Shaken - 2. Chapter 2

The same morning, Aaron sat alone in the middle row of the meeting room, stifling yawns. As usual, he liked to be there before noise and joshing from his co-workers made connected thought impossible. The stipulated half hour with Fran had stretched until way after midnight. When he finally fell into bed, his mind wouldn't let go of the topics they discussed. With Fran alternating between patience and exasperation, they'd explored more about certain aspects of humanity than he believed possible.

Interrupting a recap necessary for the meeting, Aaron wandered off into the intranet, seeking the dress policy. Halfway through a second cup of coffee, his brain finally functioned. He found it difficult to focus – images and interjections from the conversation with Fran permeated almost every thought. 'Self-centred prick', 'wilfully ignorant', and 'cis male privilege' were some of the more memorable. The corporate verbiage on screen made even less sense than usual. His head bent closer in an effort to concentrate.

“Hey, Fletch!”

Aaron jerked upright, closing the laptop's lid immediately after. “Hi, Ben.” He hardly needed to look to know who it was – the reek of old cigarettes was unmistakable.

“You enjoy taking that tosser Smithson back home last night?” A leer followed. “He really your type?”

Aaron coolly eyed the other man. “I'd do the same for you, Ben. Just name the date.”

“Nah!” Without thinking, the guy shrank away, before then making a joke of it. “Can't have you anywhere near my family jewels.”

“Hmm.” Aaron waited, eyebrows raised.

“What was so important on there?” His adversary pointed at the laptop. “You closed that in a hurry.”

A small smile lurked on Aaron's face. “Just viewing the latest sales statistics, person by person. You wouldn't find it pretty reading.”

“Oh.” Deflated, the guy turned and sat a few seats away.

Aaron returned to viewing the dress code. The wording was carefully vague in the matter of specifics, calling only for business-appropriate attire to be worn at all times. His phone blinked and pinged; he removed all notifications without unlocking the screen. Doubtless if a guy turned up wearing a skirt, things would be set in motion, no matter what the policy stated. A shadow appeared over the screen.

“Fletch?” One of the few women on the team hovered beside him.

“Yeah?”

“What d'you know about increased bonus thresholds?” A worried expression surfaced briefly before she sent it on its way. “There's a rumour doing the rounds.”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Wouldn't bother me.” He smiled back at her. “I enjoy a challenge. It'd be too easy otherwise.”

“Oh. OK.” Disappointed, she moved away, finding a seat towards the back.

A finger scraped at teeth; he would find it tricky upping his game yet again. The rest were so useless, any improvement might gain them a bonus. With a frown, he returned to the laptop.

Several minutes later, he sat back in his seat and watched the remaining members of the team assemble. One of the newer recruits piqued his fancy. Aaron imagined the Nigerian-born guy in a brightly-coloured skirt. Both his skin tone and inherited glutes would suit the garment. More than the tight-fitting pair of trousers the guy wore? Aaron lacked the visualisation skills to be sure either way. What would it do for the pair of legs currently hidden from view? His cock stirred. Certainly there'd be others he wouldn't wish to see any more of.

Fran's voice echoed in his head again. Reluctantly, he shut down the titillating aspect of skirt-wearing and returned to fundamentals. How could what someone wore have a direct bearing on their sales performance? Aaron shifted in the seat. That angle had never occurred to him. Clients would be the main obstacle: telesales, no problem; meeting in person… Aaron winced. But the same question applied. Returning to the intranet, he opened a blank email to be addressed to HR. After a few moments hesitation, fingers rapidly tapped out a message asking for clarification. Partly an urge to know but equally a wish to stir things up.

Tricia strode in as he pressed 'send'. She looked her usual collected, authoritative self in trousers and top. If it worked that way around, why not the other?

“OK, everyone.” Tricia's voice grabbed the attention of all without effort.

Aaron gave himself a mental brushdown; being alert was essential.

“Let's start by reviewing our performance over the past four weeks.” On her cue, the whiteboard displayed various graphics. “As you can see…”

Knowing his and the others' scores, Aaron zoned out, while subliminally noting Tricia's actions. The opening topic varied but the duration was pretty constant. However, instead of devising strategies to keep in front of the pack, an image of Malcolm Smithson blocked his creative energy. What had the other guy done other than get more inebriated than was wise? Aaron became aware of the same lingering sour taste in his mouth that discussions with Fran had produced.

Aaron sighed. Difficult-to-forget lessons learnt the hard way in school; several aborted relationships should've told him an empathy deficit was an issue. Introspection wasn't his thing, or hadn't been before now.

“Aaron! Are you with us?”

His manager's pointed enquiry made him jump. He swore silently. “Of course, Tricia.” A smile concealed a thudding heart.

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you were nursing a hangover.” That produced sniggers. “Drivers for the uplift in bonus thresholds. Share your thoughts with the team.”

He leant forward a little to appear more engaged. “Monetary bonuses incentivise us like nothing else. I should know.” A mixture of titters, grudging admiration, and silence followed. “However the targets must be finely judged. Striving for a goal just out of your reach is inspiring; flogging yourself in pursuit of the unattainable isn't. It leads to unforced errors which impact the whole of the team.”

A few surprised faces greeted that, including Tricia's. Aaron shrugged mentally; it was as much to preserve his own skin as anything else.

Out front, Tricia nodded. “Good point, Aaron. At what point does an incentive become a burden? Is that in fact, the case? Any other thoughts, team?”

A racing heart slowed. Aaron thanked the gods for lucky catches. Duty done, his thoughts returned to Smithson. What strategy would be best when the other guy reappeared? Did he realise violations of his privacy had taken place? Aaron pursed his lips. 'Violations' was a strong word, but he reluctantly agreed its appropriateness. His insides squirmed. How the hell could he make an apology without acknowledging what had happened?

Applause, some ironic, broke into his thoughts.

“Aaron Fletcher! Stir yourself.” Tricia again.

He blinked, having lost the thread entirely.

She brandished a bottle of champagne. “I'm not moving from here, so you'll have to come and claim it.”

Of course, he'd won the monthly sales target. Sporting a manufactured grin, he tried not to stumble on the way down, when in reality, it all couldn't finish soon enough.

Half an hour later, Aaron loitered in an adjoining corridor, phone out, deciding whether to call Fran. The champagne bottle stood at his feet.

“Hey, Fletch!” Ben, the guy from before, appeared from the meeting room along with a number of co-workers.

Aaron looked over his glasses, poised to take action.

“You're off yer game, mate.” The guy smirked. “How many times did the witch have to prod you?” He turned to a man next to him.

Aaron recognised him as another crap seller, hanging on to his job by a thread.

The guy's leer returned. “You in lurve?” They both sniggered. “What's his name? Anyway, we'll be chasing you hard, Fletch.”

“Really? I'll have long gone before you manage to top even the average sales total, Ben. Oh, and that's the two of you, combined.”

Sniggers from others in the vicinity made the pair disappear quickly enough. Aaron waited for the corridor to clear before tapping Fran's shortcut.

“What now, Aaron?”

“Hi, to you too. Is it convenient?”

“I'm due a client in a couple of minutes.” She worked part-time at the city's LGBT centre. “It's unlike you to think of someone else. Until then, I'm all yours. Let me guess: a follow-up to last night?”

“Yeah, it is.” Aaron attempted to consolidate fractured thoughts.

Fran spoke into the lengthening silence. “OK, so which aspect?”

Her tone was a little more encouraging.

“Fran, what the fuck am I gonna do about him?”

“The guy you escorted home?”

“Yeah.”

“Apart from offering him a humble, abject apology, you mean?”

“Course, I'll apologise, but…”

Tricia emerged from the meeting room. She walked past, eyebrows raised. “Work, Aaron?”

He lowered the phone. “Yeah. Urgent personal matter, Tricia. Sorry. Another minute, that's all.”

She halted. “Everything OK? You appeared distracted in the meeting.”

“Err… yeah.” He swallowed. “Sorting something out.”

“My door's always open, Aaron.”

“Thanks, Tricia.” A smile sent his manager on her way.

Aaron took a moment then resumed the call. “Sorry to keep you hanging, Fran.”

“Another 'sorry'? Look, we're nearly out of time. How about I act as an intermediary? Don't imagine… Malcolm's gonna be pleased to see you again, whether or not he realises what transpired in the bedroom.”

“Yeah.” He stared at the ceiling.

“Yeah to which?”

“Both.”

“OK. You got a number for him?”

“But...”

“No number, no conversation.”

“Fuck.” Aaron called up his work email and dredged through until he found a string involving the other man. “Here it is. D'you know how much trouble I could be in for…”

“What? Threatening to out a guy without his consent? Trashing his reputation?”

He didn't have an answer to that.

“I'll try to meet him later today; find out where he's at. No guarantees though. Keep you posted.”

“Thanks, Fran. You're a real friend.”

“Hmm… Later.”

“Bye.”

Aaron headed back to work, not sure what the rest of the day would bring.

At home, Malcolm pushed back the bed covers and sat up. Still naked, he had a feeling nothing much else had changed either. A continuing sour taste in his mouth, together with a loudly complaining stomach, both called for action. Although the throbbing had lessened, a fog of oversleeping and hangover remnants filled his head. One decision was apparent: immediate bodily concerns eclipsed everything else.

His phone tracked the passage of time. When had he last stayed in bed until one in the afternoon? The screen also displayed a missed call from an unknown number. Empty guts clenched. Was it Fletcher, or someone else from the Sales team aiming to make life even worse? Putting the phone aside, Malcolm focussed on making himself human again. There would be ample time later to contemplate the shit storm that was his life.

Still fearing unwelcome visitors, he dressed as if for work, only adding a light sweater for warmth. A trudge to the kitchen soon produced sounds and smells which emphasised the fact he hadn't eaten in eighteen hours. Eschewing a full cooked breakfast, he settled for a boiled egg, toast, yogurt, and a copious amount of coffee. He stared out at the patch of grass visible through the small window. Gradually, life seeped back in.

“What am I going to do?”

The question was basic, fundamental, and utterly terrifying. Trying to keep things anchored, he moved rooms and powered up the laptop. Treating the sofa like a perch, he opened up a new document.

“OK… what are my options?”

Concentrating on things within his grasp was vital. How else could he remain sane? Two fingers typed, 'Come out as…' and stopped. Here his vocabulary failed him. How to describe an individual who didn't belong, never felt placed in the right box, and often watched life from the sidelines?

“Bloody hell!” Sensing a dead-end already, Malcolm minimised the nearly blank page.

Instead he visited a website he'd joined the previous year. Hosting mostly bisexual romances and erotica, the site also facilitated a community of sorts. Posts, online chats, and messaging were all possible, though caution meant he trod lightly around the site, only engaging in the most innocuous threads. The stories were mostly enjoyable. Out of habit, he clicked on his favourite bookmarked story – a romance, sexy and funny in turn. He told himself imaging being the second guy got him going, but his body knew acting the part of the woman was the true stimulant. A sigh escaped; now wasn't the time for reading.

The other site members came across as a mixed bunch and he'd got to know a few in a superficial way. Surely there was someone out there who could put a name to his feelings? Even offer advice? This time, Malcolm typed with determination, describing who he was, and the situation he found himself in. No names, nothing identifiable, but enough for people to work on. He closed with an urgent request for help.

“There – done something at least.”

Achieving something encouraged more positive feelings. Then the question of how he would cope with the day to come came back centre-stage. Maybe the ridicule wouldn't last long, but it'd be enough to wound. Head in hands, a ringtone interrupted his utter frustration. It was the same unknown number as before. One finger hovered over the brightly-lit screen before he finally accepted the call.

“Yes?”

“Malcolm Smithson?” A woman's voice.

“Who's asking?”

“Hi, you don't know me, but a mutual… acquaintance gave me your number. My name's Fran and I work at the city LGBT centre. Might you have a minute or two?”

“For?” He had visions of a survey of some kind, though the coincidence of being phoned the day after his encounter with Aaron Fletcher didn't escape him. A frown appeared. Did he know anyone with connections to the centre?

“A chat.”

The deliberate vagueness riled him. “Look – I don't know what this is about, but if you don't give me a straight answer, I'm putting the phone down. It's been a shit day so far and I don't have the patience to play games.”

“I apologise, Malcolm. You're right – I'll come to the point. Our 'mutual acquaintance' is Aaron Fletcher.”

Malcolm gripped the handset tight.

“Aaron wishes to reach out…”

“The fuck, he does! That man saw things he had no business seeing.”

“So I gather, Malcolm. I've made my feelings on the subject known to him, loud and clear. Aaron's asked me to act as an intermediary, prior to him offering you a full, informed apology.”

“And this was his idea?”

“Yeah, after a certain amount of persuasion. I believe he accepts the enormity of what he did – to some extent at least.”

“'Enormity'?” Malcolm felt sick. “Just what else did the bastard do while he was here?”

“He took some photos, Malcolm. A few were shared privately with me but I can assure you they went no further. And they won't in the future.”

He stared at the phone.

The woman continued without waiting for any response. “If you're willing, I suggest we meet up for a short while to talk the matter through?”

“Not here. No way.”

“I understand. Is there somewhere local to you we could meet? Cafe, pub, or even a greasy spoon?”

He sniggered a little at the final suggestion. “You're into burnt sausages and cold tinned tomatoes? Eugh. There's a decent enough caff at the bottom of Fore Street. D'you know it?”

“I'm sure it's findable. Shall we say four? I've some work to finish up.”

“Yeah. See you then. I'll be the less-than-fit guy sitting at the back.”

“OK. Look forward to meeting you, Malcolm. Bye for now.”

“Bye.” He dropped the phone onto the sofa and sat there, eyes fixed on the middle distance, thinking.

Midway through the afternoon, Aaron stopped to make a mug of coffee. The strong, oily brew was the only thing keeping him upright. All his other co-workers in the office looked to be busy and productive, unlike him. Sitting back down at his workstation, he glumly surveyed the list of leads. Which of his regular contacts would forgive him talking total bullshit? The disconnect between mouth and brain felt like a chasm. Instead of the polished, suave, effective pitches, he found himself spouting lines filched from the firm's website; aspirational rubbish which fooled no-one.

He checked his personal phone again, seeking messages, missed calls; anything to show Fran had made contact with Malcolm Smithson. As he sat there, mindlessly twiddling a pen, thoughts wandered. How would the encounter between the two of them pan out? Fantasy exchanges inevitably concluded with the other man expressing gratitude and forgiveness. His hopes were of a cloud lifting; all stains on his conscience erased.

”As if.” He kicked the table leg. “Fuck!”

Co-workers turned to give him puzzled glances before settling back to the challenge of meeting their productivity targets. An attempt to fabricate a semblance of work failed as memories drew him back to his schooldays.

He sat in class, exercise book unopened on the desk, paying no attention to whatever lesson it was. His thoughts were occupied by a plan to get back at his tormentors. Its devising consumed him, leaving his brain unable to focus on anything else. Until, that is, the day when his subconscious pointed out he'd never have the guts to follow through on the scheme.

That level of preoccupation matched his current state. How would it resolve? Aaron blinked slowly at his list of clients, the names and phone numbers conveying nothing. A sharp tap on the shoulder made him jerk.

Tricia regarded him with concern. “My office, I think. Now. We need a chat, you and I.”

His mouth opened to deliver a tart rejoinder, but he gave it up. It would be less hassle to follow her into the office and get the wretched interview over.

On entering, the office was bright with natural daylight – a long way from their work area's dingy lighting. His manager took a seat in an easy chair away from the desk. An outstretched hand indicated the small sofa as the place for him. Aaron grimaced faintly; hopefully that presaged a pastoral interview rather than the bollocking he might've otherwise expected.

“How are things, Aaron?” Tricia steepled two of her fingers.

He shifted position, crossing his legs.

“Only whatever issue caused the inattention this morning, is also affecting your performance currently.” Her eyebrows made the statement into a question.

“Err… yeah.” He avoided looking at her. “Ehm… something I did at Smithson's flat last night may have caused offence.”

“OK. The text you sent me was borderline inappropriate. Should I be seriously worried, or not?”

“I'd rather not say.” His face grew hot.

“Jesus! Have you apologised to him?” Tricia moved to be in his line of vision. “I noticed he was marked as absent today. That anything to do with it?”

“No – at least, I don't think so.”

“So, have you made your peace?”

Aaron sat up straighter. “It's not that simple…” A cocked eyebrow opposite warned him of dangers ahead. “Smithson might not be aware of some of what happened.”

“What the fuck, Aaron?! You're making me think of date rape and who-the-fuck knows what else.”

He took a steadying breath; Tricia swearing was not a good omen. “I assure you categorically nothing illegal took place. No assault of any kind occurred. Bad judgement, entirely on my part, was to blame…”

“As in 'a disciplinary's next' poor judgement?”

An audible gulp followed. “I believe not – a friend had the sense to rein me in.” Sweat oozed forth from every pore. “This friend will visit Smithson later today for a talk.” At least, that was his hope. “If everything goes to plan, sometime tomorrow, I'll offer him a full, frank apology,”

Tricia sat back in the seat. “What are his chances of accepting?”

“I honestly don't know.”

“If you were in his shoes, would an apology on its own be enough?”

Aaron looked inward for a moment. “No – I'd have questions to ask, if I were in his place.”

“Yes… anything else?”

From the look on Tricia's face, this was a far from rhetorical question. He imagined being the victim, something that immediately took him back to those school days. The answer became obvious. “I'd want to make my feelings known.”

“So would I. Better be prepared then. OK…”

Tricia looked at him as if she were taking stock.

“My position here is tricky. On the one hand, you've come close to admitting doing something that might lose you your job; on the other, remedial action is being taken. Though it's not clear what I'm hearing from you is remorse or guilt.” She exhaled. “What I propose is this…”

He scarce dared breathe.

“Your conversation will take place here, in this office, with me as a witness. I won't contribute a word – the whole thing will be you and him. If it ends with Malcolm accepting your apology, together with any accompanying explanations, I'll note a verbal warning on your record. If it goes tits up, you'd better prepare yourself for trouble.” She regarded him dispassionately. “Star sales exec or not, our disciplinary procedure doesn't discriminate.”

Aaron twitched, though it was no more than he deserved: possible censure emerging out of his sense of entitlement. “Agreed.”

“Excellent.” Tricia stood up, obviously considering their interview to be at an end. “Will Malcolm have any objections to this arrangement?”

“Ehm…” He thought of the details that might be uncovered. “I'm not sure.” He also rose.

“Really? OK, I'll check with him first thing tomorrow.”

Aaron still couldn't meet her eye.

“And you? Go home. You're eff all use here. Spend the time preparing for tomorrow, would be my advice.”

“Thanks, Tricia.”

On the way back, he felt a buzzing in his pocket. Finally he had the hoped-for message: 'MS agreed to meet. Seeing him v. soon. F'

At last, something was going right with his day.

Standing on a street corner, Fran checked her phone for directions again. She wondered why public car parks were never near the places people wanted to visit. After taking a couple of left-hand turns, she spotted the cafe on the other side of the street. Being a few minutes early for their meeting, she lit a cigarette. It gave her an excuse to loiter in the late afternoon sunshine while gathering her thoughts.

An exchange of nods occurred with a fellow addict who also found the convenience store entrance a good place to smoke. Blowing out a plume of gases, Fran considered how the conversation with Malcolm Smithson might go. She was no counsellor, or indeed a trained anything; being an office assistant hardly lent her qualifications. But she could listen, sympathise, see if her life experience offered any help, and of course, discover just how deep in shit Aaron was.

“You stupid bastard!”

Her temporary companion blinked.

She smiled. “You're OK, mate. A friend's causing me grief.”

“I hear you.”

They exchanged eyerolls before Fran stubbed out the cigarette and crossed over the road.

The cafe looked to be a definite afternoon tea kind of place. Fran gave it a quick once-over while pretending to read the menu in the window. No frills or trinkets, but enough superfluous decoration to give it an old-fashioned, feminine vibe. Opening the door, she snorted to herself. Wearing her usual uncompromising gear, she hardly represented a typical customer. One of the wait staff did a double-take before giving her a 'Hello'.

As expected, her guy sat on his own towards the back of the long, narrow room, facing the door. She waved a hand to alert him. He stood up, looking nervous. As she approached, Aaron's spiteful description of Malcolm as a 'lard-ball' came to mind. It was grossly unfair. The guy filled out his clothes more than was ideal, but so did many other people, herself included. Reaching the table, a small, uncertain smile which greeted her was cancelled out by a pair of red-rimmed eyes. The victim of Aaron's thoughtlessness had been crying.

Fran conjured up a warm, friendly smile. “Hi. Malcolm?” A nod was her only answer. “I'm Fran. Pleased to meet you.”

They both sat.

Fran picked up a menu. “Have you ordered?”

“Err… no.”

The man opposite looked so forlorn, her heart went out to him. “OK… well, I don't know about you, but I could murder someone for a warm cheese scone. How about you?”

Malcolm listlessly gazed at his own copy of the menu without replying.

“I'm happy to order for you. Me being assertive – that's bossy, to you – comes naturally, you'll find.” That earned her a watery smile. “I prescribe cake. There's little that can't be made better by a mug of tea and slice of something gooey. Wait. Do they allow mugs here?”

The smile brightened a little. “A recent innovation brought on by customer demand, I think. You have to ask for them specially.”

Fran turned to summon someone to take their order. “And so I shall.”

After their order arrived, the next few minutes were spent pouring tea and admiring the food. Engaging in such mundane matters helped centre Malcolm, lending him a sense of calm. The woman opposite came across as friendly, for all she was supposed to represent Aaron Fletcher.

“Sorry for these, by the way.” One hand indicated eyes he knew to be red and swollen. “I made the mistake of seeking help online.”

“Oh. Where?”

Her seemingly genuine interest spurred him on. “Only a story site I'm a member of.” He stopped to look around; fortunately all the other customers were deep in their own conversations. The urge to tell someone was very strong. “I'm so mixed up.”

“Hmm?” The woman put the part-eaten scone back down on the plate.

“I don't know who I am – gender-wise, I mean. Or who I'm meant to fancy, even though I'm over forty. Like…” He explained his feelings at length while the woman listened. Then he talked about the topic he'd posted on the site. “When I checked back a few hours later, nobody had replied.” A grimace appeared. “But several members took the time to send me direct messages; all vile, abusive, and threatening.”

The mere thought of them was enough to produce tears. “Why? All kinds of sexual matters are discussed there. Why me? What's so wrong with the question I asked?”

Once again, the wetness slithered down his face. He deployed a paper napkin to mop up as discreetly as possible. His other hand was grasped gently. The woman, Fran, leant towards him, quietly stroking his skin. Slowly he became more calm.

“Malcolm, people everywhere are riled, enraged, and frightened by the unknown, or what they don't understand. So what do they do? They lash out. It's crude and utterly unforgivable. Why can't they accept that the universe as they know it isn't everyone else's? I despair sometimes.”

Releasing his hand, she fished around in her dungarees for a phone.

“It's for you to decide who you are, Malcolm. I can suggest some websites that'll set things out; give you a vocabulary; introduce other people in similar positions. How about it?”

He blew his nose. “Thank you. Tried looking online but I didn't know what to search for. I'll send you a text.”

She reached out again and gave his hand a squeeze. “These are good sites – honest, informative, non-judgemental. Take your time. Only give yourself a label when you feel it's right.”

“You don't think I'm a freak then?”

“No! Absolutely not.” She sighed. “You'd think outside of the straight community, there'd be more acceptance of difference, but you'd be wrong. Sometimes, yes; unfortunately, not that often. Which I guess, leads us back to Aaron.”

Malcolm spent some time gathering together cake crumbs on his plate before giving a reply. “Yeah.” He looked up to see Fran sit back in her seat.

“Right. If you're OK to, how about taking me through what you remember of the last twenty-four hours.”

“God…” He ran fingers through his hair. So much had happened. “I didn't want to go to the wretched social – never do – but you get noticed if you skip them. So I resorted to Dutch courage before setting out. It pretty much went downhill from there…”

He took his time, sometimes retracing steps when the act of narration made things clearer. For all the embarrassment and shame involved, telling the tale lightened his mood.

“So, anyway…” He looked around to see the staff clearing up prior to closing. “I'm left wondering if Aaron Fletcher'll still out me, regardless.”

Fran waved her bank card at their server. “No. He enjoys the job too much, though why escapes me. And he's changed over the last day as well.”

Malcolm frowned.

“Yeah – I know. But it's true. And lastly, if he tries, I'll do him serious damage.”

“You don't mess around, do you?”

“Nope.”

Having paid, they both stood up.

His companion approached with her arms held apart. “May I?”

Hardly before he'd accepted, Malcolm found himself engulfed in a hug.

“You have a value equal to everyone else's, Malcolm, and don't let pricks like Aaron Fletcher tell you otherwise.”

This made him chuckle. “Not sure I'd want to be your friend if this is how you treat them.”

“Aaron needs reminding of a few things.” She smiled. “Ready for tomorrow?”

“No, but you've been such a help. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

They were both aware of cleaning going on around them and moved rapidly towards the door.

“Let me know how it goes.” She grinned at him. “I like to hear both sides of a story.”

“Yeah, I will. Bye, and thanks for listening.”

“Hear from you later.”

Aaron stopped flicking through the TV channels; it was hopeless, nothing held his attention. He checked the time again. When might he safely contact Fran? Surely the meeting with Malcolm Smithson should've finished by then. He prowled from room to room, unable to settle, even to sort himself out for the following morning. Why didn't she bloody phone? A visit to his usual pre-club bar loomed large in his thoughts, even though he knew it to be a seriously bad idea.

Fran's ringtone sounded from the other room. He dived through the doorway and onto the sofa, juggling the handset in his haste to answer.

“Yes?”

He heard a snigger.

“Getting a taste of what Macolm's been going through?”

Although true, he decided not to answer. “What happened?”

“What the fuck d'you think happened? He cried – that's what happened.”

Aaron felt faintly sick.

“The guy cried in public, terrified that you'll out him when he himself doesn't know the truth about who he is. Fuck, Aaron. Part of me wishes that you'll reap what you sowed.”

“But…”

“Don't interrupt. Did you enjoy coming out so much you decided to gift it to some other poor bastard?”

Suddenly his voice shrivelled. “I was outed at school.”

“What?”

He coughed. “One day I arrived to find it common knowledge all through my year. My desk was painted pink with sparkles, and the gym locker had 'poof' scribbled all over it. I still have no idea who started it.”

“I don't get you at all sometimes. As a young man, your homosexuality was touted around, yet you don't connect that with what you ever-so-nearly did last night?”

“I do now.” Heat started somewhere in his chest region and rose until his face glowed.

“Better late than never, I suppose. What happened to those photos you took?

“I deleted them from both apps, shredded the data, and did another thorough clean.”

“Thank god for small mercies. Look, get tomorrow morning out of the way and we'll talk again. I enjoy our sessions, Aaron, but you need to get your shit sorted. Yeah?”

“Thanks, Fran.”

“Hmm... Good luck.”

“I may need it. Bye.” Aaron cut the call and sank onto the sofa. What was he going to say in the morning?

Outside Tricia's office, Aaron fiddled with his tie. For some unknown reason, he thought a good appearance would help his chances. He looked down the corridor, wondering if Malcolm Smithson might join him in the wait. That would be awkward.

Instead the office door opened.

“Glad to see you're on time, Aaron.” Tricia stepped aside. “Come on in. Malcolm will be here in a minute.”

He wondered whether they'd been deliberately separated. Tricia showed him to the same sofa as before. The other chair was opposite, set slightly off to one side.

His boss sat at her desk. “Any idea how long this'll take? I've got a lunch appointment.”

“I won't be long. It'll depend on Malcolm.”

“No rehearsed speech then?”

“Not really.” Aaron thought of his two o'clock revelation. Wide-awake in bed, at last he knew what to say.

A knock on the door announced Malcolm's arrival. Swivelling to get a look, Aaron noted the other guy looked as haunted as he did. Still dressed in his non-descript black trousers and white shirt, the man was no longer a figure of fun. Aaron took a deep breath.

Tricia showed Malcolm to the other seat. “OK. As I've explained to both of you, the purpose of this conversation is to apportion responsibility for what's happened between you, accept that responsibility, and by doing so, clear the air. Any questions?”

They both shook heads.

“I'll leave you to it.”

Aaron glanced at the other man, then looked down at the floor. Summoning up his courage, he perched on the edge of the sofa.

His throat needed clearing again. “Malcolm, when I was given the task of escorting you home from the social, my only thought was how much of a pain both you and the job were going to be. Although I did the minimum required of me, you weren't treated with the respect you deserved. When you allowed me into your home, I abused that trust by looking into places which were private. I took several photos which were intended to be shared.”

“I know you took those photos. That was despicable; utterly despicable.”

The look of horror on the other man's face made his heart lurch. “There's no trace of them now. I've scrubbed my phone clean, as has the one person I sent them to.” He swallowed. “My actions were a gross infringement of your privacy and dignity. I apologise wholeheartedly and without reservation.”

There followed long moments of silence. Aaron shifted around, crossing and uncrossing his legs. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

Malcolm Smithson ceased staring into the middle distance and turned to face him. He looked pale but composed. “As a gay man, you of all people must be aware of how important controlling information is – about your sexuality, and maybe, gender. How could you threaten me with such a thing? What were you thinking?”

Aaron remained silent.

“I may not live up to your lofty expectations in many ways, but that's fuck all reason to have a go at me. I get on with my life. What's it to do with you?”

A murmured “Nothing” constituted his reply.

“I should despise you as a manipulative prick.” The man opposite pursed his lips. “Instead, in an utterly weird way, you helped me.”

Aaron opened his mouth but only a squeak of astonishment escaped.

“Yeah – bizarre, isn't it? Without this, I'd never have met Fran; from talking to her, I have the tools finally to determine who I am.” He shook his head. “To many people's minds that wouldn't make you any less of an unthinking fool. However, Fran considers that you've also changed over the past thirty-six hours.”

“Yes. I have.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah. Things still need a lot more work.”

“Sounds as though we're both going to be busy.”

“Yeah.” He looked the man in the eye. “I'm sorry for the pain and anxiety my actions have caused you. There will never be a repeat involving you or anyone else.”

“Good. I appreciate that. Maybe someone else will, too.”

Aaron winced. Every cut reinforced the total stupidity of what he'd done.

The other man got up. “I think I've said everything necessary. Don't know about you, but I'd like to get on with my life.”

“Yes, I agree.” Aaron hesitated. “Shake?”

The answer came after a moment. “Yeah, I'll shake.”

So they did.