The Beard (39 page)

He looked at his phone, which remained switched off. At first, he’d turned it off due to lack of signal, then because of the police activity, and finally thanks to the news. The empty black screen acted as a poor mirror, as Tom glanced down at his own reflection. He looked tired, which was to be expected.

He was terrified of turning it on. This small, plastic gizmo was now the gatekeeper of all things good or bad. He knew that the gossip would’ve spread. That everyone at work would know that his supposed girlfriend had been questioned by police for being a drugs mule. That she’d cheated on him. He’d certainly get a barrel-load of pity for that – not that he wanted it.

But much, much worse than that, they’d have heard that he was gay. They’d know that he’d been lying to them for months. In some cases, ever since he’d known them. The prospect of walking into work on Monday and seeing everyone was unimaginably horrific. What’s more, he couldn’t call in sick, as he was now the boss.

He was truly terrified about what was to come. He could be sacked, which, although unjust and outrageous, would be a clean, tidy and neat end to the experience. He could resign but, again, he’d have to work at least a month’s notice and leave under a cloud.

Whichever way he looked at it, he’d have to go in and make a statement. Perhaps he could send a company-wide email now – today – and pre-empt the curiosity and interest?

“You’ve got to do it at some point!” a voice yelled from up the stairs. Tom was aware that since arriving home, he hadn’t left the front doormat. Looking again at his phone, he hit the ‘on’ button and headed into the kitchen for a drink. As soon as the phone whirred, vibrated and connected its way into life, he’d brace himself for the onslaught of messages.

Each message brought a buzz, each one seemingly more impatient and violent than the last. He walked to the fridge and, despite having vowed to steer clear of alcohol for some time, opened a beer.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he flicked through each message in turn. There were notifications of missed calls from his parents. They were of no consequence any more and were deleted instantly.

There were many messages from friends asking
U alright?
and
Wats goin on?.
Tom hated text speak. A few messages came from colleagues calling him as a “dark horse”. Then, finally, there was the message he’d been dreading all along. It was from Derek:
Call me when you see this,
it said.
I’m in the UK now.

For once, Tom felt sure that Derek was about to do the kindest thing of all and sack him before he even set foot across the threshold. This was perhaps the best way forwar
d; the cleanest, most considerate cut.

Ash wandered into the kitchen. “Anything of interest?” he said, as if Tom were merely sifting through the morning’s mail.

Tom shook his head. “About what you’d expect and this…” He handed the phone to Ash, who read the message and raised an eyebrow.

Ash continued to stare at the screen. “So call him,” he offered after careful consideration. “I mean, there’s no point sitting here fretting about it. If he’s going to go ballistic, that’s what you expect. If he offers his support…”

“Unlikely,” Tom interrupted.

“Maybe,” Ash replied, “but my point is that you won’t know until you do know. So, call him and stop worrying. If he sacks you for being gay, sue him.”

Tom snorted. “Yeah, if only it was that easy. He’d have me for bringing the firm into disrepute. He’s not stupid.”

Ash sighed. “Well, then, you’ll just have to find another job, won’t you?”

In truth, that was all it would mean. However, at any job interview, he’d have to disclose that he was looking for alternative employment because he’d been sacked due to his sexuality or because of the scandal. In some respects, having paper cuttings to prove it would help demonstrate that he wasn’t making it up, but that would hardly make him any more attractive to would-be employers.

“I’m off out,” said Ash. “People to see, faces to snog.” He paused briefly by the kitchen table where Tom sat frowning. “Just think of it like this – it’s not how you wanted, it’s not when you wanted, but it’s done. It’s out. It’s over. This is the last piece of the jigsaw. So, your boss is an arse – he was last week, too. But last week, you didn’t have the prospect of Adam coming to visit. You do now! I’d say it’s worked out quite well, wouldn’t you?”

Ash skipped out, leaving Tom to marvel at his friend’s endless enthusiasm, optimism and positivity. Ash hadn’t been entirely wrong, but it didn’t feel like he’d been right either.

Tom took a few more swigs of his beer, before calling Derek. He could feel his heart beating, as if someone was playing basketball in his ribs. Pound, Pound, Pound, as the connection was made and the dialling started. Tom took a huge breath, determined to be as positive, strong and, if necessary, forceful as he could.

“Well, well, well,” said Derek as soon as he and Tom were through.

“Evening,” said Tom weakly. “You have a good holiday?”

It seemed like a perverse question to ask in the circumstances, yet it was the first thing that came to mind. Besides, leading with, “Did you see me and my fake girlfriend on TV?” was probably not how he wanted things to start.

“When the cat’s away…” said Derek, not entirely commenting on what was happening. Tom said nothing this time. It was Derek’s turn to speak. “Look, Tom, I want to speak to you – in person – before tomorrow. I don’t want to have this conversation in the office. It’ll just be too… you know. Can we meet somewhere for a beer?”

Tom immediately thought about suggesting a gay bar. If he was going to get the push for being gay, having Derek sack him in a gay bar was a fairly stylish way to force his hand. He decided, however, that it may also look provocative and send entirely the wrong signals, so instead he just said, “Yeah, sure. Where?”

Derek nominated a bar that was new to both of them, and they agreed to meet within the hou
r. Tom hung up, finished his beer, grabbed a coat and headed out of the door to get a cab.

Jumping into the taxi and travelling into town, as he had done on innumerable occasions, he reflected on the different feelings he’d had on each journey. It was fair to say that overpowering trepidation, fear and panic were new to him.

He resigned himself to the fact that this surely represented the end of his time at the company. And although he was sad, he dared to think about the future. What would tomorrow bring? What could it offer? No longer shackled to live in the shadows, he was able to consider more for himself. He began to realise, as the cab trundled into the heart of the action, that this was truly the first time in his life that he felt free. Once this meeting was concluded, his life lay ahead. He considered resigning anyway, to liberate himself from fear. As the cab pushed further forward, he felt a sense of empowerment, a gradual but growing belief that maybe, just maybe, his life could improve. So what if people at work didn’t like the news? It wasn’t as if he socialised with them or even liked his job THAT much.

He was also meeting Derek on neutral territory. He didn’t have to follow workplace conventions. He knew that Derek needed him. He knew that Derek wanted to keep him
. So, embarrassment at the theatrics of recent revelations aside, ultimately he was in a very strong position.

Slouching back into the black leather seat, each bump in the road sending him on little bounces, he began to relax. It wasn’t fear he should be feeling, it was a sense of hope. Whatever was to happen in the next hour or so would be nothing compared to what he could do in the future. His life, his happiness and his capacity wouldn’t be defined by the remaining hours of this day.

Arriving at the pub, he saw Derek through the window. Paying the taxi and entering the bar, Tom walked over to his boss, noting that he’d already bought two drinks.

“That for me?” Tom asked cheekily
as he approached the table. Sitting down, he took a sip of beer and added, “You’re looking well. Good holiday?”

Tom was well aware that his bravado was only going to work for so long, before the sheen was dulled and diminished.

“Yes, thanks,” said Derek, looking directly at him. “I feel like a new man.”

“Good,” said Tom cheerily.

Derek took a mouthful of drink. “And, seemingly, so do you.”

Tom was felled by the directness of Derek’s words. “I do, yes,” he replied defiantly. “Problem?”

Derek looked irritated by this response. He wasn’t used to having Tom in quite such combative mode. He’d come to discuss, not argue. At the same time, he knew where the display of dissent was originating.

“Nope,” he said quickly.

“Good,” said Tom cheerily.

The business, the matter, was far from being concluded, as this display of antler smashing would at some juncture dissolve into the red meat. 

“Why didn’t you say?” Derek asked, this time seemingly oblivious to his own behaviour. “I mean…”

Tom decided to cut him off. “For a number reasons, if I’m honest, Derek. For one, my private life has nothing to do with my business life. It doesn’t affect how I work or how well I do the job. So, what was to tell? I have no contractual reason to say anything, and it’s no one’s business. But mostly, it was because the place isn’t – how should I put it? – gay friendly. Comments like “shit-stabbers”, “arse bandits” and the like aren’t exactly the most supportive environment to be honest about your sexuality, wouldn’t you agree?”

It was something that he’d been meaning to say for some time. It wasn’t just about venting emotions, though, it was about laying the ground rules. IF he went back, if there was a job for him the day after, he wasn’t going to live under the same rules as before. This time, if he was going to be out, he would be out with a degree of pride. Yes, it was largely emulated pride, but he felt sure that, in time, it would become real.

Derek smiled. It wasn’t the reaction Tom had expected. “I can’t disagree with you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t exactly make it an inclusive place to work, did I?”

Tom shook his head. Sipping his beer, he felt as if something significant had happened. Had Derek finally realised that he had responsibilities beyond his own personal feelings? Had he accepted that life wasn’t as simple as black and white?

“I accept the charges but I don’t know if you understand,” added Derek, nervously taking a slug of his drink. “Before I set this company up, I used to run another publishing house, a small place just like ours. I did what you do – well, not on a computer, of course, as it was old-school journalism. It was all short-hand and going to the pub. Anyway, it was a very aggressive and feisty place. It really was the survival of the fittest, so you had to constantly give out aggro just to stop it coming back your way. When I got to be manager, I knew I had to fight hard – and be hard – to stay there. And when I left, because it just got too much, I brought that to the new place. I brought that anger, that fight, with me. I can’t tell you how many times I needed it.

“Then, when things started to go wrong with Maggie… well, that anger became real, I suppose. I think it was kind of like realising that you’ve spent your life in a fake fight. So when a real one comes along, you don’t know what to do. Your energy’s gone; you’re a spent force. So you just get angrier and angrier. You keep building it up. I know that’s a pretty piss-poor excuse, but I thought that if I was tough, we’d all be resilient. Instead, I just made everything worse. In fact, I’ve made the place just like the place I left – and for the same reasons. Anyway, I’m sorry. Sorry for being a shit and for making you feel bad. You’re totally right, your private life is just that, but I’m sad I didn’t give you an opportunity to share, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

Tom was totally dumbfounded. Was that for real? Did that just happen? Was Derek FINALLY seeing the light? It would be a giant step forward if he were.

Derek looked at him, his face soft but afraid, his hair swept over his balding head, his fragility exposed in a spectacular fashion. Tom was in an unusual position. He now had to try to return sensitivity to a homophobic, sexist boss. It felt very odd.

“That’s OK,” said Tom, unsure how demonstrative to be. “I understand – I think.”

Derek nodded. “Thank you,” he croaked.

“Are you OK?” asked Tom. Derek was looking down the bar at the handful of people drinking, playing on the fruit machine
or staring up at a TV, which was transmitting a football match without any sound. The place had an echoing, empty Sunday feeling to it. The smell of people, of the wooden bar and of drip trays mingled with the strangely quiet chatter and the artificial light, creating an alternate, unreal reality. It could be any time of day as the disparate band of people gathered to eek out what was left of their weekend before real reality returned. Derek’s eyes welled up.

“Derek?” Tom asked again, this time actually growing concerned. “You OK?”

Derek looked at him and sighed. “Yeah, I will be,” he said. “I just wanted to get that off my chest, really. Get you to, I don’t know, understand. Do you?”

Tom wrinkled his forehead and considered what had been said. “Well, yeah, I think I do,” he offered. “You’re sorry, I get that. I know what publishing is like. You had to be tough. You had to be a fighter. We all make mistakes. I mean, I can’t quite get my head around it – how you can be so angry and then so sorry. But I’m grateful and I hope that you’re telling the truth. Really. So, thank you and let’s just move on, shall we?”