Chapter 3
I peel one eye half open as the sun peeping through the gap in the curtains hits my retina like a laser beam, forcing me to wince and sink back further into my pillow.
Head splitting, I’m in that all too familiar state of not knowing how I’ve got home or exactly where I’ve been.
The club stamp on my wrist is usually the only way I know which club I took the last shot of Sambuca in the night before. I squint at it, Stag.
Aniseed coats my mouth, the taste of regret. Eyes still shut, I reach out to my bedside table for a glass of Vimto which lives there permanently as the first step in my hangover cure. It’s not there.
‘Morning gorgeous,’ a deep voice whispers in my ear whilst a strong arm pulls me into a hairy chest. Fuck.
‘Morning sexy,’ I croak.
‘You were wild last night.’
I don’t need to look to know the voice doesn’t belong to Olly who I vaguely remember making a quick getaway.
I can make out this person’s older than me from the grey hairs on his arm.
Using one hand to shield the light, I slowly open my eyes and shuffle round to face the stranger.
I recognise him as the daddy I spotted on the dancefloor, his toned pecs making him stand out like a muscled crouton floating in the homosexual broth.
I can tell we’ve had sex, not only because my arse is killing now the alcohol has started to wear off, but I can smell it.
I can also feel that all eight inches of him wants to go again. No chance.
‘Shit, where’s my phone?’ I sit upright in bed like a corpse resurrecting.
I scramble to find my jeans on the floor and check the pockets.
Three missed calls and a WhatsApp from Soumia, Where the fuck are you?
You check in at 2. A brief pang of guilt hits me as I think about my broken promise to Soumia.
Not only was I not home by ten thirty, I didn’t make it home it all.
I bury the feeling and lock the phone. The screen tells me it’s 08:14, plenty of time to try and feel human before my flight.
‘Mate, I’m sorry I’ve got to go. Whereabouts am I?’ I hope he won’t notice I’ve forgotten his name.
I curse myself for not having my planned early night and breaking my resolution three weeks into January – again.
‘You’re in Castlefield. My name’s Derek, in case you forgot.’
I should have guessed, Manchester’s very own gay suburb. Close enough to walk to the cobbles of Canal St on a summer’s day and far enough to justify a taxi home.
‘Of course, I remember your name,’ I don’t. ‘I had an amazing time last night. Put your number in my phone and I’ll message you later.’ Another lie.
‘I don’t give out my number, it’s a rule we have.’
‘We?’
‘My fella’s in the next room.’
‘What?’
‘We’re open. Been together sixteen years. It works for us.’ He rolls over, moving the covers to reveal his manhood which is standing to attention like a peacock displaying its feathers.
‘Amazing.’ The tone of my voice giving away that I think it’s anything but. I trip over an open suitcase on the floor and try to style it out. ‘Going anywhere nice?’
‘Gay cruise.’
‘Lovely.’
I know exactly the sort of cruise he means, I see them advertised on social media using the hottest men you’ve ever seen in tiny speedos, they promise a holiday filled with drag queens, discos, and dick.
Couples swing together in hot tubs, their sperm reaching boiling point as they fraternise.
I have no problem with people in open relationships, but I don’t want to be part of them.
My relationship with Liam was open, I just didn’t know it.
‘Can I get you anything before you go?’
I want to ask him for dignity, but until you can buy it over the counter in Boots, I don’t see the point.
I say no and gather up my clothes, awkwardly putting them on to limit the time this stranger can see me naked.
He’s sprawled across the double bed like a slightly older Greek God – Daddy of Zeus perhaps.
No doubt he’s comparing my wobbly flesh to his perfectly chiselled boyfriend in the next room.
A silver picture frame on the wall catches my attention.
There’s a photo of them together at Disney, posing in tank tops, the Florida sunshine glistening on their biceps, while Mickey Mouse drapes an arm around them in front of his castle.
The perfect couple. I’d be jealous if I didn’t know they both shagged other men.
My phone flashes, accompanied by the wailing of a siren warning me that Crewing, the rostering department, are about to deliver bad news.
‘Sorry, it’s important.’ I wave my phone at Derek and slip out of the bedroom half dressed, fumbling to answer my phone and put a sock on at the same time.
Crewing never call to say I need to pack for a last minute round the world trip, or to inform me the aircraft has been charted by a pop star, and I’ve been specially selected to serve them Pringles during their European tour.
Although this did happen once, but I was forced to sign a non-disclosure agreement which inhibited my bragging rights.
I dropped enough hints about who the mystery crooner was by answering my phone, What’s New Pussycat? for the duration of the contract.
I slide my finger across the screen to silence the alarm and allow Crewing to connect.
‘Hi, it’s Callum.’
‘Callum, it’s Dot from Crewing.’
Of the four women who work in the office, who do everything from crewing to operations to customer service, Dot is the most competent, which explains the sorry state of the airline’s Skytrax rating.
‘How are you?’
It always pays to be polite to crewing, they are the gatekeepers of good rosters. If crew are rude to them, they can kiss their weekends goodbye and find themselves called out from a standby duty every time a colleague calls in sick. They’re not referred to as Screwing for nothing.
‘Not too good Callum. I’m forgetting everything with this menopause and these bunions are driving me mad.
I’m wearing slippers in the office. It’s a shit show in here.
Helen’s son has buggered off to Gretna to marry the bit of fluff he’s met – Helen’s words, not mine.
She’s sat scryking whilst the customer calls back up. How are you doing, son?’
I take in the unfamiliar sight of Derek’s landing and spot an empty box of condoms discarded on the top step. ‘I’m good thanks, plodding on.’
‘Well, nice chatting to you, Callum, speak soon.’
‘Dot, was there anything you wanted to tell me?’
‘Oh, buggering hell! It’s these hot flushes; I’ve got a towel on my desk to mop my brow. What was it…’ I hear Dot click away on the mouse button. ‘Your flight’s been cancelled. We’ve put you on the same one tomorrow.’
‘OK, no problem.’
‘I’ll update your roster now. Jesus, Helen will you—’ Dot disconnects the call.
As phone calls from crewing go, it’s not such a bad one. I escape the demands of passengers for another twenty-four hours and get to wallow in my hangover with only the wrath of Soumia to face.
A deep voice shouts from behind a closed bedroom door. ‘Derek, are you finished with your bit of trade?’
Do you call it a walk of shame if you’re technically getting in a taxi?
The crisp Sunday morning contrasts with the warm flat I’ve left behind.
I stand on the street corner and load up the app on my phone, willing the little taxi on my screen to arrive and take me home to Radcliffe, twenty minutes away.
I could get the tram but I’m not a fan of public transport at the best of times, even less so when I’ve got WKD Blue spilt on my white trainers.
The few times I’ve taken it I sit there and eye the passengers up one by one as they board, judging them to see if they have any potential homophobic tendencies.
Old women aren’t a problem, their gaydar is non-existent.
It’s the teenagers with their tracksuit bottoms tucked into their socks and no fear or morals who make me avoid the tram like it’s a heterosexual plague.
I was once on the 135 into town and got punched by a man in the back of my head for ‘sounding like a puff.’
I’m not as camp anymore. You could look at me and know I’m gay, but not in a glitter wearing, dancing down the street whilst singing Beyonce type of way, more his beard is too well groomed, and he wears Jean Paul Gautier type of way.
The fresh air lifts my hangover slightly.
I must stop smoking when I’m drunk, my chest feels like Derek’s been sitting on it all night, which is a strong possibility.
The smell of stale cig smoke on my clothes is knocking me sick.
I started smoking again when Liam left. I didn’t like it, but for the time it took me to light the cig and breathe in the chemicals until there was nothing left but an orange stump, it gave me something to focus on other than the tunnel-sized hole in my heart.
I got through forty the day after he left.
The taxi on the app moves closer, three minutes.
I close it and open Grindr to pass the time.
A GPS for dicks, both figuratively and metaphorically.
There’s Derek, closest man to me, the little green circle in the bottom right of his profile picture tells me he’s already online looking for someone else to come and service him.
I take it as an insult that I’m so easily replaced, but can’t help but think, why doesn’t he just go next door and shag his boyfriend?
Typical man, thrill of the chase. I close my phone, jump in the taxi and pray to Kylie that the driver doesn’t strike up a conversation.
I’m in no mood to ask him if he’s been busy.
I fasten the seatbelt and lower the window a little, turning my head into the breeze like a hungover Labrador at an open car window.
I watch the city pass by. It amazes me how the no-go areas when I was little are now covered with high-rise towers, where a small two-bed apartment costs a couple of hundred thousand.