Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

Zeppo was breathing heavily, his lips curled. “Fuck the carpet!”

Strangely, I did not feel surprised to see him. Nor was I in any hurry to hear why he was there. “Take your shoes off and get yourself a drink in the lounge,” I said. “I’ll get you a towel.”

When I came back from the kitchen, the trail of muddy footprints on the pale carpet told me that Zeppo had ignored at least one of my instructions. He stood in the centre of the lounge, drink in hand, clearly daring me to object. Restraining myself, I handed him the towel.

“Well? I presume this isn’t a social call?”

Zeppo glared at me. “He’s fucking straight!”

I poured myself a drink. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, take a fucking guess! Where have I been tonight?”

“You mean Marty?”

“You’re like fucking lightning, aren’t you? That’s right, Marty. I saw him tonight, just like you wanted, and guess what? He’s not queer. He’s straight. Hetero. So can you guess what happened when I made a pass at him?”

I felt amazingly calm. Even his language failed to bother me. “I presume all this is a preamble to telling me it didn’t work.”

His face twisted. “Of course it didn’t fucking work! I knew it wouldn’t! I never should have listened to you!”

“As I recall, it was you who claimed he was gay in the first place, so you can hardly blame me because he’s not. I refuse to be a scapegoat for your failure.”

Zeppo’s glass shattered against the wall. “Don’t start, or I’ll break your fucking neck!”

He faced me with clenched fists, his face contorted. Surprisingly unconcerned, I went to the cabinet and poured him another drink. I took it over to him.

“Try not to throw this one. It’s a rather good malt, so if you feel the urge to break something, tell me and I’ll get you a blended whisky in a cheap glass.”

For a moment he did not move. Then, reluctantly, he accepted it. A little of the violence ebbed away from him. I sat down.

“Now, if you feel capable of it, why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

He hesitated, then flopped into a chair. “Jesus, what a fucking night.” He rubbed his hand across his face. “I met him in this gay club in Soho—”

“Did you have any difficulty persuading him to go?”

“Not really. He was a bit wary at first, so I told him there was something I wanted to talk about that I couldn’t discuss over the phone.”

“What time was this? After Anna called him?”

“Yes! I’m not fucking stupid, now do you want to hear this or not?” I said nothing. Nostrils flared, he continued. “I got to the club early, so I could watch his face when he came in. There’s no way you can miss what sort of a place it is, but he didn’t bat an eye. Didn’t even flinch. Just ordered a mineral water and sat down. So I thought Stevie must have been right.”

He took a drink, grimly shaking his head. “Anyway, he asked what I wanted to see him about, so I said I wanted to apologise for being a bit of a bastard the last time I saw him, and that I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about me.” He snorted. “Christ, him get the wrong idea about me.

“Then a stripper came on, so I said, “He’s good, isn’t he?” and he said, “Yeah, I’ve seen him before”.” Zeppo spread his arms, carried away by his narrative. “What the fuck was I supposed to think? I thought he was letting me know he bent both ways. I asked where he’d seen him, and he told me it was at the Pink Flamingo. That was where Stevie has spotted him. I said I’d never been, but I’d heard it was pretty good, and said we should both go sometime.”

He closed his eyes. “Jesus, I can’t believe I let myself in for this.” He emptied his glass and held it out to me. I refilled it, this time pouring the blended scotch instead of the malt.

“Then what?”

Zeppo took a swig of whisky. “He said, “I didn’t know you went to that sort of place”, so I said, “Well, sometimes it doesn’t pay to advertise”. He looked a bit uncomfortable, and asked why I was telling him all this, but I thought he was just embarrassed at being found out. So I said oh, shit I said, “Because I was jealous when I saw you with Anna.” His face screwed up at the memory. “Oh, fucking hell, why did I listen to you?”

“What did Marty say?”

Zeppo blew out a long breath. “He started stammering that he thought I should know he wasn’t gay, or anything. I thought he was still trying to pretend, or something, so I asked who he was trying to kid, and said oh, Jesus I said Anna need never know about it.”

He took another gulp of whisky. “I thought he was just another queer trying to fool himself he was straight.”

“Are you sure he’s not?”

“Of course I’m fucking sure! The little shit started patronising me! Him! Patronising me! I couldn’t believe it! He said I’d got the wrong idea, and he was sorry if he’d given me that impression, but he really wasn’t gay. So I asked how come he went to places like the Pink Flamingo then, and guess what he said?” Zeppo looked at me, thin-lipped. “He’s doing it for research. Fucking research! He’s been going to different types of nightclubs to study “behaviour patterns”. Not just gay clubs. All types. It’s part of his fucking thesis!” He spat the word out and finished the rest of his whisky in one go.

“Could he have been using that as an excuse?” I asked, not really believing it. Zeppo gave a terse shake of his head.

“No. I could tell he wasn’t lying. He got all involved when he started telling me about it. I wasn’t even listening by then, though. I just couldn’t believe what a cunt I’d made of myself.”

“I wonder what his thesis is actually about?” I mused. Zeppo looked startled.

“Does it fucking matter? He made a fool of me! He even had the fucking nerve to say he was flattered! Christ, I should think he was!”

“Calm down.”

“Why? I’ve just been humiliated by that little runt for something I didn’t want to do in the first place!” He ran his hand through his hair. “I told you it’d be a mistake, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?”

“We’ve already been through that.”

“Fuck that! You weren’t the one who had to sit there while some little shit made you look stupid, were you? No, you just got me to go out and do it instead!”

“Did you try to deny it?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

“How the fuck could I deny it after I’d just made a pass at him? I just sat there like an idiot and wished you were dead. Then he said he thought he’d better go, and that he wouldn’t tell anyone about our “misunderstanding”.”

“Well, that’s something, at least.”

He stared at me. “Oh, yeah, it’s a great consolation. And I bet he means it.”

“Don’t you think he does?”

“Oh, come on, Donald! You seriously think he’s not going to tell Anna? I would. It’s too good a chance to miss. I can just imagine it. “Oh, you know Zeppo, the macho male model? Well, he made a pass at me, and I turned him down.” Then Anna can say, “That’s funny, so did I”. Face it, Donald, we’re fucked.” Abruptly, he stood up. “Where’s the toilet? I need a piss.”

I answered without thinking. “Upstairs, at the end of the landing.”

He went out. I mulled over what he had told me. For some reason I did not feel surprised. It was almost as though I had expected it. But before I could follow this line of thought further, a far more urgent one seized me. The toilet was on the same floor as my private gallery. And I had left the door open.

I almost ran upstairs. The bathroom was at the far end of the hall. The door was closed. Relieved, I hurried to the room that housed my collection and froze. Zeppo was inside, standing in front of the cabinet that held my snuffboxes.