Page 24 of Read My Lips

Simon snorted another laugh. I should be keeping tally. When this all went tits-up, stand-up comedy might pay the bills.

“You know, before tonight, I was under the impression you were a nice guy. And here you are, bullying me about my linguistic deficiencies and my upbringing...”

“Big words. Showing off now?”

He rolled his eyes. “I know big words. Normally I’m watching you use them.”

A little bubble of opportunity tap danced to life in my stomach. Fred Astairing all over the place. Like any language, there was a difference between understanding someone else, and being able to string your own sentences together.

“We could do this whenever you like. BSL and breakfast.”

Simon ate his eggs, and didn’t say anything. Probably because he was using cutlery.

“My flatmate teaches all the way up to Level 3.” I told him, carrying on, because I didn’t know when to shut up. “He’s always going on about how conversation’s important for building fluency.”

Leaning back, Simon pulled a paper napkin from the holder and wiped his fingers. “Afraid you’re far too expensive already,” he signed. “I don’t have a budget for conversation classes on top of your usual hours.”

He tossed the crumpled paper ball down onto his empty plate.

“What? No. That’s not what I⁠—”

How many different ways could I forget we weren’t friends just because I’d lied to everyone about us being together? Just because he’d snogged me back on a rooftop at sunrise.

I stared at the ball of his napkin.

“You wouldn’t have to pay me.”

He employed me. That was it. All he wanted. I needed to respect that. He didn’t even do relationships. Unless they were fake ones, apparently.

“Two degrees and you want to give your time away for free? I’m not a charity case. Or an antelope.”

Oh give up, Ben. Give up now.

“It wouldn’t have to be work.”

Simon looked pained. “I appreciate you think you’re being helpful, but you’re the only one I sign with. BSL’s a tool for me. It helps me keep up in a hearing workplace. But that’s all I’ve ever needed it to be.”

My jaw hinged open. That made negative sense. His perfect parents had to have learnt. Perfect parents did stuff like that for their kids. TV told me so.

“A tool,” I echoed, scrunching up my face to underline my total disagreement. “It’s not though, is it? It’s a community of language users. A whole culture.”

Simon sighed. “One I’m not part of.”

I slumped back, shoving my plate away, crusts abandoned in the ketchup massacre. Message received – we had no inroads to a real connection, even if we were supposed to fake one.

“You could be, though.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Simon stopped signing as he stood from the table. “I speak too much,” he said, like he was determined to underline his point. “And you know what? I’m alright with being not-quite-Black-enough and not-quite-white-enough without being not-quite-Deaf-enough too.”

His smile shone – all teeth – but for the first time I didn’t believe it.

“At least,” I signed, “no one’s ever told you you’re not-quite-gay-enough.”

My entire face spontaneously combusted. Nice to meet you. I’m a total fail-case and my fully-hearing white guy issues are clearly bigger than yours.

Behind Simon, Stag-Do-Alex’s chair screeched back. Lashed Lad stumbled, jolting him into the edge of our table. The room erupted into a beery accordion wheeze of cheering, slow-motion crossfading into a stumbled rendition of the national anthem. With half the words missing. And Alex started pouring his pint straight down his gullet with enviable control of his gag reflex. “God save our gracious Que- Oh, shit it’s King now isn’t it?”

Simon raised his eyes to the ceiling like he really believed there was someone sitting on a cloud who might helpfully deign to smite the lot of them with a lightning bolt.