Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

There was nothing else for it. He wrapped the Mr Tickle suit around his body and set off.

The trouble with Shannon’s was that there were mirrors everywhere. Usually this did not bother George. Indeed, he rather liked it. This particular evening was very different.

Even before he left the changing room George had seen his reflection and was well aware of how ridiculous he looked. Not that he needed a mirror to be sure of that.

He ran up the stairs to reception and hovered at the door. Justin, who more or less ran the place most evenings, sensed his presence and turned round to face him.

Justin’s long, lean slightly hangdog face expressed first surprise and then disbelief. Finally he started to laugh. George had never seen Justin laugh before. Indeed, Justin gave little indication of having a sense of humour at all. He wasn’t the type. Or at least he hadn’t seemed to be the type. Now it turned out he was a bit of a star in the laughing department. And the misfortune of another human being proved quite irresistible.

Great howls of laughter came from Justin. Tears of mirth rolled down his normally pallid cheeks which turned distinctly pink. His body, long and lean like his face, bent involuntarily forward until it formed a right angle with his legs. And all the time Justin stared at George.

George stared back.

Justin kept on laughing.

‘That’s enough, Justin,’ said George eventually.

Justin ignored him and carried on laughing.

‘You’re hysterical,’ said George.

Justin ignored him.

‘Stop!’ yelled George at the top of his voice.

Justin, it seemed, was on the receiving end of his second surprise of the evening. He’d been shouted at. He stopped.

‘Right,’ said George. ‘You can presumably guess what’s bloody happened. Some bastard’s nicked my clothes, my phone, my wallet, even my bloody towel. I need to use a phone, and I need something to wear. Have you got any dressing gowns anywhere?’

Justin shook his head. ‘We only do towels,’ he said.

George glared at him. A few months previously in a bid to cut costs Shannon’s had stopped supplying complimentary towels, thus encouraging members to bring their own. And those that could still be acquired for a pound a go were little more than hand towels, in George’s opinion.

‘Well, get me two or three of them, then,’ said George.

Justin hesitated.

‘Now, Justin!’ commanded George.

Justin passed George two towels. George threw the Mr Tickle suit to the ground, wrapped one of the towels around his shoulders and the other around his waist, thanking God he was just slim enough to be able to do so.

Clearly, he needed help. His first thought had been to call Greg, who had a van and moved around central London with both speed and apparent ease. But Greg had no way of getting into George’s flat. Bob, on the other hand, hopefully still had the door key from when he’d looked after George’s collection of potted orchids while he was away in panto over Christmas. Without asking Justin’s permission, George used the club phone to call Bob, thankful that he could remember his phone number. To his relief, Bob answered straight away. George explained briefly that his clothes and valuables had been stolen from Shannon’s changing rooms.

He didn’t mention the Mr Tickle suit. And after Bob had murmured the appropriate commiserations he cut to the chase.

‘Look, you do still have my door key, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Bob had obviously guessed what was coming next and did not sound very enthusiastic.

‘Are you at home?’

‘Yes,’ said Bob.

‘Well, look, could you nip round to mine and pick up some clothes for me?’ George continued doggedly.

‘What about that girlfriend of yours — Carla. Couldn’t she do it? I’m having my supper.’

‘I don’t ever let the women in my life have a key to my place. It gives the wrong impression.’

‘Oh, George, you’re impossible.’

‘Please, Bob.’ George put a long drawn-out emphasis on the word ‘please’. ‘I’m begging you, mate.’

‘I’ll have to find the key first,’ muttered Bob. ‘It must be here somewhere...’

‘I bloody well hope so,’ said George.

‘Hold on,’ said Bob.

George held on. He could hear footsteps and rummaging sounds. After what seemed like ages, Bob came back on the line.

‘Got it,’ he said.

‘Thank you, God,’ said George.

‘All right,’ said Bob, positively enough, though George was pretty sure he heard him sigh. ‘Soon as I’ve finished eating I’ll head for your place. I should be with you in forty-five minutes or so, maybe less.’

George fervently hoped it would be significantly less but didn’t think it wise to say so.

Instead he just thanked Bob, adding: ‘You’ll bring your key with you, won’t you? My keys have gone, along with everything else. I’ll need yours to get into my own home.’

‘What do you think I would do with it? Throw it away?’

Bob ended the call before George could think of a suitable response.

While he waited, George sat down on one of the benches at the back of the reception area. Justin made a big fuss of clearing up the place. He picked up the Mr Tickle suit from the floor and spread it carefully over George’s bare knees. The scanty Shannon’s towel around George’s waist didn’t reach nearly that far.

‘Don’t want you to catch cold, do we?’ Justin remarked.

George wasn’t sure if Justin was being solicitous or sarcastic, but he didn’t have the strength to respond. In any case the Mr Tickle suit was actually quite warm over his legs, and he was still shivering.

He fixed his eyes on the big round clock that dominated the wall above the reception desk, willing its hands to move faster. The last stragglers filing out of the gym could not fail to notice George and his Mr Tickle suit. Every single one gave him a long hard look. There was usually silence as they passed but audible tittering by the time they reached the double doors leading onto the street.

Justin began to huff and puff, reminding George almost by the minute just how long he was staying beyond his time.

George in turn reminded Justin frostily that he had been burgled from a Shannon’s locker, and Justin had better watch himself as George would certainly be questioning the club’s security and quite possibly filing a claim.

‘In any case, what exactly do you expect me to do?’ asked George. ‘Trot off down Endel Street wearing a Mr Tickle suit?’

‘Oh no,’ said Justin. ‘I wouldn’t want you to look ridiculous, George.’

George watched him mince his way back to the counter. He thought Justin might be the only gay man he’d ever met who really did mince, and that the term had probably been invented for him. Whatever happened to a bit of respect for the customer, George wondered.

It was, however, well known that Justin didn’t do respect. On a good day his offhand manner could be amusing. Right then George would have liked to throttle him, but his fingers were numb with the cold.

So instead he sat still and waited.

Bob arrived precisely forty-three minutes later. George knew that because he’d been virtually counting the seconds. It had been a very long forty-three minutes.

With great relief he watched Bob, holding a Tesco carrier bag, burst through the double doors. Literally. Bob caught a toe in the door jamb, dropped the bag and went flying, only just recovering his balance enough to prevent himself falling full length onto the tiled floor.

‘Shit,’ said Bob. Then his eyes focused on George.

‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘What is that you have wrapped round you?’

‘What does it fucking look like?’ asked George.