Dear Mona Lisa... Read online

  Me!

  Nobody ever noticed me, and why should they? Tom the boring accounts chap, part of the furniture. Eventually, he asked if I fancied a drink after work. Of course I did, though Jenny'd had to forcibly drag me. That woman had a fist of iron.

  “I’m knackered. Let’s go to bed.” He grimaced at the single blow up mattress. “If you can call it that.” Something hung in the air, a waft of uncertainty released by my list stuck on the wall and the slight echo. I didn’t watch as he undressed—not very much. We neatly folded our clothes in tidy piles at opposite corners, next to the mound of things unsaid shimmering in the atmosphere. “Has that light always flickered?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe knocked it when I took the lamp shade off?” He wandered over and knelt down by the inflatable bed, still wearing shorts. Normally we both slept naked.

  “What if it can’t take both our weight? What if we’re too much together?”

  I gulped.

  The light flickered then went dark, barely enough time to shimmy back into underwear and slither across to Loz.

  Yeah though? What if together, we are too much?

  “Brr. Pretend we’re in rural France in a tent.” His voice was velvet. “What’ve you put your shorts back on for?” I dived in, but half my arse didn’t fit. The air shifted from one side of the mattress to the other, much like my stomach. “Come here. I feel the need.” His arms were warm and necessary.

  “I only put them back on because you did.”

  I shivered as he stroked my back. “Because I’m bloody freezing.”

  “I know. The more furniture we take out, the colder it gets. I was so chilly earlier on I sat in my coat.”

  “Aw, Tom.” He pulled me closer and rubbed my body up and down briskly. Sometimes he forgot to order the milk, but my Loz never forgot to care. Who needed milk when you had delicious bristles and chest hair up your nose? “Tomorrow, come home. I’m not having you stay here by yourself.” He kissed my head. “It’s too depressing.”

  He was right. “Yeah. Okay.” I turned my face up to meet his kiss, relieved.

  “What were you thinking?” he murmured.

  “Nothing...I dunno.” It was less clear to me now. Even that list diminished into a foolish scrap of paper with doodles of foxes. Bloody thing.

  “Was it,” he hesitated to kiss again, “a punishing thing? Not allowing yourself to enjoy the build-up to the wedding because you can’t believe you deserve it?”

  It had taken a long, long time to get used to him being such a clever bastard. Most people were afraid of saying the real stuff—including me—but not Loz. I shook my head. “Well, maybe a little bit.” I could easily lose myself in his chest and neck, burrow in until we fell asleep together mingled up. “Yes.”

  “Tom?” he whispered which made the words seem very much louder. “You know the wedding?” His fingers played with mine.

  “No. What wedding?” He pinched my arse. “Aw! Spiteful.” But I took pity on him. “Mm? What about it?”

  “If it’s too soon, or you’re having doubts...?”

  “No. No doubts. No. I asked you to marry me because I want us to be together with all the loose ends tied up. Because I love you.” It was so much more than that, but we didn’t need to go down that path, not lying on a single blow-up mattress on the floor and one cold arse cheek on show.

  “I know, darling. But we already were tied up together. I just mean—I never know whether to say anything.”

  “You can say anything; you know that.” Theoretically, anyway. He could say anything but no guarantees I’d be able to reply.

  “Have you told her?” He held us both still. Fucking bastard, coming out with it just like that.

  “Sort of.” No. He already knew because he asked all the time and because if I had managed, he’d be the first person to know.

  “I understand it’s hard. But she’s not your parents. Her generation—they’re used to gay, lesbian, bi and all the rest. It’s normal to them. And it’s not like she doesn’t already know me, is it?”

  “Mm.” I held my breath.

  “Tom? She knows.”

  “Mm.” I was ultra careful never to hold his hand or touch him when she was there.

  “There is no way on earth she can’t have worked it out.”

  Or talk about him when I called unless she asked. “Mm.”

  “Tom? Darling? Have I upset you?”

  “I expect she does, yes.” Although boring and ordinary, I was not stupid. That she knew was obvious, but knowing was a word with a whole universe of history and explanations very much more than one scab. The knowing was a plug hole keeping back a whole bath full of crappy waters. Occasionally, you saw it on TV—an older pop star coming out and throngs of fans declaring they knew, and it made me sick. What did they know? All the reasons a person had to keep quiet? I didn’t think so.

  Never—not once—had I discussed it. Bless her, I think she tried, but I talked quickly, without pause about something else, mostly art. Fucking stupid. Weak, cowardly, and how much it must hurt Loz to be my secret.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I know. I should have done it ages ago, then the three of us could’ve sat down and talked.” Like in books. I’d read hundreds of coming out, adopting kids, all manner of acceptance stories. Even ones with bigotry and religion and some that made me cry ugly and raw into the night. I think I was looking, amongst other things, for my parents. I never found them though, only word after bloody word about kids coming out to their parents.

  But parents coming out to their kids?

  And all the rest?

  “Shh, Tom. You’re shaking.” He kissed me again, and again. “I know you’ll do it your way and that will be the right way. I’ll say this one thing, and then I promise to never say anything again unless you go first.” Of course he would. He would go on and on because he was Loz, and that was one of many reasons I adored him. “She’s your daughter and your relationship is the most important thing in the world. It’s just—I think—she would love to be part of it all. Not only the wedding, but us. I think she’s waiting for you to tell her—waiting with breath held. But she’ll never push because she’s so like you.” He hugged my shaking shoulders and then his were shaking too. “Give her a chance?”

  “You read that list I crumpled up?”

  “Yes. Anything that’s been screwed up with danger do not read in red—and a fox with paws on hips—is something I need to know about.” He kissed my nose. “Is it that you think she won’t understand why you kept it hidden all these years? The longer it goes on—the harder it gets?”

  “Not exactly—that’s part of it—yes.”

  Chapter two

  Dawn was rolling pink and misty clouds. Beautiful and opaque. Families of rabbits played across the street, and my stomach was calm.

  “Eh,” Jenny said.

  “What time you on dinner?”

  “Can do twelve or one. Why?”

  “I want you to come with me somewhere.” Not at all cryptic.

  “Where?”

  “Wait and see. I can’t tell you here.” I nodded meaningfully towards the aisle of seats next to ours where the bosses sat. For a giddy few seconds, I considered saying I’d dumped a body in the river.

  “Ye. Twelve then. I’ll finish this report then have a tinkle.”

  “I murdered someone last night.”

  “Feck off.” Her fingers didn’t pause from pummelling the keyboard. “Not on a Monday you didn’t.”

  There aren’t many soul mates you come across in this life, not for normal people, let alone me. I’d been through much of the flotsam of existence with Jenny. Surprising how friendships forged outside in ciggie alley or over tea in the stiffroom, could be so important. To Lou, she was Aunty Jen, but I called her the gem of Bradford. Well, that and other things.

  “Ready now,” she said. “You streak of piss.” She sniffed each shoe until finding one tolerable enough then groaned. “Eh.”

 
“Fart face,” I said, quickly as a tennis player at Wimbledon. Sometimes the younger workers stared at us like animals at the zoo.

  Around reception, a gaggle of people talked about the latest gossip. Thank god, I didn’t think it was me this time.

  “You lovelies off to lunch? Can I join you?” Hikmat asked. He was my other diamond who came round the flat night after night when all I could do was cry. His wife still sent Tupperware boxes of Pakora and lamb curry made with care and love.

  “Not lunch, my good man. We have an important task first.” It could have been my imagination, but I was sure he exchanged a quick look with Jenny. “How about we bring you back something then we can meet in the stiffroom?”

  “A feast!” He waggled a finger. “No low-fat cardboard. What I need is good and fatty to keep up my energy.”

  “We might be a while. Flexi.” She winked.

  “Oh, flexi is it?” He winked back and then scribbled something on the signing in sheet. Time sheet-crime sheet, we called them.

  “Rings or tux?” she shouted, as the wind whipped us across City Square. Honest to god, I almost shit myself.

  “How did you know? Shh!”

  “Written all over your stupid face. It’s Saturday?”

  Of course, she'd known about my proposal ages in advance. I asked for suggestions about what to say and how to do it. The subject of facial expressions and even mouth sprays came into consideration, albeit it with a twinkle in her eye. This took many lunchtimes, and ciggy breaks outside sat on the wall, practicing various words and lines to make it a perfect occasion that Loz would remember forever. I'd forgotten all her advice though, especially about singing the song from Mamma Mia.

  That the wedding was in four days hadn’t been declared, no. I wasn’t going to tell anyone until after Lou because that wouldn’t be fair. Lou needed to be told first, in case...

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  “Daft beggar.”

  “Mm. I’ve got your invite in the office. They took a bit longer to arrive than we expected, that’s why I’m running late on telling people,” I lied.

  “Ah.”

  “Yes. The options are to hire a tux or buy a suit. I was going to stick with my smart black, but there’s a shiny patch on one elbow and anyway, do I want dark?” We stood outside Marks and Spencer while she considered. “I’ve had a look at what they’ve got but...” I shrugged. “I need advice.”

  “What’s Loz wearing?”

  “He won’t tell me.”

  “Ah. Be a kilt then.” She squint-laughed at my horrified face. “Show me what you’ve seen.”

  “I might need beach wear too.” My stomach knotted at the thought of spending so much money, on me. “I’m not sure because he says our honeymoon is a surprise,” I whispered the word.

  “Honeymoon,” she said loudly. “What you whispering for? It’s exciting. Hon-ey-moon,” she cackled. And suddenly I was excited. I’d spilled—Jennyrenny—so the chances of it all going ahead were already greater than last night, or first thing that morning when Loz insisted on a final shower together in the flat. It was turning out to be a fireworks and tingles morning by anybody’s standards.

  “Oh yes, you’ll want one of those things that go up your arse. That one’s nice.” She pointed at an unlikely strip of yellow. It wasn’t easy to work out what you did with it.

  “Good God.” We peered at it giggling. “That’d give him a shock.”

  “Eh.”

  “Do you think two pairs of shorts will do?” They were almost fifteen quid each!

  “Tom! It’s yer fecking wedding week. You can go overboard.”

  “But the cost.” That old thing.

  “Ah love. Your Lou doesn’t need it now, does she? For the first time in your life, you can think of yourself.” She was right. Lou had started work based in one of the big Paris galleries last year after graduation. Ever since she was two years old, everything I earned was swallowed up by materials and tutors then later on schools and college. Once me and Kathy split, things got so bad, for a while I had two jobs to pay the rent. I couldn’t spend twenty quid without my stomach complaining.

  “She still might need me,” I said, hopefully. My innards twisted.

  “She’ll always need you, love, but that doesn’t cost money.” She seized my arm. “What are you? Thirty waist?”

  “Probably thirty-two.”

  “Try these—and those. You look good in red.”

  “Oh? OK.”

  A frenzy of previously unseen proportions occurred, consisting of much scooting in and out of the changing rooms and Jenny giving advice.

  “No. Saggy arse—too tight on the bollocks—yes—bend over—turn round—do star jumps.”

  “No!”

  And suddenly I had a whole pile of new clothes fit for any occasion.

  “But will I need jeans too?” I assumed the honeymoon was in Benidorm, or maybe Tenerife. For ages now Loz had purposely left holiday booklets around, so I had a pretty good idea.

  “Ye.”

  We found the suits, mostly dark and serious. “I don’t know. It’s not a funeral.” I thought of dad and shuddered.

  “You’d look like Mister Bean. What do you want people to think when you’re walking up that aisle?”

  “There’s no aisle. It’s a venue, out by Salts Mill.”

  “Eh. They’re still going to be looking at you on the first day of the rest of your life. What do you want them to see?”

  “See?” Oh God, people staring.

  A moment ticked past. “Colour?”

  “Colour?”

  She sighed. “Tom! You’re an artist. What would Lou suggest?”

  Jen was no fool. I thought of all the years of canvas and paints, set out on that old table. Before starting, Lou always touched the white canvas lightly. “They’re babies waiting to be born,” she’d said to me once. “Paintings waiting to live. See Daddy? How the colours make it happy? All the pink and blues run onto the white and stop it being lonely.”

  “White,” I said firmly. “I need to wear white.”

  She beamed. “That long shirt would look good.” The item was crinkly with short sleeves, not meant to be tucked into a waistband. “You could try it on with these trousers.” The ensemble was intended to be worn together, baggy and comfortable yet oddly striking in its simplicity.

  “Says a tunic on the label. Isn’t it beachwear though? Can you wear things like that at a wedding?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be.” She gave me a shove towards the changing rooms, and when I come back out, something happened to her face.

  “That’s the one,” she said briskly. “You’ll need some light shoes, too. Some of those canvas things.”

  ****

  When we got back to the office, carrying armfuls of bags and a picnic, Hikmat waited in the stiffroom anxiously. “Did it go okay?” His eyes were flitting from me to Jenny.

  “Perfect.” She beamed. “My feet are fecking killing me. You up to massage?”

  “No.” He shuddered. “Not in this life.”

  Brilliant sunlight poured onto the mean plastic chairs and Formica-topped table, casting rectangular shapes in amber ginger. My two friends were joking, and it was time.

  “Hang on. Just give me five minutes.” I hurried off to my desk.

  I had two sets of invites; the first decorated by Lou. They were brightly painted in the reds and yellows of autumn, pictures of the canal near Shipley. I’d bought a pack of ten when she was selling them on the internet to get through the student years. At first only ten, then I bought a lot more than that but no need for her to know it was me demanding them on an industrial scale. Hikmat and Jenny bought them too. Inside, Loz’s pretty words:

  Tom and Loz would like to invite you to their

  wedding!

  Saltaire Hall, Saturday 10 June midday until late.

  After the ceremony there will be a wedding banquet

  followed by a live band.

 
Wear whatever makes you feel special and bring those

  you love.

  We look forward to sharing our day.

  The other set was boring and plain; bought from the stationary shop over the road in a fit of pre-misery. I hadn’t glued on the passage yet because they were the last resort.

  But Jenny knew, and Hikmat was about to find out—though I suspected he’d already guessed. Under my desk, seven bags full of clothes and one very special outfit waited. There was much more chance of it going ahead.

  That I’d tell her.

  That she’d come.

  So, I could use her lovely cards. After the memory of that little girl touching the canvas with a look of faraway, I was sure.

  Almost sure.

  Back in the staffroom, our lunch was laid out on the table. Hikmat brandished a bottle of non-alcoholic fizz. “Here he is!” The top fired into the ceiling. I was filled with the happy grey of his beard, and sunny-pinkness of laughter.

  “A toast!” They held up our old mugs with as much gusto as if they were fine wine glasses, trophies of friendship crafted by years of wins and losses.

  “These are for you.” I handed them each an invite. “I’m sorry it’s short notice.”

  “Well, this is splendid!” Hikmat hugged me, his beard tickling my neck.

  “It’s—for all your family. I mean, if they want to.” When Lou was little, I’d met Hikmat with his three daughters in Peel Park. There were years of birthday parties and cinema dates. Nowadays they face book, or Instant gram, or whatever it was called.

  “We will be delighted! Absolutely delighted and honoured.” He blinked rapidly, covering a multitude of emotions.

  “Eh,” said Jenny.

  I had successfully killed two birds with one stone—got the outfit and sent out the invites.