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Freddie. That’s who I needed to talk to. The only person who knew me. The real me. I mean, he was probably busy doing something terribly sophisticated, but at least he wouldn’t laugh at a miserable farmer agonising over his sartorial choices and the state of his bedroom wallpaper. Not with any malice, anyhow.
I punched in his number, and a foreign ringtone sounded.
“Rob! What’s happened?” he answered cheerfully. “The milk dried up? I’m at Paris fashion week, currently being yoked into a red leather corset. I’m sure we could find a slot for you here if it has. Rugged is the new black, don’t you know.”
Despite my inner turmoil, I smiled. Freddie and I were as different as summer and winter, yet our friendship endured. In the hayloft all those years ago, I’d made an ally for life. He’d mock me—we’d mock each other—but his heart was in the right place. “Listen, I’ve got a question, and a simple yes or no will do. Brace yourself: I’m meeting a man for a drink.”
“Blimey, are you feeling all right? It’s all that unpasteurised milk you glug. You must have caught something.”
I imagined him semi-naked, long bare limbs stretched out, dressed in something ridiculous. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s someone I…I…I like. I like him. I might…”
“You might what?”
“I might, you know, tell him. I might try and have more with him than just…you know. Sex.”
A lengthy pause followed this bombshell, and the background chatter suddenly dimmed. When he spoke again, the affected languid drawl had gone. “Bloody hell, Rob. He must be rather something.”
“He is. I think. I hope.”
“This is the best news I’ve had in ages. How can I help?”
“Just reassure me I look okay in my usual clobber. I’m having a moment of complete panic. It’s pathetic, after all these years, that it’s come down to an existential wardrobe crisis, but…but…yes. That. That’s it.”
I was perilously close to tears. For fuck's sake, I was only having a beer with the guy. How had eight fucking checked shirts managed to utterly floor me?
Perhaps because Freddie and I both knew it was about more than shirts.
“Hey, Rob. Calm down. You don’t need to be like this.”
As if by magic, my dog’s damp nose nuzzled into my lap. Okay, so maybe there were two people on the planet who knew the real me.
“Listen. I’m surrounded by around twenty male models at the moment. From all over the world. All leggy and skinny, with cheekbones that could slice bread. And do you know something? I wouldn’t fuck a single one of them. Because at home I’ve got a man waiting for me, with burn scars running the length of one arm and a soft little belly I can’t wait to rub my nose into. His fashion sense is on a par with yours.” A pause. “What I’m trying to say is that none of that surface stuff means shit. Let him see you for who you are because if you try to be someone else, he’ll see through it soon enough.”
“All my shirts are identical.”
“I know. And you look fucking hot as English mustard in them. And wear the jeans you wore when I saw you at Christmas. Trust me, he’s going to want you out of them before you’ve even finished your first pint. And now I have to go, because—fuck me—they want me in fucking stilettos too. If I break my neck on the catwalk, tell everyone the dress code is black silk Valentino at my funeral. Ciao, ciao.”
Evan was already waiting for me at the bar when I walked into the pub, a venue selected by him. Tucked down a quiet side road just off Allenmouth town centre, and not a pub I ever frequented. A little too upmarket and olde-worlde for my tastes. Too many horse brasses and Toby jugs and overpriced ‘guest ales’. Twenty varieties of gin and as many flavoured tonics. I didn’t say so, of course. Remembering Freddie’s words of encouragement, I straightened my shoulders and acted like everyone else was also dressed like a lumberjack and I’d just nipped down to the Rossingley Arms.
In a casual open-necked shirt and light linen jacket, nursing a pint of bitter, Evan, in contrast, looked beautifully at home. Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. He seemed anxious. Maybe it was the patient thing bothering him. I ordered a pint of the same.
“Have you eaten?” he asked. “They have a table free in the snug next door. There’s a good vegan menu. That’s why I come here.”
I hadn’t appreciated the words good and vegan could sit adjacent in the same sentence, but we moved to the snug anyway. My first pint was chased down by a second, which I sipped more slowly. Evan seemed more relaxed in here too.
“Has my secretary given you an op date, yet?” he asked.
I nodded. Two weeks from now. Bill would work some extra hours, and a lad from a neighbouring farm was coming in to cover the early-morning milking. Fretting already, I was only allowing myself a week of no duties at all, although I kept that to myself. The menus arrived.
“Are you driving?” He indicated my half finished second pint.
I shook my head. It all depended on how the evening panned out. “I don’t have to. I’ve got an uncle who lives on his own at the other end of town. I stay at his occasionally if I fancy a drink. Bill does the Saturday morning milking, so I don’t have to rush back.”
His eyes lit up. “Good. Shall we share a bottle of something then, with our meal?”
I’d hardly ever been on dates with women, let alone men, so I couldn’t tell if this felt like one or not. Evan was trying his hardest to make it all very casual, but in sleepy Allenmouth on a Friday night, not many men went out for dinner with other men, not unless they were after something else. Evan picked out a moderately priced Spanish red while I scoured the menu for steak. Then scoured it again, flipping the card over, just to make sure I hadn’t overlooked it the first time. Nope, I hadn’t. The pork, lamb, and chicken options were missing too. Salmon it was, then. Apparently, they didn’t offer chips either. At least the doctor opposite would approve, even if my belly didn’t.
“My divorce was finalised last week,” he announced after the waitress had left. “It was a lot more straightforward than I’d anticipated. Paula’s calmed down a lot.” He sighed. “Fortunately, she doesn’t want to string it out. She agrees with me that we should both cut our losses and accept a no-blame agreement.”
