Chapter 20
When Theo wakes up, he says he’s going to take the kids out for the day, starting with a trip to see the kittens. “We’ll give you guys some space.”
I’m about to ask if what he really means is he wants to get out of my way, just like I did with him yesterday. We still need to untangle our argument—but I can’t go there now my sisters have arrived.
“Brill,” I manage, weakly. “Thanks.”
The girls and I decide to go to La Lecciona, the gay beach in between Viareggio and the next resort along the coast, Torre del Lago.
It’s another gorgeous day and we arrive to find a stretch of sand that’s much softer and closer to golden than the beach in Viareggio.
The sea is a perfect turquoise, the reflection of the sun on its waves so bright I can hardly look at it, even with sunglasses.
And framed by the much deeper blue of the sky is a Pride flag, curling and snapping in the gentle breeze.
As we spread out our towels, I feel uneasy about taking off my clothes.
Regular sessions on the exercise bike may have stopped my weight gain but I still haven’t lost any of the weight I originally put on.
I scan the beach, however, and can make out bodies of all types: there are old men and young men, fat men and thin men, handsome men and not-so-handsome men.
And I spot biceps, pecs, glutes and delts, but also guts, moobs, chicken legs, and loose flaps of skin hanging from arms. But nobody seems self-conscious.
Some men are even nude—and this isn’t, to my surprise, the ones with the best bodies. I clearly have nothing to worry about.
Of our group, Dom is the first to strip off, flaunting his spectacular, gym-sculpted physique in a pair of tiny black Speedos.
Ian’s next, his slim frame covered only with tufts of silver hair on the chest and gray, shell-patterned swimming shorts.
And a wigless, bald Gloria flings off his clothes to reveal a woman’s jade-green bandeau swimsuit that accentuates every inch of his head-turning figure.
If he’s rounded off the look with a coral sarong, I know this isn’t to cover himself up but to give him something to swish around.
The four of us lie in the sun and spend most of the day chatting.
I tell my sisters about Wilf and what I’ve discovered of his story so far and they’re gripped, insisting I keep them updated—although I feel a pang of guilt as I still haven’t told Theo.
We discuss Gloria and Dom’s most recent sexual encounters and they open Grindr to make contact with men and line up some options for later.
After lunch in a nearby beach club, Ian settles down to read his book; Dom plays volleyball with a group of similarly jacked, Speedo-sporting men; and Gloria slinks off into the dunes with the guy who was walking up and down the beach, selling drinks and fresh fruit.
“I need a closer look at his watermelons,” he jokes.
I slip off for a swim. The water is the perfect temperature: not cold but cool enough to provide some respite from the heat.
As I plunge beneath the surface and reemerge to find my stroke, I feel a sudden rush of freedom.
I realize how good it is to have a break from all the tension and hostility at the house, and a taste of my old, much simpler, life.
I wonder again if I should let my new one fall apart and then I can just go back to it.
I stop swimming, let myself float and close my eyes, breathing in and out, deeply. Maybe I was never meant to take on a family. Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of complicated relationship or emotional baggage. Maybe it’s time to have a rethink and start again.
One thing’s for sure: I love being surrounded by people who like me, people who enjoy my company and actually want to spend time with me.
Being disliked is horrendous. And so exhausting.
I swim back to the shore, stand up and stride out of the sea. I throw myself down on my towel, ready to dry out in the sun.
Several hours later, we’ve showered and changed and arrive at the local gay club, which is a few hundred meters behind the beach, back in Torre del Lago. The four of us step through the doors arm-in-arm, and being out with my sisters makes me feel a power surge.
The club has a large indoor space but an even bigger courtyard that doubles as a dance floor.
This is lined with painted rainbows, crowns and palm trees—some of them bordered with flashing lights—and packed with people.
The crowd is mainly made up of men, several of these signaling their gayness with colorful wigs, fans and dog masks.
A minority are women, some of them doing the same with their lesbianism, others looking more likely to be friends and allies.
Those who aren’t dancing are kissing or fondling someone—or more than one person—while others are downing shots in lurid colors or watching a drag queen in a blond Afro and a zebra-print catsuit strutting up and down the stage belting out a song by Christina Aguilera.
As I wait at the bar to buy our first round of drinks, I feel a rush of excitement to be back amongst my community. There’s only one problem: most of the people here are younger than us—significantly younger.
“Are you sure we’re not too old for this place?” I ask the girls, as I hand out their drinks.
Gloria shakes his head, defiantly. “We’ll never be as young as we are now!”
Age doesn’t seem to dent Dom’s appeal. He’s wearing purple Speedos and a matching sequined harness, and within minutes is surrounded by a huddle of much younger admirers.
“Sometimes I think that girl must glow with a permanently applied Instagram filter,” offers Gloria.
We laugh. But I worry about Dom’s hearing as he struggles in loud venues. I spot him repositioning himself so his good ear is facing a tall man with his hair in curtains, who’s marveling at him, his eyes gleaming.
Wait a minute, I know that man. …
“That’s Vito!” I tell the others. “He works in the museum and is helping with our dig.”
Ian raises an eyebrow. “So he’s clever with a proper job. Slightly off-brand for Dom but an interesting pivot.”
We keep an eye on the two of them. By the time we’re hitting our third drink, they’re kissing. By the time we’re on our fourth, they’ve disappeared.
Gloria lets out a gasp and grabs onto my arm.
“Girl, look at that go-go dancer!” He points at the raised stage, at a muscled man wearing a studded leather thong, black wraparound sunglasses, and nothing else—except a bolt through his left nipple and what looks like an entire bottle of baby oil slathered over his body. “I’d rinse out his jockstrap.”
Without any further discussion, Gloria plunges into the throng, weaving his way towards the stage.
A few minutes later, Ian and I spot him in his silver lamé leotard, writhing around the dancer, hair-whipping his electric blue wig, and sending clouds of glitter flying out from his beard into the crowd.
“Come on,” says Ian. “Let’s get another drink.”
“Do you want to see if there’s anyone you fancy?” I suggest.
Ian pushes his glasses up his nose. “No, thanks, I’m perfectly happy as I am. Why do I need a man when I’ve got my sisters?”
I smile and take his hand.
When we reach the bar, there’s a scrum of people pushing and shoving to get served. Ian insists it’s his round and thrusts himself in, while I wait at the back, leaning against a wall.
“Ciao!” comes a voice from behind me.
I turn around to see a tall man with smooth, wrinkle-free skin and thick black hair in a quiff, wearing smart jeans and a heavy blazer.
“Are you not hot?” I find myself asking him.
“No,” he replies, “but you are.”
I’m just about to insist otherwise, pointing to my thin T-shirt, when I realize he’s flirting with me. I giggle, flattered.
“My name is Salvatore,” the man says. “In Italian that means I am here to save you.”
He smiles and it feels like the sun’s breaking through the clouds. “From what?” I ask, hoping he can’t tell I’m drunk.
“You tell me.” Salvatore grins and his eyes glisten.
I suddenly remember Theo and my gut twists. What am I doing?
I dismiss my objection. Why shouldn’t I flirt with this bloke? Theo’s going off me anyway. It’s only a matter of time till he dumps me.
I tell Salvatore that I recently inherited a house between Lucca and Camaiore.
“Really?” He moves closer and I can smell his woody aftershave and some sugary cocktail on his breath.
“I’m here for the summer,” I add.
Salvatore’s so confident, his presence so commanding, that I can’t take my eyes off him. But could I actually get off with him? Would I be capable of that?
“And do you like my country?” he asks.
Before I can reply, a drink’s thrust into my hand.
“Here you go,” says Ian.
I smile as I take hold of it. I register a look of surprise on Ian’s face. He’d never judge me but suddenly I can see how tacky and cheap I must look.
“Ciao,” Salvatore says, unenthusiastically. He turns back to me. “Is this your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s my sister.” I pause as I consider what to say next. “My boyfriend’s back at the house.”
The muscles in Salvatore’s face tense, ever so slightly.
“With his kids,” I elaborate. “He used to be married to a woman.”
Salvatore runs his hand through his quiff. “And do you have an open relationship?”
I purse my lips. “No. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
Ian leans into my ear. “Shall we get away, Adam?”
“Yeah.” I say goodbye to Salvatore but he’s already turned his back.
“What was all that about?” Ian asks when we’re walking upstairs.
I let out a groan. “I don’t know, he just came over and chatted me up. I wasn’t expecting it, to be honest. And I know it’s awful but for a minute I actually considered getting off with him.”
We reach the balcony and take up a spot by the balustrade, looking out to the beach. I watch the moonlight dance over the waves of the sea and breathe in the salty air.
“It’s not awful,” Ian says. “He was hot. And you’ve had a tough few weeks.”