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“I’ve seen it.” And at risk of being controversial, Harrison Ford was too old, too rugged for my tastes.
“A Few Good Men,then?”he asked. “My dad bought it last week. I haven’t watched it yet.”
I puffed up my chest. “Did I order the Code Red? Did I order the Code Red? You’re goddamn right I did!”
I gave him my best Jack Nicholson impression, which wasn’t very good. I had the anger down, but my American accent needed work. “Brenner’s favourite film. Seen it about eight times. Watch it with your dad—he’ll love it.”
“You mention Brenner a lot. Whenever I see him around school, he always looks angry. Like he’d beat me up at the slightest provocation.”
I ran my eyes over Alex’s toned body. Not a hardship. “I wouldn’t worry. You’d be quite difficult to beat up. Brenner is nowhere near as strong as you. He’s all attitude and flubber.”
Alex leaned forward on the sofa, animated. “Yeah, but he’s got that madness in his eyes. Don’t you think? Like a wasp trapped under a pint glass. That psychotic anger. I might be bigger, but he’d fight to the death. He’s like someone out ofReservoir Dogs.”
Not a film I imagined held pride of place on the Valentine family video shelf. Alex’s observations about Brenner were spot on, though. Five pints of Carling Black Label inside him and a hint of provocation, he’d take anybody on. He hadn’t had a nasty bone in his body before his dad died; he’d never have hurt a fly. According to Phil’s mum, his grief was bottled up inside him. She said anger was his outlet for it. Alex’s wise parents might have expressed the same sort of thing. Personally, I thought it was all down to him being horny and frustrated. He got a kick out of being a bit of a thug; scaring people the only control he exerted over anyone. But what did I know? Brenner was funny and made me laugh, and happy to do fuck all with me when neither of us had any cash, so he was still my best mate.
In the end after scoffing a little longer at the pile of girly rom-coms, I selectedThe Last of the Mohicans, lured by a half-naked Daniel Day Lewis manfully wielding his tomahawk on the cover. I wouldn’t be concentrating on a film much anyhow, not with the true object of my lust a hair’s breadth away.
“Tell me if you want anything,” Alex offered. He stretched out and yawned, displaying two rows of gleaming white molars. Being perfect must be quite hard work.
You. I want you. Or failing that, Daniel Day Lewis.
“He’s a good actor, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.” Alex nodded. “He won an Oscar. For that film about the painter in a wheelchair. My mum loved it. I couldn’t be arsed to sit through it, mind you. Sounded boring.”
“Nah, me neither.” God, I was a good liar.My Left Footand my left hand had become exceedingly close pals. Alex’s little stretch-out had brought us close enough that our knees touched again. It should have been thrilling, yet I felt on edge, my skin taut, as if too tight for my body. I’d built up the courage for this conversation ever since I’d spied Daniel Day Lewis on the video jacket.
“I saw him in something else not so long ago,” I continued, pretending to be vague. “A British film, you know, one of those low-budget, funny ones? From when he was younger. I thought that was a decent film, too.”
I held my breath. If he’d never heard of the film, then it didn’t matter. Our conversation would move on. If he’d heard of it and hated it, I might as well grab my coat and go home now.
A cute divot appeared in Alex’s forehead as he cast his mind back, trying to recall. I could easily prompt him; the film being my absolute favourite ever.My Beautiful Launderette,starring my beautiful Daniel Day Lewis. I could recite it verbatim. Brenner had nicked it from a charity shop, over a year ago now, and lined it up for one of our babysitting nights. He’d assumed it was a comedy and, in a way, he’d been right, although there had been nothing funny about my mates’ reaction to it. With mounting disgust, Brenner and Phil endured about ten minutes, then ejected the video and hurled it across the floor, as far away as possible. As if by touching the plastic cassette they might catch the gay disease. We’d switched to BBC 2 and watched the snooker instead. On a trip to the bog, I’d retrieved the video and pretended to bin it. I’d need a new copy soon; the tape worn out from me rewinding and rewinding the scene when a smoking hot Daniel Day Lewis had clutched at his boyfriend Omar’s face with both strong hands and kissed him like he’d die if he couldn’t.
“Oh yeah, I remember! The funny one about those two blokes running a launderette. Is that the film you mean? My mum and I loved that.”
I breathed again, wanting to seize him, clamber into his lap and smother his face in kisses, just as Daniel had grabbed Omar in the film. I didn’t dare hope Alex fancied boys; in fact, I was sure he didn’t, although I couldn’t bear to dwell on that likelihood for even a second. But he’d watchedMy Beautiful Launderetteand enjoyed it. So maybe there was a chance boys like me didn’t totally revolt him. He hadn’t been horrified. He hadn’t squirmed away to the other end of the sofa, or worse, made up a crap excuse to drive me home early.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything? A drink? Crisps?”
He truly was an excellent host; his mother would be delighted at his attentiveness.
“If you insist. Coke and crisps—salt and vinegar if you’ve got them.”
I’d eyed the red wine bottle longingly during the meal. Rioja, whatever the fuck that meant. And pronounced Ree-okka, for no obvious reason I could see, except to confuse the plebs. Wine wasn’t my favourite tipple by any stretch, but I could have done with a glass or two to help me relax, especially when we first sat down. And not a can of cheap lager in sight. So, I’d sipped my iced water like a good boy, and Alex had done the same.
“I’ll get us some crisps. We don’t have fizzy pop, but there’s sparkling water in the fridge.”
“What? No Coke? What sort of establishment is your mummy running?”
“My dad’s a dentist. No fizzy drinks, no dried fruits, only one pudding a day.”
That explained all the pearly white teeth then.
The Last of the Mohicanswas a bloody long film. At some point, we both fell asleep—being a polite house guest had worn me out, and Alex had run himself ragged on a rugby pitch all afternoon. I woke before he did, to find his head had made a bed of my shoulder, which felt kind of magical. Silky blond curls tickled my nostrils. He moved away as soon as he realised, of course, when the closing credits began to roll, but not awkwardly. He’d have shot across the room if he knew how wrong my feelings were for him.
“It’s late.” He rubbed at the crease mark my tee had left on his face. “I’d better take you back.”
I was quiet in the car; Alex probably put it down to tiredness. He even got away with listening to a cheesy hits of the eighties radio show as he drove, humming along tunelessly. We left his leafy village behind and as the familiar industrial blandscape of my hometown swallowed us up, a dull despair took root in my bones. Whichever poet wrote “it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”talked a load of bollocks. Dissatisfaction with my lot in life had been muted up until now. Since I’d met Alex and peeked into his world, the dial was turned up to a full, heavy-metal pounding. I’d tasted heaven and been left hungry for more. I’d seen it with my own eyes. The grass really was greener over there, whatever anyone said.
