Hooking Trout - 10. Old Picture Flame

Tommy moved in just after the New Year. It’s the end of February, and he’s still sleeping on my sofa.

I’d have put him in the spare bedroom, the box room, but you can barely get the door open anymore, the space piled with Amanda's suitcases and packing boxes, and items she demanded we remove from the living area.

Most mornings, I wake before everyone to find tokens of his gratitude floating in the toilet bowl left overnight for me to flush. These days, I hide a secret toothbrush on top of the bathroom cabinet. I never use my own anymore since the thing almost always moves from where placed; once found as a make-do chopstick in a half-eaten carton of takeout noodles; twice on the top shelf of the fridge where I chill my rapidly depleting supply of water, beers and isotonic drinks; and another time as a bookmark in a sticky gay porn magazine stuffed down the back of the sofa. I would rather not guess what other new and inventive uses Tommy has found for this innocent domestic appliance.

What's worse is she doesn't appear to mind him. On the contrary. A couple of times I've found her and Tommy on the couch, laughing together at some inane television program.

To top everything, Doug is pissed at me. He called the next evening after our get-together at his place while I was parked down next to her to watch the remains of The Tonight Show.

"What the hell are you trying to do, inviting Tommy to stay? What part of keeping this whole op low-key do you not understand?"

I swap the cell to my farthest ear. I hadn't broached the Tommy issue with her yet.

"Hi, Doug." I look over at her and smile. "Yeah, great night, as usual. Thanks for the drinks."

"Is she there? Put her pretty ass on. At least I can talk sense to someone with an IQ larger than their age."

"Not right now, Doug. Kinda busy."

"Aw fuck, Trout. You haven't told her yet, have you? Swear to Gaga, you have just invited the most indiscreet, disgusting member of our subspecies into your home. You do realise that? If not for Stew's sister coming back, I'd get Tommy to stay here longer. Just give her the head's up a-sap, yeah?"

"No problem, Doug. No problemo."

"Don't fuck this up. You got a good thing going on. Right now, everything's working out like a dream. Talk soon after you wake the fuck up."

Click.

"And you too, Dougie," I peer at her again, still smiling like an idiot, "and she sends her love right back at you. Love to Stew and Snoopy, too."

I thumb the call off and settle back to the show.

Everything's working out like a dream.

Some dream. Feels like I'm caught up in the confusing subplot of a Tarantino movie.

For the third morning in a row, Tommy's out uncharacteristically early, leaving behind our living room in a state of hit-and-run disarray. Usually, he's still bundled up in a quilt and blanket on the sofa bed in the living room, like a pile of laundry, waiting for the first coffee breezes to rouse him.

While I am making breakfast, she comes out of the bathroom, toweling her hair into a turban.

"We need to talk," she says.

Breaking the otherwise quiet, rashers of bacon begin to hiss and spit at me from the pan.

"Fire away," I reply, covering and quieting them with a plastic spatula.

"Your grandmother called while you were out last night."

An egg, frying quietly alongside, decides to pipe up and join the sizzling chorus.

"And?"

"She wanted a chat."

With a piece of toast in one hand, she picks up the Villager and scans the front page.

"And?" I ask, flipping an egg and trying to sound nonchalant.

"So we had the chat," she says. "Hope that's okay? She kept calling me Wendy, so I played along. Guess you're going to have to tell her in your own time. She wanted to know when the engagement party would be. Wanted to ensure it was going to be…" she puts her toast down and does the air quotes thing with her fingers, which has begun to rankle. “’…something tasteful'. I told her the eighth March. We can hold the party here. Hope that's okay? Better get planning, huh?"

"Sure, sure," I reply. "What do you want me to do?"

She glances up and smiles sweetly. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, dear. That's my domain. I'll get onto it straight away. Now, what are you doing tonight?"

How many people get ensnared by this kind of innocuous inquiry? I reckon God didn't say to Noah, 'Hey, Noah, tomorrow, how do you fancy getting a bunch of boat builders together and start constructing a huge wooden vessel, big enough to carry all kinds of animals and plants? Oh yeah, and do you think you'll be able to rope your family into helping? Huh?'

I reckon the response might have been very different, something along the lines of, 'You know, God, I'd love to help, but the thing is, I have this beard-trim and foot-wash at ten, and afterward, the wife and I are doing a last-minute brunch with the Solomons. Well, we had to cancel our day trip to Aviary Island because she gets seasick, and I'm allergic to birds.'

No, God probably poked his Peter Ustinov head out of a cloud and said softly, with a hint of something wonderfully tempting, "What are you doing tomorrow, Noah?" and, just like me, Noah would have taken the bait.

"Nothing special. Why?"

"Good. A friend of mine's got two spare tickets for a French retrospective at the old Apollo on West 23rd Street. It's a 1957 movie called 'Ascenseur pour l'échafaud.' I'll meet you outside around seven."

"Really? You sure you want me there?"

"Who else? Tommy? We need to start demonstrating shared interests, so I want my fiancé there."

"Fine."

A black and white movie with subtitles. Can you imagine my joy?

*******

She's late, of course. She claims poor punctuality as one of her pet hates—as long as it doesn't apply to her. I wait outside, trying to stamp feeling back into my toes, my nose and ears aching in the sub-zero February evening as she rounds the corner at seven-forty and walks straight past me without explanation or apology.

"Come on, or we'll be late."

Fortunately, the heating inside the cinema is sub-tropical, which seems entirely appropriate in the plant-laden entrance to the tastefully renovated Apollo. The foyer is a delight, little art deco touches, ornate moldings above doorways, stained glass wall sconces glowing along the stairwell, blend tastefully with the smooth coffee and cream walls and parquet flooring.

"Heck, this place is so tacky," she says.

Before I can challenge her, she goes off to scavenge snacks, so I hang around in the busy ticketing area, trying to appear occupied, bending forward and scrutinizing a particular pride-of-place painting of what I can only describe as a deranged man; the head squashed and beaten, eyes at different angles, arms stretched and rubbery, eating a cooked breakfast.

As I lean back, a voice next to me says, "I see you're admiring the Bacon?"

I take a step back and fold my arms, tilt my head, and turn leisurely towards the voice.

"I'm admiring the whole picture, actually." The guy seems cool, about my age, good-looking, wearing casuals, and the only thing against him is that he's wearing shades indoors. Even without being able to see his eyes, he has a square jaw, full lips, straight nose, and I wonder for a moment if he's coming onto me. No harm in a little flirting, I decide. While the fiancée is away, the boys will play. "But I know what you mean. The only thing I can make out clearly is the breakfast plate."

"The artist is Bacon. He was a patron of the Apollo."

"You're shitting me!" I spin around, amazed. “Acting, directing, producing, playing in a band, and now you tell me Kevin paints, too? Say what you will, but that guy is some talent, huh?"

A dark brown eyebrow rises above one of the black lenses.

"Francis Bacon. British artist, 1909 to '92."

"Uh, right. Got it. Sorry, art's not my thing."

"You don't say." He stares past me. "Oh, my gosh. Amanda? What are you doing here?"

"Roger?" She comes to stand beside me, holding a tray of popcorn and soda, gaping at the guy. I may be wrong, but they both seem a little unsettled. The name rings a bell, but I can't quite place it. His initial disquiet fades into a slow-spreading smile. Finally, he removes the shades and reveals an incredibly good-looking face. I wonder how they know each other and whether he's straight.

"How have you been?"

On her part, she hands me the refreshments, then grabs my arm, introducing me as her 'fiancé,' and then proceeds to use the word three times in the same sentence. Without being invited, he accompanies us as we stroll through to the auditorium.

"Roger studied Art History at Princeton," she explains for my benefit, "and we took an extra-curricular course in Latin together. He's an expert when it comes to twentieth-century painters."

"I'm guessing that's not really your fiancé's thing?"

There's a smirk in his tone I find annoying.

"He likes Hockney."

Now there's a trace of amusement in her voice. What the hell is going on here? Roger, by contrast, seems impressed with this piece of information.

"Hockney has his merits. His acrylic work is particularly noteworthy, his California period."

Nodding too, I fail to admit that I only know one Hockney picture, the print given to me by my stepmother because, like most things in her life, she got bored with it, a picture presently relegated to the bedroom closet.

"How about you, Peter?" He leans forward to quiz me. "Where did you study?"

"I didn't get to college," I say. Roger nods and fakes understanding, but there's a superciliousness about him I have already begun to dislike. "But did I manage a post-grad degree in engineering at—."

"So how are things going with you, Roger?" she interrupts, gleaming at him.

"Recently opened my own business, a fleet of vintage cars, 'Occasion Station' we're called. My prized possessions are a '59 Cadillac Eldorado, a classic Buick Century, and a couple of '58 Bentley's." He pulls a card from his wallet. "Combined with a specialist repair shop, so we do all our own maintenance. We cater special occasions in case you're interested. Happy to do you a special deal."

"The Latin classes must come in handy. Get many calls for changing wheels on chariots?" The jibe is lame and ignored by them both.

"We've already provided cars for the Kardashian weddings. Thank goodness we've introduced a robust cancellation policy."

She grabs his arm, then, and her laughter comes out fake and forced.

"Oh, Roger. Still so funny."

Something dawns on me. He's Roger Greenwell, the ex-fiancé. Just before we step into the darkened cinema, she turns to him.

"You'll have to come to our engagement party, Roger," she waves the business card he gave her, "and the wedding in June. I'll email an invite."

"I'd be honored," he says.

They shake hands. A lingering glance lingers a little too long. I take her arm and pull her away.

"Come on, dear, or we'll miss the beginning."

When I turn back, he's watching her go. He calls out to me, "Look after that little lady. She's very special."

Yeah, and she's mine, asshole.

When the lights go down and the music begins, I hear Doug's voice in my head asking what the hell is wrong with me. And the thing is, he's right. The sooner we get this ridiculous charade over with and get life back to normal, the better.

As for the movie, the French classic 'Elevator to the Gallows' has no songs or dance numbers and is as macabre as the title suggests. Revolving around a woman and her lover who coldly plan and execute the murder of the husband, this is not something I would typically watch.

On the plus side, filmed in stark black and white, the leading man, Maurice Ronet, as the lover, oozes male sexuality from the screen. I find myself crossing and uncrossing my legs a couple of times. What clinches it is the cool, understated Miles Davis soundtrack. As we step out into the arctic evening, I re-evaluate my judgment of old movies.

On the downside, I experience an odd empathy for the husband, the victim, innocent and surplus to requirement. Worse than that, each time I read the words 'wife' or 'husband' in the subtitles, they catch in my throat like a fish hook.