I thought had happened when Tommy, Eric, and Mick had bounded into the club like over-eager puppies.
A closer look at how Tommy and Eric stuck to each other proved me wrong.
My protective nature had taken over as soon as I saw them.
They might as well have been wearing signs that read “fresh meat.” We’d looked after them, and they kept coming back.
After a few months of knowing them, I’d realised there was one in the trio who I cared a lot more about than the others.
My feelings for Mick had developed slowly over time, so slowly that I was not sure when they moved from friendship, to affection, to this ridiculous unrequited love I was suffering from now.
I’d known he was special the first time I’d seen him–he was so fucking beautiful.
His deep brown eyes shone with mischief and cleverness, his beautiful freckles giving him a boyish charm.
Red curls falling into his eyes that I’d wanted to run my hands through.
Now I had run my hands through them, and they were as soft and silky as I’d imagined and it only made me love him more.
And I knew that those soft brown freckles spread over his defined shoulders.
The night we’d spent together haunted my dreams and my waking thoughts.
It had been the single best night of my life but had been devastating too.
A taste of him wasn’t enough; I wanted more and I’d never get it.
Was I being a fool spending time with him?
Maybe it was better to cut him out of my life and try to heal?
I thought about picking up the phone again, calling him back, and cancelling our outing.
But I couldn’t do it. I needed him in my life, one way or another.
I’d cope with the torture of not having all of him as long as I could have a part of him.
I arrived at Bond Street Station on Saturday afternoon a sweaty mess.
Bloody roadworks meant the buses were all late or canceled, and I’d ended up having to walk here.
Wearing a full mohair suit was pretty stupid in the baking July weather at the best of times.
As we were meeting in the early evening, I thought I’d be able to get away with it and not be too uncomfortable.
But after I jogged two miles, my shirt was soaked through, my hair was damp and falling around my face, and I was dripping in sweat.
What made matters worse was how bloody gorgeous Mick looked in his navy blue suit.
You might have imagined his red hair would clash with it, but it just made him shine.
He noticed me and that beautiful smile gleamed on his freckled face.
I’d expected him to laugh at the state of me, but there was no mockery in his eyes. He just looked pleased to see me.
“Don’t you look nice, all dolled up?” he said as he approached. Oh kill me now. I could not cope with compliments from Mick; it would break my already bruised heart.
“Behave! I’m sure I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”
“You’d look sexy even after running a marathon, and you know it.”
Sexy? He thought I was sexy? Where the hell had that come from?
“Are you blushing?” His tone contained a little mockery now. He was right; my cheeks felt flushed.
“I most certainly am not blushing.”
“You are! You’re blushing,” he said gleefully. “I made you blush.” He was grinning from ear to ear, enjoying my discomfort. Relieved and a little sad that he was just winding me up, I tried to save face.
“I am not blushing. I’m pink from the exercise, dear. The bus broke down, so I had to haul my arse a mile and a half by foot. I was not meant for exercise or manual labour. You know that.”
“Alright,” he conceded, but the grin hadn’t left his face. “So, come on. Where are you taking me? You didn’t give much away on the phone.”
“There was a reason for that. I didn’t think it would be wise for anyone to overhear that I was inviting you to an exhibition of David Hockney’s etchings.”
“David Hockney? I know that name. I’m sure of it.”
“You probably do, knowing the company you like to keep.” I looked at him pointedly, but he still looked confused. “Same company I like to keep.”
His eyes widened and he lowered his voice. “Oh! He’s that queer artist, ain’t he?”
“The very same. Although I imagine that description covers an awful lot of people.”
Mick snorted. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“But David Hockney is different. You see, he’s open about it–he doesn’t hide it. His art is angry and passionate and doesn’t shy away from the truth. And his biggest truth is that he’s gay.”
“Gay?” Mick looked confused. He was so sheltered and I forgot sometimes.
“Another word for bent. But a much nicer one. Bent means crooked, but gay means happy. It’s a much more pleasant association if you ask me.”
“So, everyone knows? That he shags blokes?”
“Shags them, loves them, and paints them in the nude.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it's one of his specialities. That’s what I was saying; he doesn’t hide his–” I mouthed the word “homosexuality” before carrying on, still whispering. “–it’s celebrated. It’s an intrinsic part of his art.”
“Alright, this sounds a lot more interesting than massive paintings of birds with their knockers out and blurry landscapes,” Mick said, making a woman walking towards us gasp and speed past.
“That’s why I brought you. I know you didn’t enjoy our day at the Tate Gallery.”
“That’s not true–”
“You don’t have to pretend, I know–”
“Will you let me finish my bloody sentence?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.”
“I was trying to say that I did enjoy the day. I got a bit bored with the paintings. They all started blending into one. But I liked you pointing things out. I liked you teaching me about them. I liked spending time with you.”
His eyes widened like he hadn’t meant to say the last part, and it sent waves of happiness through me. Knowing that he enjoyed spending time with me affected me a lot more than I would have imagined. I stopped outside a jewellers and had to pull Mick to a stop because he hadn’t noticed.
“Why’d’you grab me?”
“Because we’re here.”
“What do you mean we’re here?” He looked at the jewellers, and then at the record shop next door.
I opened the door in between them and held it for him.
“Up there.” I nodded towards the staircase in front of us that led to the private Kamsin Gallery.
Mick climbed the stairs, and I tried very hard not to look at his arse.
Well, I tried. Okay, I didn’t try at all.
I stared hungrily at it. What was I supposed to do?
It was right in my eye-line, and I wasn’t a bloody monk.
The tight cut of his trousers made it look biteable.
Once upstairs, I directed him into a large room. A bored looking girl in a lime green Biba dress sat at a desk filing her nails.
“Gallery’s closing in half an hour.” She didn’t even look up as she told us.
“Alright, we won’t be long,” I said.
She grunted and carried on with her self-manicure.
I paid her a few coins and guided Mick further into the room. The walls were white, and on them were small framed pictures.
“Well this is a bit different from the Tate. I’ll give you that.”
Putting my hand on the small of his back, I directed him to the first picture. Each drawing was small, about twelve inches across, so you had to get very close to them. I think that might have been the point.
The first picture was a portrait of the poet Constantine Cavafy. It was beautiful in its simplicity. Scratchy lines and almost infantile rendering gave it a raw intensity. Mick did as he had done at the Tate Gallery and looked at the piece of art dutifully until I began to move to the next.
As we stood in front of the image of two men lying in bed together on their fronts; the blankets tantalisingly low, he gasped. This was the reaction I’d been hoping for. After his initial shock, he smiled as he absorbed the details of the picture.
I did the same, even though I’d seen it already.
I’d been here before–a friend had snagged tickets to the opening a few weeks earlier.
It was starkly beautiful. Two young men lay on their fronts, facing one another.
They could have been asleep, or they could have been lazily talking.
Their arms were close and the sheet was slung low on their bodies, with glimpses of their buttocks on show to the viewer.
There was no escaping that this was an image of two men who had just made love.
There was an intimacy and a feeling of comfort emanating from them.
His attention moved to the plate pinned to the wall next to it displaying the title of both the picture and the poem which it illustrated. “Two Boys, Aged 23 or 24.”
“Wow,” was all he said. After a few more minutes of looking at it, Mick moved onto the next one. I took half a step back, so I wasn’t in his line of sight, wanting him to take the lead this time. He did just that, gazing intently at each etching, lingering longer on some than others.
I barely looked at the art, more interested in his reactions to them. His face lit up with each new scene, it was stunning to watch. Following him around the gallery, I knew with absolute certainty that my heart belonged to him, and it hurt like hell.