Hooking Trout - 5. Every Witch Way

Amanda moved in Saturday of the following week. Twenty-three boxes. During which she unveiled her frightening black metal Hindu goddess. The vindictive dancer has one foot shoved into her lap and stands three feet from the floor, six darkly braceleted arms held out spiderlike in awkward positions with contorted fingers snagging me every time I walk past.

That first Saturday together, she dragged me through Manhattan Esotericz, a modern furniture store in lower Manhattan, to buy some 'neutral' pieces, some items that are neither hers nor mine, but ours. Which is how we ended up with it.

It stretches from floor to ceiling on the feature wall of the apartment. Leaf green blobs of gloss paint dripped onto a patchy pink canvas, pink like the color of tomato sauce my birth mother used to thin with milk when running low. Perhaps this might have a place in one of the avant-garde galleries on the Upper East Side but not on my—our—red brick living room wall. No matter how hard I try, all I see are frozen garden peas and milky ketchup. Why couldn’t I have kept the Hockney? Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy are like family now. Why do things have to change?

Tonight, Saturday, is our one week anniversary and I am currently at home pondering the point of having a cell phone which never rings when you need help. I am this close to calling 911. This past week, Bill phoned from a new club last Tuesday the moment Doug and I were leaving the football game. Priceless. Doug phoned Wednesday for gay quiz night and Cosmopolitans just as I'd finished painting the spare room, set to become Amanda’s study. Perfect. Thursday night, while she was at her aromatherapy evening class and I decided to have a rare night in with my old friends Jim Beam and Rock Hudson, the phone never stopped.

Tonight, of course, nada.

Tonight, I am stuck here with the Witches of East Village, two girlfriends from her college days who are in town and 'popped over' for an impromptu girls' night in. It's the first time I've met any of her friends, so, in the true spirit of her rules about making nice, I've stuck around.

Things haven’t been easy.

I balance on the edge of my armchair while they assemble opposite like an interview panel. Empty pizza boxes litter the floor as they drink my Smirnoff, lounge on my Chesterfield and grill me about the questionable life I led before she moved in. They've already been cooing over Kali the Indian dancer and the monstrous artwork now flanked by Balinese wall tapestries. I am convinced my apartment is turning into an Asian restaurant. I feel sure I will come home one day and a waiter will ask me if I've made a reservation.

I can't even sneak an SOS text message from under the smoke glass coffee table like I normally would, letting her think I am bowing my head in shame at something I'm supposed to know I've done. I can't because the new Thai-style coffee table is barely knee high. Worse still, her friend Georgina—Gina—keeps looking at me strangely, giving me an odd sort of I-could-spill-the-beans look every time I catch her eye. I’m wondering if she has a male friend I once dated.

"So come on. Where did you take Amanda for your first date back in school? Somewhere classy, I’ll bet?”

The little one, Natty, is the worst. Her feet have those multicoloured socks made with toes in them. They are currently resting on the coffee table, something I’ve been told I’m not allowed to do in company. She’s throwing peanuts into the air and catching them in her mouth. Some of them. Worse still, she seems to be getting off on this personal interrogation.

"Pizza Hut." We decided to run with as near to the truth as we could. Back in school we did hang out a couple of times, and usually at the popular pizza place on the high street.

Seems oddly fitting that they should all fall about cackling in unison at my response. I will be disappointed if, when they leave, Natty doesn't stand up and say, 'When shall we three meet again?'

"Tell them what you used to wear. Go on, tell them, Trout.”

Amanda is enjoying this far too much. I take a tug from my can of a butch beer I never usually drink and imagine Vincent Price as Matthew Hopkins bursting through the front door, holding aloft a crucifix and carrying a bundle of kindling under one arm.

"What d'you mean?” I reply, playing the hurt card. “Denims, a white tee, and my navy corduroy jacket."

At the time, the look was pretty cool, and I still have the jacket tucked away in a wardrobe somewhere, stains and all. I plucked a few blades of grass off that baby in my day.

"And white shoes!"

The laughter reaches a crescendo. Natty is spilling her drink on my sofa, while Gina looks triumphant. Matthew is handing me a blazing torch and pointing to the mound of wood piled beneath the sofa.

As they are all taking deep breaths for the next round, I paint on my most cordial smile and rally.

"And if I remember correctly, Amanda, you had orange streaks in your hair and denim hot pants."

A peanut stops in mid-air.

As one the coven turns to its leader.

She remains annoyingly cool and unruffled.

"The Ginger Spice look? Remember? In the early 2000s.”

There is a collective sigh of relief after which they are all cooing again. Apparently, it's fine to have emulated a ginger tart but not the cool-in-his-day Don Johnson.

"Yeah. Girl Power. They were an inspiration to us in the nineties. I always wanted to be Posh."

Bouncing off her snub nose, another nut sinks to the bottom of Natty’s vodka and tonic. As I blink away the thought of this rotund Spice Girl draped around David Beckham’s tattoos, Gina chips in.

“And where did you meet this time around?”

“O’Riordan’s,” I reply quickly, and am a little surprised when she rounds on Amanda.

“You went to Romantica without me?” says Natty. “I thought we agreed we’d always do the speed-dating thing together?”

Amanda gives me a thin smile before turning to Natty, her eyes wide. So, not just a one-off then.

“Last minute. I’d totally forgotten and was passing by with one of the chaps from work. Thought I’d pop in to see if they had any spare places.”

Which is a total lie, unless she makes a habit of lugging her wig and color contacts everywhere she goes.

“And just as well you did,” says Gina, eyeing me in a way that is making me truly uncomfortable. Right then the door buzzer sounds.

“Oh crap. That might be Danny. He said he probably couldn’t make it,” says Amanda, giving me an awkward look before getting up and going to the intercom.

“Darling Dan-Dan?” asks Gina, astonished. “You didn’t tell us he was in town.”

“Yep. He’s been working back here since last February.”

“Ooh,” says Natty. “You’d better tell Trout, in case he has issues.”

“Tell me what?”

“Danny’s gay. Do you have an issue with the gays?”

“He’s fine,” says Amanda, on my behalf. “Aren’t you, dear?”

In one night, I’ve had to pretend I loved the furniture we’ve bought and get on with her annoying college friends. Two rules followed. I am not about to go ten rounds with her gay best friend. Fortunately, just then my cell goes off. I snatch up the device, swipe to answer the call, and hear an auto-message asking me if I'd be interested in upgrading to a better network package.

"Hi sis. Of course I can talk. Give me just one minute.“ Holding the phone against my shoulder, I shrug at the women and raise a finger in the air, excusing myself to head for the toilet. As soon as I'm inside, I end the call and phone Doug's number. He's usually pretty reliable. On this occasion, however, I get voicemail. I am part way through dialing Bill when there’s a gentle knock on the toilet door.

"Just a minute."

I flush the toilet, turn the taps on and off quickly, and open the door a crack.

Gina.

"You don't remember me, do you?" she asks.

If I had to pick the six words in the world that scare the shit out me the most, those would be they.

"Yes, of course I do. It's Georgina, isn't it?"

She fiddles with the rabbit's foot pendant resting in the soft hollow between her throat and ample cleavage. Shit. Is she flirting with me? ”You never called my brother back. He was devastated. And now it turns out you’re straight? I had a feeling at the time. My brother’s a catch. Why didn’t you just call him, and let him down gently? Or call me, even? I could have done it for you.”

“Yeah. Uh, I—I got sent out of town on urgent business.”

“Liar. Do you even remember? Jackie Leigh's 25th?”

Shit. Her brother, the psycho. What was his name? We met over seven years ago at a mutual friend's party. He had been very drunk. I mean very. He’d recently split from a long-term boyfriend and Gina made it quite clear he was available. She pretty much orchestrated the whole thing. Then in the morning, while I sat up in his bed nursing a brutal hangover, he told me how much he loved me and how much he wanted to have children with me. By the time I left, coldly sober and carefully misquoting my cell number, he was enthusing about what color suits our page boys would be wearing.

“Poor Hugo. Well, if it’s any consolation, I find you adorably attractive.” And with five equally frightening words fluttering around in my stomach like a handful of wasps, she slinks forward, pushing me back onto the toilet seat. Right then, my phone goes off again. I glance at the display. Finally the cavalry: Doug.

"I have to take this. Sorry."

With a maneuver of expert precision, I duck under her arm and back out into the hallway. She gives me a smoldering look as she glides the toilet door closed to lock me out.

"Where are you, buddy?” comes Doug’s voice. “Stew’s out for the night and we're all here watching RuPaul on our new flatscreen. Get your cute bubble butt over here."

"I'm stuck here with her friends."

“Really? You been making nice, I hope? Remember her rules?"

I hear him turn and say something to someone in the room. There's muffled but familiar laughter.

"Yes. I've been on best behavior but I'm about to lose it. Gimme an excuse to get out of here."

In the space between Doug's words, I make out the comforting sound of a laughing audience, recognisable gay men’s voices, and frenzied commentary. I have a theory that while women have their claim to intuition, close gay friends secretly emit a signal something similar to a gaydar and one gay pal can instinctively sense another's desperation even if it's occurring miles across town. I snatch up my jacket and keys, and stop at the doorway leading into the living area.

"Sorry Amanda. Doug called. He's in trouble. Hurt his back moving the freezer, poor guy. I'm going to pop over and give him a hand. Won't be long. Give you ladies a chance to catch up."

“Shame. Come and say a quick hello to Danny, before you go.”

And then I catch his eye. Stunningly handsome, blond-haired, attractive stubble. Coffee shop man. Today, once again, he wears a red bandana adorned with the Hong Kong flag tied around his throat. Up closer, his eyes are a breathtaking combination of blue and grey, piercing and something I could happily drown in.

And he’s gay. Their gay friend Danny. Shoot me now. He steps forward and I grasp his outstretched hand. Something tingles up my arm, fairy dust maybe, before heading south. A quizzical look passes across his eyes before he smiles generously.

“Danny Montgomery. Your name’s really Trout?”

“Peter Spencer. But all my friends call me Trout.”

He smiles at the acknowledgement.

“Trout it is, then,” he says, adding a wink. Only at that moment do I realise he still has hold of my hand. Amanda notices, because she hurries over and drags Danny away, giving me an admonishing look.

“Such a shame you two won’t have a chance to chat,” she adds. “But I’m sure there’ll be other times, now Danny’s back in town.”

He sends me a parting wink and I mouth the words ‘good luck’, which has him grinning. After quickly waving the girls goodnight, I hurry for the door to salvation. Before it closes behind me, however, she calls out.

“Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, but Gina's staying for a couple of nights in the spare room.”