Page 108 of The Photograph

She nods. “It was a bit odd with Nate right from the start of our courtship, but we enjoyed each other’s company and he was a handsome man, and charming. Just like you.” She pats my arm again. “I was smitten. The night we got engaged, heconfessed everything. How he liked men, how he wanted a wife and a family, and how he found it difficult being with a woman in that way, if you understand my meaning. But I loved him, and I thought it would be enough.”

I nod. I’m fucking stunned.

“Of course, it was a completely different time. Same-sex relationships were illegal then, and he was petrified he would be discovered. So we came to an agreement.”

Oh, Christ.

“That I wouldn’t divorce him or cause him any embarrassment if he played the dutiful, loving husband.” Her sharp eyes land on me. “Do you know what it’s like to live your whole life with a dream of having someone who loves you and knowing that is never going to come true for you?”

She leans forward for her tea, and I take the cup off the tray and hand it to her.

“I can’t begin to imagine.”

She sighs. “We were great friends. I’m making it sound melodramatic when it wasn’t that bad. He was loving in lots of ways, just not in that way. And over time I felt”—she wraps gnarled hands around her china teacup—“ugly and unwanted.”

My stomach goes cold. “But, Ruth, you were beautiful.”

She nods. “And there were men who were interested after we were married, who told me that if I wasn’t so happy with Nate, they would have made a play for me. It made me bitter. I lashed out at Nate about how he’d turned my life into a gilded prison.”

Her lips twist up in a grimace as she sweeps an arm across the living room. “I must appear terrible to you, Desmond, being so ungrateful when I’m surrounded by all this. But nothing is ever quite what it appears on the outside.” She rubs a hand up and down her arm. “Many of my friends were in unhappy marriages, with men who were boors or philanderers. In theend, I was grateful for my Nate. He treated me like a princess, always trying to make up for the one thing he couldn’t give me.”

It’s so terribly sad, but also amazing how much has changed in the last fifty years. We bitch in the gay community about an insult or two, a stare that’s a bit off, and prejudice at work, when really we are so lucky. We are standing on the shoulders of all the people who suffered and fought before us.

I don’t dare ask her how they had their children, but I guess it isn’t too hard to imagine.

“Was he unhappy, too?”

“Oh, yes, and he did meet up with men sometimes. He would find an opportunity, if you get my drift, and come back crying. I’ve talked about me, and I shouldn’t really: He lived in a far worse prison than I did.”

She skewers me with her gaze. “And I didn’t want that life for Alex. I could see … even from a young age …”

Oh my God.

“Alex is so like Nate in some ways. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t assume … but then he had that relationship with his cousin Tom.”

“Yes, he told me about that,” I say. “When I met him, he said he was bisexual.”

“He’s tried to have relationships with girls. He even spoke to me about it, about how he didn’t feel anything with women, then asked me about me and Nate, and talked about how we’d been so happily married for such a long time.” She chuckles as her lips twist. “Of course, I couldn’t say anything! You have to let people find their own way, but imagine my delight when he turned up with you.”

I start to laugh at this. Ruth’s as sharp as a tack.

“And I could see he’d fallen head over heels.” She pats my hand. “As anyone would do for you.”

If only she knew what my life is really like. I shake my head at her.

“Oh, Ruth,” I say. “Believe me, my love life is anything but sunshine and roses. Alex is not head over heels for me. I have a bad history of unreliable relationships.”

She purses her lips. “Yes, I can see you probably have a hard time trusting people and want people to prove that they love you in some way. But if you take the time to think about it, I think you’ll find that people are proving they love you every day.”

Reaching out, she grips my fingers. “You’re somewhat demanding, am I right?”

I look down at our clasped hands and think about my friends and all the standards I set for my relationships, my work … everything. All those questions about whether the problem was me seem to coalesce into a bright shining point. It is me, but in a completely different way than I thought. George was right: My expectations are sky high.

I swallow. “Yeah, you’re right.”

She squeezes my hand. “Be a bit more compassionate, Desmond. Let people make their mistakes with you. And if Alex has made a mistake, then tell him how annoyed you are and accept his apology. Don’t throw away something good because there’s a principle to be upheld. Forgive people their one or two missteps. Nobody is perfect.”

I sigh as I take another bite of scone. “I’m just not sure he feels about me the way I feel about him.”

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