Goodmans Hotel - 2. Chapter 2

After the holiday Peter did not invite me into his office or walk across the floor to my workspace to greet me. During the first week I saw him once in the distance heading for the lifts, looking straight ahead; if my existence did register on the edge of his field of vision he ignored me. Evidently he had decided to freeze me out. For several days I sat ever more uneasily at my desk, afraid whenever the telephone rang or an e-mail message arrived that retribution for my pretended illness in France was imminent.

The familiarity of the files, forms, manuals and directories on the shelves above my desk and in the drawers of my cabinet was reassuring in a way, but they represented a world of low profile routine tasks, not likely to bring me to the notice of those with influence over my career. As though to reinforce my descent from grace, no correspondence or messages of any importance awaited me, no crisis had occurred that needed my particular talents, whilst a plague of tedious minutiae had accumulated, irritating queries, petty niggles, and circulars that were barely worth reading.

Even a routine small order for a software package that should have been placed during my absence was back on my desk, not sent off on the feeble excuse that the supplier was keen to send a sales representative to visit. Anyone in my little team ought to have known that hearing another lot of sales patter would be about as welcome as the computer going down during a demonstration. We were supposed to be software and network engineers, not excuse engineers.

There was to be no swimming session the first week of my return because of the partners’ quarterly meeting. The following Thursday would be the first significant test of whether Peter was sufficiently annoyed to bar me from attending. If he really wanted to embarrass me he might even make the arrangements without letting me know, leaving me to learn from his secretary that she had issued the invitations but been told not to inform me.

On Tuesday, half expecting a rebuttal, I sent her an e-mail asking if the session was to go ahead. The return message contained a rebuke the seriousness of which was difficult to judge: Peter says yes, meet 12.30 at reception, if you’re absolutely sure your health is up to it !!?!! Presumably he had asked her to use those precise words, but were they a jibe not ruling out the possibility of forgiveness, or a warning that a death sentence was imminent? At least for now I was not completely banished from his presence, and as normal I contacted the other swimming partners, all of whom confirmed they would attend.

Downstairs at reception Peter nodded to me grudgingly without smiling or speaking. As we walked to the baths he talked intently all the way to one of the senior partners, trying to persuade him of some accountancy issue he thought should be raised with the Institute of Accountants. My attempts to make conversation with a couple of the old codgers failed to evoke more than minimal and patronising responses. Whatever Peter’s faults his outlook was much broader. He did not discriminate in his treatment of the accountants and the support staff; he was confrontational and rude to both. Crucially he realised that the latest office technology was essential if the firm was to compete with its less staid rivals.

Did I really want to reinstate my previous working relationship with him after his behaviour in France towards Georges? I wanted to get on. Partly for the money, but too because more responsibility and more demanding work were stimulating. After being in the same job for a year or so, the daily routines always came to seem like a trap. Ambition drove me on, and I learned more and more to mimic the ways of the senior people around me, I suppose hoping to be accepted as one of them. Peter had been the key to my progress so far, and whatever his behaviour in France, to advance further meant regaining his favour.

A certain level of discomfort in the working environment at Lindler & Haliburton was something to which I was resigned. The firm’s impressive office building, the staff in their expensive suits, the luxury cars and the business lunches had impressed me at first, until awareness of the snobbery and greed that lay behind the image spoiled the illusion of just rewards for exceptional ability. Facade was what really counted. Anyone who came into work wearing casual clothes and talking about being at a disco the night before would be judged a maverick, irrespective of ability; instead of creating an ambience of wealth, dependability and propriety he or she would be seen as belonging to a different, less privileged world. If I was to make progress my private life would have to stay private.

I suppressed my anger towards Peter over events at the Hotel des Amis and followed those around me in thinking of him as strongly motivated and showing leadership. There was a good side to him that emerged sometimes when he was not competing with his peers and not upset because his authority was being challenged. He often used his extensive commercial knowledge and range of contacts to help people, even if there was no obvious business reason for doing so, and a stranger’s good opinion was the only likely reward. He was considerate to his secretary, who had school-age children, and had asked me to set up a workstation for her at home so she could be with them when they were ill without having to take time off. Other partners with staff in a similar situation had refused permission for them to do the same, despite a circular from Personnel encouraging flexibility. Peter’s secretary spoke of him admiringly, almost reverentially, as though the Peter she knew was completely different from the abrasive character who confronted everyone else.

For three weeks my punishment continued, although at the next Thursday swim he did greet me verbally. If he was softening it might have been a good time for me to go to his office to grovel before him. The danger was that if he detected that my apologies were not sincere, the effect could be to worsen the rift. My dishonesty in France had not, in my opinion, been a serious deceit. Fibs about being ill were a small fault compared to his despicable attitude to Georges, and it was the cruelty of his behaviour that had made the prospect of spending the whole week at his house in France unbearable. Why should I have to apologise?

Also, if he decided to question me about my time at the Hotel des Amis, what would I say? Admit something very close to the truth, or tell him a pack of lies? Either option was fraught with danger. Better to hope that another route back to favour would offer itself soon.

The first step towards my rehabilitation came about because of a large indoor plant at reception, actually a small tree, which had dropped all its leaves. On my way to the lifts one day I heard Peter raise his voice to the uniformed man at the security desk: ‘I asked for that corpse to be removed days ago. Why is it still there?’

The tree’s condition justified his choice of the word ‘corpse’. The bare withered branches were like a warning message to visitors, suggestive of neglect or pollution, a contradiction of the desire to give those privileged to enter the premises an impression of longstanding success and propriety. The security man was flustered by Peter’s anger and began to waffle, ‘None of us in security has done anything to it sir, we keep an eye on it, much as we can. Trouble is everyone in the building goes through this way, anyone might have harmed it, we don’t know what could have been done to it while our backs were turned.’

‘Oh bloody hell!’ Peter said in exasperation.

The office manager would normally have been called upon to sort out this minor irritation, but she was off sick. The problem was nothing to do with the information technology unit, but I stepped forward, grasping the opportunity to help.

‘Office Services are having a few problems at the moment.’

He looked at me sharply. ‘No need for you to concern yourself. You’re being paid to cope with rather more demanding things than this.’

The same might have been said of him. ‘Yes, but if it would help... a couple of ’phone calls...’

The security man, hoping my offer would excuse him from further responsibility, backed away.

‘Hmph. I’ll give Office Services a few problems if they’re not careful. If you think you can do something to get them moving...’

‘I’ll certainly try.’

The contractors, a firm called Ferns and Foliage, were easily traced on the firm’s database. Elaborating the truth a little I told Office Services that Peter was so annoyed about the dead tree he had asked me to deal with the issue personally. Then I rang Ferns and Foliage, who, being told that one of the senior partners had complained that the plant was making a bad impression on important clients, said they would supply a replacement the next day.

When their man arrived I was called down to sign for it. He was attractive, very much my type, a strong thirty year old with dark curly hair. We had seen each other before, when he had been tending the firm’s plants and had caught me looking at him. He had been standing on a small portable step ladder, leaning forward above a big container to clip excess growth from the top of some climbing plants. Suddenly he had turned his head and looked straight at me, as though he sensed my gaze. Blushing, I had tried to pretend to be searching for some papers in a side drawer.

I walked diffidently up to reception where he stood holding a clipboard. ‘You need a signature?’

‘One replacement tree,’ he said, holding the clipboard out towards me without any hint of recognition.

I signed a docket with the words One Ficus benjamina (large) scrawled on it and asked, ‘I wonder what finished off the old one?’

‘Someone’s probably tipped the dregs of tea or coffee or the remains of a carton of milk into the pot. Milk will kill any plant, it sours the soil. That one all right for you, gov?’ he said, looking towards the replacement.

I disliked him using the term ‘gov’, but his deep, warm, working-class voice excited me. To extend the conversation with the security guard looking on and passers by on their way in and out of the building was impossible; lots of straight men wore well fitting jeans, and there was nothing about him to suggest that he was gay. ‘Thanks, it’s fine,’ I said, risking a smile of appreciation. Grasping the main stem of the dead plant in his right hand he lifted it up as though it weighed almost nothing and strode out into the street. We had met. If I saw him again I would definitely say hello.

We bumped into each other a few weeks later. He was doing his rounds with a watering can, and had stopped to refill it in the little staff refreshment room on my floor. I decided to take a tea break and followed him in. ‘You’re here again.’

‘I’m helping out. Your usual man is away this week.’

‘But you have been in to tend the plants before?’

‘Yes, I’ve been in a couple of times.’ He smiled, lifted the watering can from the sink and stood looking at me, not sure what to say.

‘How do you find us?’

‘To be honest with you this is not a very friendly place. I expect most people here are pretty high up, too much on their minds. No offence like.’

I could not resist flouting office etiquette by offering him a cup of tea or coffee. Surprised, he became charmingly coy and looked down. ‘You don’t need to do that for me, gov.’

‘I’m getting myself one, so it’s no trouble to get one for you. At least it will prove we’re not all unfriendly.’ While the tea was brewing I asked, ‘Do you have other calls in this part of London?’

‘My firm does a few contracts around here, a bank and a couple of other companies. The main problem is parking, and finding somewhere decent for lunch.’

‘There are a couple of sandwich bars, and a pub across the road. They’re not bad.’

‘Sandwich bars, might try one of them next time I’m up this way.’ He paused and bit his lip. ‘There’s a good pub, the Beckford Arms, near the garden centre where I’m based.’

Although I was unfamiliar with that part of London, the Beckford Arms was well known and listed in the gay papers and magazines. ‘I’ve heard of it. Never been there, it’s not my area.’

‘It’s friendly, more somewhere people go to talk and have a quiet drink, not a place where they’ve all got one thing on their minds. More like a local pub. Friday evenings is good, lively but not too crowded. It’s a good evening out if you’ve got a few mates with you.’

‘Next time I’m down that way I’ll have to look in. I’m Mark, by the way.’

‘Tom. I go most weekends. Saturdays it gets crowded quite early, Fridays are easier if you want to talk, until the last hour or so when everyone comes in.’

My weekend was free apart from the weekly shopping and cleaning the flat. The effort of trying to pick someone up, deciding where to go, getting myself ready, all the awkward tentative manoeuvres that looking for a partner for the night requires, had seemed too daunting since my return from France, and all my nights had been solitary. Frustration would drive me to end this period of celibacy somehow or other before much longer, and the vague invitation to the Beckford Arms spurred me to act. Even if nothing developed with Tom the pub was worth investigating. Other men there might be of interest, if only to chat to, and if necessary more familiar territory in the West End was only an Underground ride away.

On Saturday evening, showered and meticulously groomed, I arrived at the Beckford Arms at about nine-thirty. While ordering my drink at the bar I spotted him through the throng, sitting at a corner table with an older white-haired man. I took a roundabout route towards them so that he would see me approach, prepared to flee instantly if his reaction was not welcoming.

He saw me, grinned and stood up. ‘Hello, Mark, isn’t it? Great to see you. This is Andrew, he’s my boss.’

‘I don’t want to barge in.’

He found a chair for me while the older man and I shook hands. ‘Good thing you turned up. Tom’s been pestering me about his holidays. We’ve exhausted the subject now, haven’t we?’

‘No we ain’t. It’s nearly a year since I had any time off. To ask about a holiday now is not unreasonable.’

‘Tom, if you have a holiday you’ll be bored stiff after a couple of days. You’re like me. I haven’t had a holiday for yonks. All my time is taken up with business. My advice to you is to forget about holidays. What’s the point in them? We’re too busy. We don’t have time.’ He took a sip from his glass and looked at me. ‘What about you?’

His question was so vague almost anything would have done in reply. ‘I had a week in France a couple of months ago.’

‘Enjoy it?’

‘Mostly.’

‘Went to France, ages ago. Pyrenees. Crossed over into Spain. Beautiful, love to do it again one day, when I retire maybe. I bet things are different for you, let me guess, a salaried position with a big employer. Tom and I are not so fortunate. Ferns and Foliage is a little shop I run selling a few gardening bits and pieces. I scrape around for business here and there to keep a couple of people who work for me busy, looking after the pot plants in office buildings, that sort of thing.’ He spoke softly in humorous self-deprecation.

Tom immediately contradicted him, his voice quiet but clearly audible. ‘It’s not a small shop, you must have about twenty people working for you. You ain’t fobbing me off this time, Andrew. I bet everyone else, except me, knows how much holiday they’re allowed. I bet every one of them has a contract saying what his holidays are, like people are supposed to have.’

‘Now you mention it, what does your contract of employment say?’

‘You never gave me one.’

‘I must have done.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘You don’t want to be the same as everyone else.’ He turned from Tom to me. ‘Mark, let me give you a piece of advice. Never have staff.’ He took another gulp from his glass. ‘Tell me, what is it you do in the company? Accountancy, isn’t it?’

So, Tom must have spoken to him about me, and the mention must have been favourable; my hopes for the evening grew. ‘Lindler & Haliburton is a firm of accountants, yes, but I’m one of the support staff, in the information technology unit.’

‘Good... an important job, good money I’ll bet, even if you’re not one of the accountants. Perks?’

‘Company car. A Vauxhall, nothing special.’

‘Special enough compared to one of my old vans.’ He went on to ask me lots of questions about the job; there was a rhythm to his speech that was mildly hypnotic. Normally people change the subject if I mention computers and accountancy, but he was keen to hear about the office computer network, my past promotions, and somehow he got me to tell him about Peter and the swimming sessions with some of the senior partners. At the mention of swimming he raised a finger and looked at Tom, ‘That’s something you’re keen on, isn’t it?’

‘I go to the baths most weeks, a couple of times if I can, like to keep fit.’

‘You certainly look fit,’ I said, glad to say something to him after answering Andrew’s questions and wanting to make clear to him that he attracted me. I bought a round of drinks, and having returned was about to ask Tom if he had anywhere in mind for his holiday when Andrew resumed his interrogation. He asked about my personal life, where I lived, what I did in my spare time, and about my family background. Somehow everything came out, that my parents were killed in a car crash, that my sister and I saw each other once or twice a year, that the money inherited from my parents had paid for my flat in Chiswick, that I had a degree in computer science, was definitely gay, not bisexual or undecided, and did not currently have a boyfriend.

‘You make me envious,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You’ve plenty going for you, nobody could deny that.’ He sat back, rubbed his chin, and seemed to have run out of questions.

Tom, who had sat silent again since the interrogation resumed, asked: ‘Have you finished asking him for his life story?’

‘Almost. Only a couple more things. So what about future plans? Hoping for a relationship? Anything else?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on. Promotion? Bigger flat? Better car?’

‘Sometimes I think it would be nice to get together enough money to leave the firm and go into something completely different.’

‘Ever thought of starting your own business?’

‘There are lots of self-employed consultant types in computer services. Or I could become a financial adviser, making use of some of the knowledge of investment I’ve picked up at the firm. Maybe that’s not all that much of a change though.’

‘Aha! A gay financial services company? Perhaps... others seem to have done well out of it.’

‘A gay business of some kind might not be a bad idea. Or just a job with other gay men.’

‘What else is there? Running a pub or a club might be hard going if you’ve no experience. There seem to be more and more estate agencies about, how about one specializing in places for gays?’

‘Isn’t there one already? Anyway, not sure if it’s me. Not that I’m ruling anything out. For a long time to come Lindler & Haliburton, or somewhere very similar, is likely to be my lot.’

‘Well maybe. But you’re right to think about making a change. When to leap and which way... a difficult judgement. One final thing before I go, the very last question. This chap Peter you mentioned, the partner. Is there any chance of meeting him sometime? There’s an exhibition coming up at Olympia in a few weeks. I’m sharing a stand with a furniture supplier, not the domestic market, business requirements – offices, hotels, restaurants, anything commercial. It’s their exhibition stand really, but I’m providing them with flowers and a few house plants, and helping to man it. If I send you a few complimentary tickets, do you think you could get him to pay us a visit?’

‘He’s not responsible for office services or the plants or anything, to be honest I think it’s a bit unlikely.’

‘Business contacts, especially a senior man, are always useful. If you get the chance, you could simply say a couple of free tickets had turned up in the post. I’m not going to pester him, don’t be concerned about that, well maybe as far as to say hello, shake hands, and exchange business cards. I’ll send you a few tickets; if you want to come along with Peter or bring someone else with you, or come on your own, make use of them. If not throw them in the bin.’

He had so far prevented me from exchanging more than a few words with the man who was my reason for being in the Beckford Arms. At last Tom broke into the conversation again. ‘You’ve been talking business and asking him questions all evening, Andrew. Mark’s come in for a quiet drink, he doesn’t want to hear about no trade exhibition.’

‘You’re right. Forget I mentioned it. Let me get the next round.’ He bought drinks for Tom and me but none for himself, and shortly after excused himself saying he had an early start in the morning. When he had gone Tom said, ‘I’m sorry about all that. I though he was never going to shut up.’

‘Doesn’t matter. He was a bit pushy about that exhibition. Is he always like that?’

‘He must have taken to you. He doesn’t normally show a lot of interest in people, but when he likes someone he likes them, you know what I mean? There’s no harm in him.’

‘What about your holiday?’

‘It slipped his mind, that’s all. He’ll see me all right. He’s been good to me, has Andrew.’

‘Well, you know all about me,’ I said, looking at him expectantly.

He cast his eyes down and shook his head. ‘There ain’t a lot to tell. The gardening is just an occasional thing, when people are away. I am a qualified electrician, but I do building maintenance mostly, bits of plumbing, house wiring, repairs, decorating. Nothing special. Prefer that kind of thing to gardening. Don’t really have, what’s it called... green fingers.’

‘Nor me.’

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Simply looking at him excited me. Did he have any idea how attractive I found him?

‘Is Andrew’s shop near here?’

‘Yes, not far. I live in a flat above it. You go left from here, straight on, left further down, five or ten minutes walk, that’s all. He used to live there himself years ago, when he started out, not the same flat, he’s had all sorts of work done on the place since then. He’s got himself a nice place in Biddulph Mansions now.’

‘You sharing with anyone?’

‘No, I ain’t sharing. I’ve got family not far away, but I don’t see much of them.’

‘Do they know you drink in here?’

‘Let’s say they ain’t expecting me to get married. You know how it is.’

‘Families are difficult. My sister sort of accepts that I’m gay, but we don’t see much of each other.’ The pub was filling up and we had to raise our voices above the hubbub. When our glasses were almost empty he offered to buy another round.

‘Thanks but I don’t really feel like another. Don’t let me stop you.’

‘No, already had enough for tonight. It’s not far to the flat if you felt like a stroll.’

A stroll! If his hopes were similar to mine the invitation was brilliantly understated. Controlling my voice so as not to sound too keen I said, ‘A stroll would be nice.’

Back at his flat he went through the ritual of making coffee. When he returned from the kitchen he did not join me on the sofa but sat in what was probably his usual chair. He seemed calm and relaxed, whereas my eagerness was becoming harder to hide by the minute. Surely the evening was not going to fizzle out over cups of coffee?

Earlier, when Andrew had left us, we had talked naturally and easily in the bustle of the pub, but now neither of us could find anything to say. All attempts to restart the conversation foundered, and we lapsed into two minutes of excruciating silence. At last he said, ‘Hope this isn’t the wrong thing to say but... do you want to see the bedroom?’

Relieved that the deadlock was broken I nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

He got up, reached out and took my arm to lead me through, closing the door behind us. We stood holding each other and he began to kiss me, brief cautious kisses on my lips, my cheek bones, my earlobes, my eyelids. I remained passive, surprised and delighted by this unexpected gentle foreplay. He steered me to the bed and we lay together, his kisses gradually becoming firmer, moving from my face to my torso as we undressed. This was no ordinary casual encounter between two gay men. His lips touched me again and again, now on my hands, moving up my arms, now on my chest, then back to my face. His fingers and lips moved over me, touching where he kissed, and kissing where he touched, each contact making me more hungry for the next.

How long these numerous kisses took I cannot recall, but right from the first we found we had an extraordinary degree of physical compatibility, and as caress answered caress we explored each other sexually, overwhelming each other with pleasure.