Goodmans Hotel - 11. Chapter 11

Darren and I were to meet Lizetta at a Belgian-style mussels and chips restaurant near Blackfriars Bridge. To make a good impression on her he wore the new suit Andrew had bought him and a shirt and tie. He did not have to dress up for lunch with Lizetta, but this was his first opportunity to show off his new clothes.

He looked different; his long bones did not seem nearly as knobbly as they did in his usual jeans and T-shirt. Nobody seeing him now would assume he was doomed to a lifetime of clearing tables in a fast food outlet; the impression he gave was of being a young man with prospects.

He was nervous, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, evidence that he was taking this opportunity seriously. I glanced at him now and again as we waited for the bus to Blackfriars, trying to accustom myself to his changed appearance. ‘Do I look all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. You look good in that packaging.’

‘Is my hair all right?’

‘You’re fine. We’re going for a friendly chat over lunch. It won’t be like an interview. You can relax – well don’t be too relaxed – you know what I mean.’

‘What is she going to ask me?’

‘The things that we’ve talked about. She’ll need to know what subjects you were doing at school, what’s happened since, what you’re interested in. Talk to her naturally, as though you were speaking to Andrew or me, you’ll be fine.’

During the past few weeks Andrew had been pressing him ever more strongly to return to his studies. He had been over to Biddulph Mansions half a dozen times to talk about catching up on the exams he had missed and what kind of career in horticulture he should aim for. The possibility of giving up the burger bar to work part-time at the hotel had yet to be mentioned to him, but as Andrew anticipated my reluctance had dwindled away and I began to think it might work out quite well, making me less dependant on casual staff and freeing me from some of the routine work. Andrew gently nudged us into a closer friendship, asking for my opinion about how his future might develop, and deflecting some of the questions Darren asked him, for instance about how long a college course was likely to last, onto me. The boy became more anxious to please me than ever. When he was not on morning shift at the burger bar he would help clear up in the breakfast room and kitchen, and he had begun learning how to key in data for the hotel’s accounts. There was no doubt that, working for me part-time, he would be a great help.

We travelled into central London on the upper floor of a bus, something I had not done for years and years, although it would have been quicker to ask Andrew to have one of his staff drive us up. The presence of other passengers made it difficult to talk, and a drab day made London’s streets look their least attractive, but in those early months of being indoors in the hotel for so much of my time any opportunity to get out and do something different was enjoyable.

Lizetta was sitting at the restaurant bar sipping a Campari. She smiled warmly when I introduced her to Darren, and when we took our places for the meal I sat beside her so that they were facing each other. ‘Have you been to this type of restaurant before?’ she asked.

‘No. First time.’ His voice wavered slightly and for a few moments I was worried that he would panic and, struggling to find something to say, would launch into one of his revolting tales from work about hypodermic needles being found in a staff locker or maggots wriggling around in the rubbish bins. His brow furrowed as he looked at the menu. I asked, ‘See anything that appeals to you?’

‘I don’t really know what to choose.’

Lizetta said, ‘Have the Moules Marinière with chips. I love them. You’ll be able to say you’ve eaten the classic Belgian mussels dish once, even if you never come here again.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I’ll have. Will it be all right if I have mineral water to drink?’ He looked up; his face, far from showing panic, was full of youthful innocence, as though to drink anything other than mother’s milk was an adventure for him. I gave him a reassuring smile and hoped Lizetta would not think he was putting on an act.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I think we deserve a glass of wine each. We’ll have a bottle of water too. I’m sorry, Mark, I ought to let you decide.’

As she was doing me a favour by seeing him, the meal was to be my treat. A waitress keyed our order into a little hand-held unit and pointed it towards an infra-red receiver in the ceiling, sending the details electronically to the kitchen. While we waited for our food Lizetta explained a little about her job as personnel manager, saying that she quite often arranged courses for new recruits in the firm.

She mentioned West London Tertiary College, where she knew some of the staff, and thought some of the courses might suit him. As though everything was settled he said, ‘Yeah, is it fairly easy to get to? Would I be able to cycle there?’

‘Possibly, but first of all we need to look at the prospectus to see if it’s right for you. They have a selection procedure you would have to go through. We may need to consider other colleges as well. WLTC do run a course approved by the Royal Horticultural Society, that was partly why I mentioned them. You would have to finish your school exams and get good grades to get a place on it though. You’re interested in gardening, Mark tells me?’

‘Yes. At the hotel I planted out the gardens and some containers for the porch. Andrew, who runs the local garden centre, has taught me loads. He lends me his books, he’s got hundreds of them.’

‘Have you had practical experience apart from the gardens and containers at the hotel?’

He said he had learned at home from his father, where they had grown vegetables as well as ornamental plants. Our waitress interrupted with three large bowls of mussels in their shells and golden chips on side plates, leaving hardly any space for glasses of water or wine on our compact table. As we began to eat, to impress us he told us the two palm trees in tubs on either side of the restaurant entrance had the botanical name Trachycarpus fortunei, that they were hardy outdoors in sheltered places in England, and that the palm tree whose name he liked even more was Phoenix dactylifera, the date palm, but it could not withstand frost and needed to be grown in a greenhouse. He spoke of work being done at the Buckinghamshire nursery on crossbreeding plants to produce new hybrids with a bigger range of flower colours and to improve disease resistance.

When he and Andrew lapsed into discussions about plants my mind tended to switch to other things, but listening to him in the restaurant articulating multi-syllabic botanical terms he seemed to be really knowledgeable. Lizetta asked him about house plants, which ones would be best in bright positions and which in shade. He thought for a few moments before answering, recommended half a dozen for each situation, and offered to photocopy a list from one of Andrew’s books for her. ‘Thank you, that would be really useful. Would you like to go into the same line of work as Andrew?’

‘Andrew might give me a start, but there are botanical gardens with full-time employees doing scientific work. They may not pay all that well, but if something interests you, that’s more important, isn’t it?’

All the while the ill-constructed pile of empty mussel shells on his plate was growing and beginning to look as though it might collapse over the table. Lizetta, who had been neatly sliding one empty shell into another as she ate, rescued him by scooping the top of his stack onto her own plate. He looked towards me for reassurance, and as he was a slow eater and might start to worry about falling behind I said, ‘You seem to be getting on well with those, Darren. Take your time, we’re not in any hurry.’

For dessert we ordered ice cream, and he informed us that vanilla flavouring comes from the dried seed pods of the orchid Vanilla planifolia, a native of Mexico.

Lizetta said, ‘Many people find it hard to get a start in their chosen career. You think Andrew might take you on at the garden centre when you finish your course? That might be a good way to start.’

‘He would employ me now if I really wanted, but if you want to be a botanist you need qualifications. Working in the garden centre would be all right, but I’d like to do something more scientific if it’s possible. Andrew told me not to expect too much in case things didn’t work out, but that I had to try.’

‘That’s good advice.’

She promised to send him a prospectus from WLTC, and for the last quarter of an hour we let him relax while she brought me up to date with news of Peter’s impending return from the US. She feared he had not forgiven the old codgers for excluding him from their inner circle, and was worried he would return intent on making trouble. Again she spoke of being unhappy with Lindler & Haliburton, saying that the ever increasing demand for cost-cutting left people feeling that their best was never good enough.

My image of the firm had changed completely over the last few years. More than six months had passed since my escape. My eight years work there had provided money and management skills which were essential to me in setting up the hotel, but there was nothing from that world that I missed, and that so much of my life had passed in that environment now seemed strange.

We left the restaurant and walked across Blackfriars Bridge to the underground station, where Lizetta caught a train back to the building that was once so familiar to me. Darren and I caught the bus home. He asked me if I thought he had made a good impression. ‘You presented yourself very well. I’ve been under-estimating you. What made you ask about cycling to college?’

‘I won’t have much money if I’m only working part time. I could pick up a second-hand bike and save on bus or train fares.’

‘That’s good thinking.’ The price of the meal the three of us had eaten would probably be enough to pay for a second-hand bike. If he started at WLTC, I could give him a bike as a present. Tom would be able to find out what sort to get him, and for once I would have arranged something for him without having to be prompted by Andrew. ‘Did you have a bike when you were at home?’

‘Yeah. It was my brother’s really; he let me have it for ages, but he sold it eventually because he needed the money.’

‘I didn’t even know you had a brother. You ought to go back home, one day; let everyone see that you’re all right.’

‘I have written to them. Maybe I’ll go if I pass my exams, if I’m doing well, I’ll go to see them for tea or something, just to show them. You know why I had to leave, don’t you?’

‘Not really. Tom said something about a school friend making trouble for you.’

He confirmed, giving a lot more detail, what Tom had told me. The other boy had been his best friend, who he often sat next to in school, their shoulders or legs lightly touching. Some of his friends had talked about secretively ‘doing things’ together, and when Darren was invited to his best friend’s house to watch a film on television and stay overnight, he was expecting them to experiment. However when he put his arms around his friend in the bedroom the boy pulled away and caused an uproar.

The lad’s father had rung Darren’s home and he was taken back in shame. His parents made his life unbearable. They would not let him go out on his own except to school and made him go to their Evangelical meetings, which he hated. The minister there told him to pray for forgiveness, and when he refused his father asked the family doctor to make an appointment for him with a psychiatrist. His friend told other lads at school what had happened, and on his way home one evening a group of three bullies lay in wait, pinned him to the ground for half an hour, punched him in the face, blacked his eyes and cut his lip.

His parents did not even ask how his injuries had come about. A concerned teacher did, but Darren was too ashamed to tell the truth and said he had been walking along the top of a wall by the railway and fallen off. The bruises from the attack had not fully healed when a row with his father escalated into a fight. He was knocked to the floor and his father, having won this contest, gave him an ultimatum: see the psychiatrist or leave the house. A few days later he packed a bag, withdrew what little savings he had and left for London.

He stayed in a cheap bed and breakfast place for a few days, saw an advert for the room at Goodmans Villa in the estate agent’s window and took it because it was the cheapest he could find. A day or two later he passed the hamburger bar and saw their notice advertising for staff, went inside and started work straight away. Until he met Andrew, Tom and me, coincidence and misadventure had become the determining influences in his life.

Lizetta rang me the day after the meal to say she had spoken to one of the lecturers at West London Tertiary College and had arranged an interview for him. ‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘You’re so lucky. The gorgeous Tom and him, it isn’t fair.’

‘My relationship with Tom and my relationship with Darren are completely different.’

‘I know that, silly. He adores you though, doesn’t he?’

‘Does he?’

‘Of course he does. He was glancing across at you hoping for signs of approval all the time. He worships you.’

‘It’s cupboard love. How’s Vincent?’

‘He’s fine. We manage to see each other almost every week. Only for lunch sometimes, but we see each other.’

‘He doesn’t deserve you.’

‘I wish you’d tell him that.’

When Vincent and I last spoke he mentioned the possibility of me advising him about upgrading his company’s computer system. That had been weeks ago, but what with the hotel being busy and sorting out Darren’s future I had not been in touch with him since. With Darren helping at the hotel fitting in a few days at his offices might be practicable, and I suggested she bring Vincent to the hotel for a meal one day.

‘Thanks, that would be nice, but you know how difficult things are, when we have an opportunity to be together we need to take full advantage of it.’

‘You’ve never actually seen the hotel, have you? You could retire to one of the hotel rooms after we’ve eaten.’ The thought of making love to Vincent in one of Goodmans Hotel’s rooms appealed to her, and she agreed to speak to him.

They came a couple of weeks later, and as I was hoping he asked again about upgrading his office systems, and rang a few days later to fix a date for me to come to assess what would be entailed. Indirectly their visit to the hotel led to something else that was less welcome. Not only did Vincent book me to look at his company’s systems, but he also asked Tom if he would do some work on his family home in Amersham. He had a builder putting up an extension, and wanted Tom to keep an eye on the work at the same time as boarding the floor of the loft and repairing some dilapidated fences.

At first Tom balked at the long journey, but Vincent talked him round. ‘Come up and have a look. It’s all a question of money, isn’t it? All we need to do is agree a price that makes it worth your while to put up with the travelling.’

Their arrangement brought about the first significant disruption to my new pattern of life at Goodmans Hotel. One of the labourers working on Vincent’s extension told Tom about a major building project in Portsmouth town centre. As when he had gone to work in Manchester, electricians were wanted urgently and premium rates of pay were offered. The lure of extra money was difficult for him to resist, but for me his absence would be hard, not only because he would not be around when something needed fixing in the hotel, but because being with him meant so much to me.

Hoping that Andrew would sympathise and might be able to talk him out of going, I arranged to call at Biddulph Mansions on the pretext of discussing the arrangements we were making for Darren, who by this time was working for me at the hotel and shortly to begin his studies at WLTC.

The flat had been redecorated since my last visit, and in place of an illuminated glass showcase of orchids at one side of the chimney breast was a Victorian bureau with marquetry decorations and inlaid brass borders. ‘Something of an impulse buy,’ he said. ‘It fills the space nicely.’

‘What happened to the orchids?’

‘Oh, they’re up at the nursery. A display like that needs a certain amount of looking after, and I’m supposed to be easing up. The hospital have decided my priorities now are a low fat diet and light exercise.’

We talked about how Darren would cope with being in a classroom after such a long break, and how to organise his time so that he could tackle the curriculum. The plan was that he would relieve me by taking on hotel chores for twenty hours a week, as well as providing cover at reception during some quiet periods. In return he would be paid the going hourly rate for the twenty hours, and for the rest would have his room and food provided free. If this proved too demanding for him, Andrew would reimburse me the cost of bringing in staff from Housmans Hotel or other local part-timers to take over some of the work.

Before I was able to turn the conversation to Tom’s impending departure, Andrew surprised me with a completely unexpected announcement: ‘I had another reason for asking you to come over. This is bad timing, but putting it off won’t make things any easier. The doctor is insisting that I cut my activities drastically, reduce my workload to the bare essentials. The trouble is while I’m here with the garden centre on my doorstep, staff ring me up all the time. Whenever a gardening magazine or a seed catalogue comes through the letter box I can’t resist comparing products and prices. Passing an office block makes me wonder if there might be a chance of business for Ferns and Foliage. I need to get away, to take a long holiday, without a mobile ’phone bringing me queries about some special offer or other from one of the wholesalers. What I wanted to ask is this: would you be able to keep an eye on things for me, much as you did while I was in hospital that time?’

‘There wasn’t much for me to do except bring you a few papers, and presumably you won’t want that. Without meaning to be rude, I’m sure your businesses will run well enough if you go away on a week or a fortnight’s holiday.’

‘I’m thinking of taking quite a long break. I’ve relatives in New Zealand on my mother’s side. There was a cousin – elderly now of course – who I saw quite a lot of when I was a child. She has heart trouble, has been quite ill. It would be nice for me to see her again, while there is still time. You can get airline tickets that allow you to make intermediate stops, and I may as well use it as an opportunity to see a bit more of the world.’

‘So how long are we talking about, a month or more?’

‘Hard for me to say at the moment. I’ve never even met some of the younger family members, they were born out there. Depends how we all get on. You might need to give, say, one day a week on average to my affairs. You won’t have to do any of the day-to-day management, there are competent people doing all of that. What I need is someone to keep a check on everything, make sure the takings are going into the bank and the stock is not going missing, that sort of thing. We can come to a similar financial arrangement to the one we agreed for Darren. You can charge me for the cost of any staff you have to bring in because my interests are keeping you from the hotel, and I expect to pay you something for your services, of course.’

His intention to be away at the same time as Tom worried me much more than the financial arrangements. He was my main source of advice about all kinds of things connected with the hotel and my personal life. This was the first time, as far as I could remember, that he had ever mentioned any family, and definitely never relatives in New Zealand.

‘If it will do you good, of course you should go. Not a good time from my viewpoint, but nobody could argue that you don’t deserve a really good break. I’m honoured you’ve asked me to look after things while you’re away. Of course I will help out. Delighted to.’

‘Sleep on it. Let me know if you feel it’s too much to take on.’

‘How have you been lately? You’ve been looking okay.’

‘Not bad. My blood pressure’s still high, but nothing that can’t be managed if I’m sensible – by which they seem to mean eating dull food and accepting retirement. I can’t sit around doing nothing. Maybe this trip will be the answer, for a while.’ My guess was that he was holding something back, and if he was seriously ill to whine to him about Tom’s planned absence would be inconsiderate.

Tom was the first to leave. He said he would miss me, promised to keep in touch at least once a week, and we talked about him returning to London for a few days if the work lasted for more than a fortnight, and of me travelling down to Portsmouth if the hotel allowed. Leaving Darren in charge, I went to Waterloo Station to see him onto his train, and waved to him through the window while walking along the platform to keep him in sight for as long as possible as the train pulled out.

On the evening before Andrew was due to set off on his trip he took me to a fashionable new restaurant in a converted building which had previously been a fire station. In the enormous room where the fire engines had once been garaged, dozens of miniature spotlights now shone from chrome fittings suspended below the dark ceiling, the white table cloths and cutlery gleaming brilliantly under their light. Waiters in maroon waistcoats and white aprons scurried back and forth between the tables and the long marble topped bar, behind which could be glimpsed the bright fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

We were shown to a table beside a wall of half-mirrored glass installed where the old fire station doors must have been. All of this fashionable restaurant’s waiters were good-looking young men, two of whom took turns at attending to us, pulling our chairs out, unfolding and handing us our napkins, and opening out the menu folders before us with an open palmed gesture of encouragement as though, otherwise, we might have sat staring blankly into space.

In my previous life at Lindler & Haliburton the ostentation might have impressed me, but that evening I could not relax. The sparseness of the room with its scrubbed brick walls and bright pinpoint spotlights, and the ritual created around the simple acts of sitting down and ordering dinner, were too contrived. A traditional Sunday afternoon meal with Tom, Darren, and Andrew around our ‘family’ table at Goodmans Hotel would have been far more enjoyable.

Andrew’s manner did not help: his voice was low and tense, as though he was afraid his words would echo from the high ceiling of the cavernous room and reach the ears of strangers. We talked at first about business, going over the arrangements he had made with the managers of the garden centre and nursery, with the bank and his solicitors, all of whom had been informed in writing of the role I was to play during his absence. He proposed to keep in regular contact with a weekly ’phone call, but said he would be happy to leave all necessary decisions to me. He wanted to concentrate on making the most of his holiday. As well as New Zealand he spoke of possible visits on his way back to Australia, Singapore, Thailand, and perhaps Egypt and parts of Europe.

As our meal progressed the waiters pampered us, replenished our glasses whenever they were half empty, asked more than once during each course whether everything was to our liking, and twice swept the table linen with a little silver device for collecting crumbs. They walked straight-backed, bending forwards to put dishes down on our table with a flourish as though making a presentation of them. The whole performance was annoyingly pretentious. Tom was right to be uncomfortable in such places.

‘You’ll be away forever if you’re going to visit all those countries.’

‘Who knows? A couple of weeks away may turn out to be enough for me and I’ll cut the whole thing short. Nothing’s booked except the flight out and a night’s hotel accommodation in Wellington. Everything else will have to be arranged as I go. My airline ticket gives me freedom to roam.’

After a dessert of pancakes and ice cream flavoured with chocolate and coconut our two waiters brought us coffee and cognacs with a sliver of bitter chocolate each. When they had gone Andrew stared at me, his eyes sharp, his face very flushed. He coughed to clear his throat, straightened himself up in his chair and grasped the edge of the table with both hands.

‘It’s no use putting this off for any longer. It is the most difficult thing I have ever had to say to anyone. There’s something I simply have to tell you. It’s about Tom. I don’t know how to start, this is bound to come as a shock. We should have told you ages ago. There was never any intention on my part or his to deceive you, but there seemed to be no easy way, and as time went by you and he seemed to be getting on so well – why should something from the past be allowed to ruin it all?’

One of the waiters approached, probably intending to ask if we were enjoying our coffee; with a sudden shake of my head I sent him away.

‘I’d better come right out with it. The main reason he went to Portsmouth was because he saw someone he recognised at the hotel.’ He stopped and looked at me, waiting for a reaction. What could he possibly have to tell me that I did not already know about Tom? Had some previous lover turned up threatening to make trouble? I swallowed my cognac, paused, and took a sip of coffee. ‘Tell me.’

‘Did you ever think it odd that Tom should work for me when people in his line are usually self-employed? The fact is I took him on because he had been in prison. He needed a bit of help to get started when he came out.’

‘Prison? He was in prison?’

‘He stole cars. Over a period of time, a number of cars. Believe me, I hadn’t the least idea of what happened to your parents until long after you and he were – had become a couple. The first you told me of it was at the hospital, do you remember? I was quite ill at the time; hearing about it almost made me have a relapse. Otherwise perhaps I would have handled the situation better, but what good would it have done to have told you at that stage? Why should you ever have to know? If we all knew the worst about each other, could we ever bear to be in the same room with another human being? The two of you were so good together, why risk spoiling it?’

‘He was a car thief, is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Before you met him. Years ago.’

I was so badly shaken for a while I could not speak. Eventually I said, ‘You say he recognised someone at the hotel?’

‘One of your guests had a son who was in the same jail.’

‘So a client at my hotel was a heterosexual ex-convict, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Some gay men do have children. It was his son who was in jail. I had to tell you because of the worry that you might learn of it in some other way. He might have said something to you about having seen Tom before. We couldn’t risk you hearing about all this from a stranger.’

‘Why didn’t Tom have the guts to tell me himself?’

‘This hasn’t been easy for him. When he went up to Manchester that time it was because he felt guilty, but he couldn’t bring himself to confess to you, he thought you would end the relationship if you knew. Of course he could not really run away from the problem. He couldn’t stay up there forever and forget about you. He came back and your feelings had not changed, you still wanted each other. He’s been terrified that you would find out. I’m sorry. We were wrong to keep it from you, badly wrong, but we never intended you any harm.’

‘What do you expect me to do? You know what happened to my parents. You only get one set of them, and when they’re gone they’re gone. You bastards.’

‘Tom has never killed anyone. He had nothing to do with what happened to your parents. You’ve every right to be upset but don’t to be too harsh.’

‘Does he know that you’re telling me now? That you’re sitting there admitting everything has been a deception right from the start?’

‘There was no intention to deceive, never. The situation is hard for us as well, for Tom particularly. We spoke on the ’phone before I came out tonight. He was so miserable; he was talking about disappearing for good, whatever that may mean. This has been an awful shock for you. Give it some time.’

‘You’re always telling me to give things time. What difference will time make? Will it make Tom any less of a bastard?’ Andrew’s face was very flushed, and concern about his health helped me hold my feelings back. ‘Let’s not say any more. You go and get ready for your holiday, and I’ll go back to the hotel. We’ll just finish it there and talk about business in a week’s time by ’phone as we planned.’

‘The three of us, you, he and I, we’ve come so far together. We’ve meant such a lot to each other. We’re all prone to error, anyone can fall...’

‘Please stop, or I’m going to say things I’ll regret. The situation is bad enough without you making it worse with excuses. Leave it there, please. If you don’t mind, Andrew, I’d like to go back to the hotel.’

He called for the bill. An hour seemed to pass before we were able to leave the table. We found a taxi, but did not speak to each other until it drew up outside Goodmans Hotel. ‘I could cancel the holiday, if you think that would be best. The flight tomorrow is booked but I could miss it; I’ve been selfish, the timing, the way this has come out, I’ve made a complete mess of it.’

‘No. Go ahead with your trip. Depriving you of your break won’t change anything, will it? You’ve made all the arrangements, you’d lose your money if you cancel now. Let’s not discuss this any more tonight, let’s do what we planned.’

‘A final word. Tom looked to me for advice; he did what I told him was best. If anyone is to blame it’s me.’

‘I’m going, Andrew. I don’t want to hear this. We’ll stick to what we planned. That’s as much as I can do. Leave it there, please.’

I climbed out of the cab, shut the door and walked up to the hotel without looking back. Darren sat at the kitchen table making notes from one of his text books and eating a bacon sandwich. He must have read in my face that something was wrong; he put his sandwich down and stood up. How was I to tell him that Tom, one of the people he had relied on and trusted, was in reality someone from whom he should have been protected?

‘I’m back. Any problems?’

‘No. The people you were expecting have all turned up. I took two telephone bookings; one is a regular so I said be sure to let us know if you change your plans, the other was someone new who will confirm by letter. How about you? Are you okay?’

‘Yes – why shouldn’t I be?’ I looked at him, standing in front of me, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his face full of concern. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘Only since yesterday. Andrew made me promise not to say anything. It wasn’t my place to anyway, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t. Looks like I’ll be relying on you more than ever.’

‘Can I make you a coffee or anything?’

‘I think I’ll go straight downstairs. You’ll be going up to bed soon, I take it?’

‘Yeah.’

I went down to my flat, poured myself a large vodka and put on the television, switching from channel to channel, unable to find anything to engage my attention. After ten minutes I turned it off and tried to read a magazine, but couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts about how Tom and Andrew must have conspired to keep the truth from me kept going around and around in my mind; I could picture them whispering together, deciding on what lies to tell me if I asked awkward questions.

At times Tom had boasted about working for well-to-do clients who went out leaving him on his own in their houses and flats; if they had known the truth about him they would not have let him through the door. If Tom alone were at fault that would be bad enough, but Andrew, who had been the major influence on me in setting up the hotel, who had encouraged me to give up my career for a new more open and honest life as a gay businessman, had been party to the deception.

At least he had done me a favour by persuading me to let Darren stay on in the attic and work for me part-time. All his other actions now seemed suspect. Had he been manipulating me all along to suit his own purposes? Even the meal we had eaten earlier that evening was in a way part of the conspiracy, timed immediately before his departure so it would be difficult for me to withdraw my promise to look after his business interests. How could I ever believe anything he said to me again?

Memories of Tom’s actions and words crowded into my mind. The long history of our relationship was rewritten as incident after incident had to be re-evaluated in the light of what I now knew. So that was why he reacted so awkwardly when he first saw the Mercedes. What was that expression he had used? Crated for the Costa, that was it! He had slipped unintentionally into the language of a car thief. His disappearance up to Manchester, for which he gave the touching explanation that he wanted to give me a chance to find someone ‘who would be more like my sort of people’, was in fact an attempt to break things off with me before I found out about him.

My thoughts grew wilder and wilder. In the restaurant I had already drunk far more than usual, but in desperation I poured myself another large vodka and drank it while undressing and getting into bed. The alcohol did not send me to sleep but muddled my thoughts even more. A miscellany of loosely connected memories paraded through my mind: a conversation I once happened to overhear in a second-hand market in which a trader said that half of the stuff on the stalls was probably stolen; Tom’s flat and his odd collection of second-hand furniture – what luxury it must have seemed after a prison cell; a horrible story Andrew had once told me about someone he used to work with forging orders from a pharmacy for controlled drugs, who was caught and had hanged himself at the police station. Endless unconnected thoughts and impressions tumbled through my consciousness, a kind of mental landslip crashing through my brain.

After an hour I still could not sleep or even lie still. I opened my eyes, watched the luminous dial of the clock for ten minutes and got up again. I felt thirsty and made myself a cup of tea. Taking it over to the window I pulled back the curtain to look out into the street. It was deserted. What did I expect to see out there in the middle of the night? Tom breaking into one of the parked cars?

Then I remembered once before gazing out into the darkness of an empty road. After my parents died, from the bedroom window of my uncle’s house, night after night I had stared out into the shadows, wishing that some mysterious means of escape from my unhappiness lay hidden in the darkness, or that a miraculous saviour might somehow materialize in the eerie glow of the street lights.

Then, as now, my inability to sleep would not excuse me from the demands that the next day would bring. I went back to bed, and some time after five o’clock the need for slumber finally quietened my turbulent thoughts.