Page 26 of Days You Were Mine

Everyone laughs at that.

Eddie says, ‘Have you heard about this gay and lesbian march that’s happening? Your father will be apoplectic when he finds out. Apparently everyone is going to walk to Hyde Park, kissing and holding hands in the street. I think it’s brilliant. We should all go along and show our support.’

Am I the only one who sees how still Rick becomes when he hears this? I’ve suspected he is gay all along, but he keeps his sexual identity resolutely hidden, even from me, his best friend.

‘Are you gay, Rick?’ Jake says, casually, almost in passing, and for a moment the air around me freezes. I force myself to meet Rick’s gaze and I see the shock that comes into his face. Shock, confusion, then something else. All of a sudden he’s laughing.

‘Oh my God! Fuck! Yes, I am gay.’ He says it slowly, like an announcement. ‘I just haven’t admitted it to anyone before.’

He’s looking at me and I’m looking at him; it’s often this way with us. As if there is no one else in the room. I reach out across the table to grab his hand.

‘Alice,’ he says.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ I tell him.

And then we are all laughing and Eddie thumps Rick on the shoulder and says, ‘Well done, mate. Who the fuck cares? Gay, straight, bisexual, whatever.’

Rick shakes his head.

‘That was so much easier than I thought.’

‘When did you find out you were gay? Or did you always know?’ Tom asks.

‘At school, when I was maybe sixteen or seventeen. Up until then I was putting up posters of Brigitte Bardot and hoping I might feel something. I’ve spent years hiding who I am, pinningmy hopes on marriage and kids and the whole heterosexual dream. Like that was ever going to happen.’

The night turns into a celebration. More bottles of wine are opened and the bouillabaisse is, hands down, the most delicious thing I have ever eaten. None of us manages to do much more than groan as we dip our toasted Italian bread into the tomatoey, fishy sauce. Even the salad, with its sharp garlicky dressing, is an explosion of flavours in the mouth.

After dinner, Eddie rolls a joint, which he lights and passes to me. ‘Ladies first,’ he says with a formal mock bow, and I take a couple of tiny tokes before I move it on.

We listen to the new album from Stone the Crows, a blues act whose star is in ascension. They were playing exactly the same size venues as Disciples – the Rainbow Room, the Marquee – but overnight their popularity has soared. Tom, Eddie and Jake unpick the music, what they like, what they don’t, and throughout the entire record Rick sits in silence with a half-smile that never leaves his face. I glance at him whenever I can. No one else realises it, but tonight is monumental, the landmark moment when he catapults from one way of life to another, no turning back.

After everyone has left, Jake and l lie together on the sofa and I tell him, ‘You are a miracle worker, did you know that? Did you see how happy Rick was? He left this place looking like he was going to conquer the world.’

‘Next mission, Tom,’ Jake says. ‘But I think we’ve got a long way to go with that one.’

‘You think he’s …?’

‘I’m sure he is. But Tom doesn’t. Not yet.’

‘It must be so hard having to keep it all inside, and feeling so ashamed when there’s no reason to. But unless you tell people, they can’t help.’

‘And that, Alice Garland,’ Jake leans over to kiss my forehead, my nose, finally my mouth, ‘is the crux of everything. You can’t conquer your demons if you don’t bring them out into the open.’

I’m surprised by his lack of self-perception, this man who keeps his sadness trapped inside him. Later, in the darkness, my fingers reach for his hands, brushing lightly over his ragged, bumpy wrists, and I vow to myself that one day, someday soon, I will wrestle Jake’s demons from him and banish them for good.

Now

Luke

Adoptees may try to integrate their birth parent into their lives too quickly. They are anxious to traverse the missing years as quickly as possible and forge a strong mother/child bond. Inevitably this may backfire.

Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Traumaby Joel Harris

Alice is to become our nanny. However many times I say that to myself, I still can’t quite take it in. In other words, Alice, my actual mother, whom I have known less than two months, will be here week after week ensconced in our family lives. As reunions go, you’d have to say this one has been pretty monumental.

We struck the deal, Alice, Hannah and I – and Samuel, of course, cocooned on his grandmother’s lap – over tea and eclairs in the French Café. Alice will arrive at 9.30 a.m. and leave at 6 p.m., Tuesday to Thursday, though she has offered to work extra days whenever Hannah needs it. She won’t accept any more than a hundred pounds a week, which is considerably less than any of the au pairs we saw. We tried to insist on paying more, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

‘Look at him,’ she said, stroking the back of Samuel’s neckwith her index finger. ‘He’s so adorable, frankly I should be paying you.’

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