In Spite of You, page 17
Jeremy smiled, and when Brian turned his back to show him an award he’d won, he checked his phone. Nothing from Sam. He clamped down on his rising panic, biting his lip as he tried frantically to think of a way to stop feeling like he’d just made an awful mistake.
CHAPTER 17
‘Cate Blanchett was there!’ Jeremy yelled, again, holding his face in his hands and mock screaming. ‘If I’d wanted to be shot by the secret service, I could have reached out and touched her. She looked at me with her human eyes and they acknowledged my existence. Cate Blanchett’s eyes saw me, and perceived me, and she didn’t immediately smite me, so I think she liked me.’
‘I don’t think Cate Blanchett has secret service agents,’ scoffed Duane, a friend of Jeremy’s from an old job. He was a tall and wide incredibly handsome bear type, who was currently wearing a tiara saying birthday girl.
‘And isn’t that a crime in itself?’ pointed out Jeremy. ‘She’s a national treasure and she needs to be protected!’
Everyone nodded seriously. Jeremy was surrounded by a couple of his housemates, some acquaintances, and some woman he’d been introduced to, he was sure, as ‘Bressica’, though that seemed unlikely. He’d rolled into the party late – it was past midnight, and he was hopped up on free theatre wine, feeling loose and messy and fabulous.
Brian had taken him to the opening night of a new Hamlet, featuring several dames of the theatre in the main roles. It had been a good show, but for Jeremy, even the most achingly delivered soliloquy paled in comparison with being squired around the opening-night festivities by Brian. With Jeremy on Brian’s arm, glass of champagne in hand, they had nodded hello at big stars, stopped to congratulate the director (a terrifying woman who looked like an eagle wearing head-to-toe Camilla), and swapped recommendations for a new oyster bar with a politician (Jeremy had been less impressed by that). They’d also been in a conversation with Cate Blanchett.
As the evening had wrapped up, the bar closing and the theatregoers spilling out onto the street like flamingos let loose from a crate, they’d stopped on the steps of the theatre. Brian’s face was flushed with good wine, and he gestured at the bay of taxis (he didn’t ‘get’ Ubers yet) and asked, ‘How about we keep this party going? Come home with me.’
He stepped in closer and, with a queasy sensation, Jeremy realised the older man was flushed with more than wine. It wasn’t that Jeremy found Brian unattractive: it was just that he had to keep reminding himself Brian had no idea he was being used as part of a revenge scheme. The night had been perfect – every moment with Brian was a bramble in Miles’s foot and a thorn in his palm; a dress run for what the reunion would feel like. They’d even posed for photographs, which Jeremy imagined Miles seeing in the newspaper, spitting out his tea in rage. Jeremy was over the moon with how spectacularly his revenge plan was unfolding.
But clearly Brian had different, more normal motivations – he wanted to sleep with Jeremy. Even that thought made Jeremy feel sort of good, but he wasn’t sure how much of that was just from the ego boost or because that too would make Miles really, really jealous. He briefly imagined engineering some way for Miles to walk in on them mid-coitus.
‘This has been so lovely,’ Jeremy stalled, finding himself flinching back a little. ‘What a show. I would love your thoughts on some of the artistic choices towards the end,’ he waffled, trying to distract Brian.
‘Mmm, yes,’ muttered Brian, undeterred, stepping in closer again. Jeremy mentally sighed, gritted his mental teeth, and forced a grateful look onto his face. ‘Thank you, Brian – this has been really special for me.’
He took the plunge and Brian met him there quickly, and they were kissing. Jeremy wished it was technically bad – too hard, too rough, too much teeth – so he could justify pulling away, could justify his feeling of mild disgust. But it was proficient and technically fine. Jeremy just felt … impatient for it to end, and he couldn’t help thinking about the first time he and Sam had kissed, and how time had sped up and swelled into something unrecognisable. He could feel the sensation of Sam’s neck beneath his hands, the rasp of his stubble, the hot slick of his lips.
He forced himself to stop thinking about Sam and pulled out of the moist mouth grapple with Brian.
‘Well. Oh my.’ Brian groaned theatrically. ‘That was quite something.’
‘Mmm,’ Jeremy said. ‘That is precisely how I’d describe it. But I think unfortunately I have to go … and I think you understand why,’ he improvised wildly.
Brian blinked rapidly and stuttered, ‘Ah, of course, but are you sure? Okay …’
If Brian understood why Jeremy was leaving, then that would truly have been a miracle. The gambit had worked a lot better than Jeremy had expected – perhaps it had played on Brian’s inherent need to seem worldly and well-informed, or perhaps it was just really confusing. All Jeremy knew was he wanted to get out of there, but also not tank his plan. It was a delicate balance.
He’d ushered Brian into a taxi, briefly letting the man kiss him again in farewell, feeling weirdly dirty about the whole thing, like he was somehow being a lecher to a man in his late fifties. Did Brian think he’d been implying that he was saving himself for marriage?
After Brian’s taxi drove off, Jeremy hadn’t wanted to go home. Ever since the wedding, with no further word from Sam, he’d been restless, jittery, and the idea of heading back to his room and being alone felt insane. Luckily, he didn’t have to go home: he had a farewell party to attend.
Despite Duane’s tiara, it was not, in fact, a birthday. In an ancient tradition of gay couples, Duane and his boyfriend Alex were moving to Berlin. Alex had been invited to do his PhD in transmasculine representation in film at a prestigious German university. Duane was excited to go to Berghain every night in tiny leather pants. It was very thrilling for both of them.
They’d rented out the top of an inner-city pub for the party, and the roof was open to the chilly night sky. Jeremy saw Alex across the crowd – he had a sash on that said maid of honour, and he twinkled his fingers at Jeremy when they made eye contact. Jeremy didn’t know what the sash and tiara situation was, but he assumed it was just another whimsy of the couple – unfortunately they shared the same lack of a sense of humour and enabled each other when it came to nonsensical jokes. Jeremy realised he detested their love. Hopefully Berlin and its robust public transport infrastructure would break them.
Jeremy didn’t really mean that. But he also didn’t not mean that. He caught sight of Liz and Anna ensconced in the corner with a couple of other friends, and considered turning around, but Anna saw him and waved. He hadn’t seen much of either of them since the wedding.
‘Hello hello hello!’ he said, doing his best RuPaul imitation, attempting to jolly his way through any awkwardness.
‘You absolute dipshit!’ yelled Liz, in classic confrontational Liz style. Jeremy took a seat and made an exaggerated shrugging motion, as if it was all part of a joke. She didn’t look like she was making a joke. ‘You SLEPT with him and then you blew him off to hang out with some old book guy? You IDIOT. What are you DOING?’
Jeremy looked to Anna for support, but she was very clearly disassociating, drinking from both of her gin and tonics with long straws, giggling with someone next to her who Jeremy didn’t recognise. He regretted telling the group chat what he’d done.
Liz rolled her eyes, shrugging her huge pink faux-fur jacket irritably. ‘Look, I don’t care – you can do what you want – but I’m also not going to pretend I don’t think this has all gone a bit too far and you’re kinda ruining your own life.’
‘Oh, and you haven’t made mistakes before,’ scoffed Jeremy, thinking of the half a dozen disastrous relationship decisions Liz had made, which included a particularly memorable attempt to ‘catch’ someone cheating that had ended up with Liz crashing a child’s christening.
Instead of looking chagrined, she exchanged a significant and oddly triumphant look with Anna and jabbed her finger at him. ‘So you admit it … you admit you made a mistake.’
Jeremy spluttered and began defending himself, but Liz cut him off.
‘As I said, I don’t care, but if you admit that you made a mistake, then that means you have a chance to fix it. And that’s the last thing I’ll say because I’m really not here to bust your balls. I just don’t want you to … regret.’
Jeremy sat for a second in furious silence. He’d come to blow off steam and escape his problems, and his friends couldn’t even give him that. Did they think he was happy about what had happened with Sam? Did they think he was thrilled that he was making out with Brian? Did they even care about the fact he’d been applying for new jobs, and even had an interview with one of PopBuzz’s biggest rivals? Did they even understand that the reunion was less than two months away and he was this close to achieving all his big revenge plans? Did they realise he was actually miserable?
‘I’m going to get a drink,’ he said flatly, getting up and walking to the bar. Along the way, he snagged Duane and some others and started serpent whispering a suggestion of shots.
Six shots later, Jeremy found himself standing outside Sam’s house, his finger on the doorbell. He wasn’t drunk enough to be stumbling or slurring, but rather the intoxication was making him heedless and bold. He was ringing Sam’s doorbell at two am, and they hadn’t spoken since the day of the wedding, and it felt like a great and even normal thing to do.
Sam’s housemate answered the door in a robe. He couldn’t remember her name, but she looked furious, only holding the door open a crack.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Hi, girlie,’ he said, attempting an apologetic tone. He hadn’t considered that a housemate might answer, but Jeremy thought he could bluff through this with his natural charm. ‘So sorry, unfortunately we’ve been beset by a work emergency, and I simply must converse with Sam on the … immediate.’
‘Right,’ said the unnamed housemate, and she slammed the door. Jeremy heard her stomp up the hallway and wondered if he was meant to follow. He heard murmurings through the door, and then suddenly it was opened again, forcing Jeremy, who had leant against it, to stumble back.
Sam stood blinking sleepily in the light. He wore plaid pyjamas, his hair mussed, the imprint of his pillow still creasing his face. He widened his eyes at the sight of Jeremy and leant firmly against the doorframe when Jeremy tried to step inside.
‘Jeremy, what are you doing here? It’s … very late.’
Jeremy did not like Sam’s tone – that over-careful but incredibly patronising voice used with drunk people and toddlers who needed a nap.
‘Well,’ Jeremy started, feeling indignant at Sam’s attitude, ‘it’s nice to see you too. Is it a crime to drop around now? What is the charge, officer? Not messaging ahead?’
‘Jeremy,’ Sam pleaded, now looking indescribably sad.
‘I just want to talk. You’ve been ignoring my messages,’ Jeremy blurted out. ‘That’s just rude. Unfair. I didn’t do anything wrong, technically.’
‘Jeremy …’ Sam sighed wearily. ‘I haven’t been ignoring your messages at all.’
‘But your responses have been weird! I can tell you’re mad at me.’
‘I’m not mad …’
‘So, I’m not perfect, but in my defence you knew exactly who I was when we started … hanging out, so really it’s your fault for thinking I’m some kind of magical boy who never makes a mistake. Not that I even made a mistake, but you think I made a mistake, so really that’s on you … twice.’
Sam just looked at him, wincing slightly, then he took a deep breath and crossed those beautiful arms as Jeremy continued.
‘But I came here to say that I’m happy to … breeze past it all and go back to normal.’ As he said it, Jeremy saw, and even felt, that last line sink like a bowling ball in a swimming pool. ‘We can just … start again, be pals.’
Sam’s mouth was working like he was chewing on something tough and unpalatable; he was clearly unmoved by the speech. But at the same time, there was characteristic compassion still lurking in his eyes, and Jeremy knew he was someone who had great stores of kindness, and wasn’t sick and weighted with spite like Jeremy. He would forgive Jeremy, just like he did everyone else. Surely.
‘No,’ Sam said, slowly but firmly, looking away for a second.
‘Well, just —’ began Jeremy, but Sam held up a hand.
‘Look, Jeremy. You were the one who told me I had to stick up for myself when people tried to walk all over me. And you were right, which makes it even … harder, when you’re the one trying to walk all over me now.’
Jeremy, even through that cloudy buffer of booze and emotion, felt like he’d been gut-punched – a thing that had happened to him multiple times during high school, so he felt qualified in making the comparison.
‘You hurt me, Jeremy. Sleeping with you wasn’t a casual thing, and I think you know that. And I need some time to deal with the fact that you didn’t value it like I did, because it really, really hurt.’
Sam closed the door, leaving Jeremy standing cold and outside. A moment later, the light went off.
CHAPTER 18
‘Oh, darling, just move your head for a second … there we are,’ said Jeremy’s mother, and when he lifted his neck up like a baby deer, he felt a cloth napkin get inserted underneath it. ‘You were crying all over the good couch, darling, and trust me, it’s impossible to reupholster because the man who did it for me the first time hanged himself a few years ago. Very sad story. He was Italian.’
‘Oh,’ Jeremy said, laying his head down on the napkin, sniffing. ‘That’s so sad. Do you know why?’
‘No,’ Maria said, shaking her head. ‘I assume he was either born over there or his parents were.’
‘That’s not what I was asking — Never mind.’
Jeremy scrubbed away at his tears while his mum bustled into the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine.
‘Oh, my darling, what are we going to do with you?’ she asked, finishing off one bottle of chardonnay and opening another to top off the glass. ‘I just hate to see you like this. You’ve always been a sensitive soul, but you seem absolutely miserable and I still don’t really understand why.’
Jeremy sniffed again and rolled his eyes – when his mum said she hated to see him like this, she probably really did hate to see him, physically, when he was upset. Emotion was messy and Maria liked to keep things neat. Her apartment, which Jeremy was currently polluting with his presence, was a blinding white and beige affair, all tasteful minimalism, overlooking a south coast beach. It wasn’t large – Jeremy was sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the study as there was no guest room. Maria didn’t like guests in her house.
‘My love,’ she always said, ‘when you’ve had as many husbands as I’ve had, you learn to value your own space.’
It wasn’t boring, but the apartment was incredibly controlled, everything in its place, inhospitable to change or clutter or anyone who wasn’t Maria and the one or two of her girlfriends who seemed to spend their lives drinking coffee on her balcony. It was the kind of home where Jeremy’s ever-present giant water bottle would continually disappear; if he left the house to go and cry in the ocean or buy more wine, he’d return to find the water bottle had been relegated to a high cupboard somewhere, or under the sink, or once even the bin. If it didn’t fit the aesthetic, it had to be hidden. Jeremy sometimes feared that if he fell asleep in the wrong place, his mum would brick him up into the walls.
After Jeremy’s mortifying drunken excursion to Sam’s house, he’d found himself in a bad place – mentally, due to feeling wretched with embarrassment and shame, and physically, as his mother lived in a famously conservative regional town. It was always fun to come home and see the train stations and bus stops and corner shops where high-schoolers had yelled slurs at him when he was a teen. While the area was grimly familiar, the apartment wasn’t. He often envied people who had a ‘childhood home’ – he’d shifted between various stepdads’ houses too often to feel any real claim over them or comfort from them. But they tended to be situated around this satellite city (his mother liked her routine, and if the new husband hadn’t already lived there, she soon made them). The real constant was that his mum was there – so, in an effort to both make himself feel better and maybe arrest the self-destructive trajectory he was on, he’d decided to come stay for a while, get out of the city, get looked after.
Unfortunately, Maria wasn’t thrilled with being thrust back into a maternal role or having her routine of power walks and manicures and cocktails with other divorced women thrown into disarray. However, she did love someone to drink wine with, and gossip – and Jeremy’s love life counted as gossip apparently.
‘Come on, darling, come sit outside. Fresh air is good. Have some wine, blow your nose.’
Jeremy shuffled outside and sat down, squinting at the ocean, and accepted the literal goblet of cold white wine. He took a huge, joyless slug.
‘All right, tell me what’s going on,’ his mum said. ‘Did Sam break up with you? He’s a handsome little jug of cream but I promise you you’ll find someone else. After every divorce, you think, is this it? Am I over the hill? Will anyone ever love me again? But there’s always some rich idiot willing to get down on one knee. Did I tell you I’m considering a new husband? Anyway, more on that later. You just have to pick yourself up and start again. What about that Geoffrey chap?’
Jeremy’s mum asked questions as if they were all rhetorical, never giving him the time to answer. It was how she’d won every argument with her husbands, and apparently became a kind of bogeyman to divorce lawyers.
‘No, Sam did not “break up” with me.’ Jeremy sighed, not particularly wanting to talk about it, about all his horrible mistakes, but knowing that if he didn’t, his mum would make up her own narrative and he’d spend the rest of his life trying to correct it. Once, when he was a kid, he’d politely accepted a white chocolate Easter egg from a relative, despite hating white chocolate, and to this day his mother would still seek out white chocolate Easter eggs for him, refuting his claim he had any other preference.
