Not wanting to hover, Michael spent the initial consultation in Paul's office. He was on the computer researching his current project—textbook creation could be oddly soothing—when Paul entered.
"All right. The doctor who removed James's broken teeth and sewed up his gums made a botch of it, but nothing I can't fix. There are two ways to go. The most affordable option is a bridge." Paul used an oversized plastic model to illustrate. "Essentially, a partial denture plate. It goes in and out and has to be cleaned, but should look good. The downside is the upkeep and some loss of functionality. No more corn on the cob or toffee apples.
"The other option, the Mercedes, would be implants. I'd take impressions, order four prosthetics and implant them. After a few weeks he wouldn't know the difference from his own teeth. Except these will be porcelain-veneered and never decay or turn yellow. So better than nature." Paul took a breath. "I asked which he preferred, and he said it was all up to you."
"Implants."
"Right." Paul named a sum. "That's for everything. The molds, the prosthetics, the oral surgery and the follow-up. Also the meds."
Michael passed a hand over his hair's soft spikiness. For the second time that week, he was grateful Frannie never snooped in his finances. "I'll need to transfer some funds. But I'll have it for you by tomorrow morning."
Paul nodded. He half-rose, then sat down again, looking Michael in the eye. "I realize we don't know one another very well..."
That was true. Michael generally saw Paul four times a year—Christmas, Frannie's birthday, and his semi-annual teeth cleanings.
"But really," Paul continued, "what the hell's going on? I barely recognized you. And James. Who is he?"
"Son of a friend." Michael spoke the lie he'd concocted. "He's been in trouble. Going through a rough patch. I said I'd help him get on his feet."
Paul stared at him. Michael stared back. Heaping on additional details would only make him sound more like the liar he was.
"Son of a friend," Paul said at last, still holding Michael's gaze. "That's interesting. Because after spending ten minutes with James—talking to him—I took him for your rent boy."
Michael still didn't answer. Should he come clean or continue to stonewall? Would Paul refuse to do the procedure if Michael admitted the truth?
"
Is
he your rent boy?" Paul asked.
"Yes."
"You're not the one who knocked his teeth out, are you?"
Michael was shocked by the question. "Of course not." Even at the gym he never put on boxing gloves and pounded the heavy bag. He'd never struck another person in his life. "Why would you think that?"
Paul shrugged. "There's such a thing as suppressed rage. There's such a thing as sublimated murderous impulses. And then there's you, Michael. I can imagine you punching somebody's lights out. Pretty easily, in fact." Paul waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. That kid needs his mouth worked on and I'll do it. I'll even give you the usual fifteen percent family discount. But Jesus, Michael. Weren't you afraid I'd figure it out? That I'd tell Frannie?"
This time Michael shrugged. "Crossed my mind. But you're the best. Thought I'd risk it."
Paul didn't answer right away. Then he stood up. "Fine. I'm flattered. And what you do is your business. What James does for a living is his business. But this is oral surgery. Unless he can show me a blood test done in the last thirty days that defines his STD status, including HIV, I won't perform the procedure."
***
Michael gave James the news about the blood test himself. James, unable to produce such evidence, was unsurprised. "I can't abide those clinics. All those nosy questions. Nurses staring at me like I'm a zoo animal. I've been inside once or twice and always left without getting stuck."
"It isn't an unreasonable request. You need to do it."
"No, I can just wait for my NHS dentist appointment. It won't be so long. And if I go through the system, it won't cost you anything." James's eyes were painfully wide, transmitting the fear he fought to keep out of his voice. "How much does Dr. Beckman mean to charge for my implants?"
"Enough," Michael smiled. "Let me worry about that. As for the test—I'll go with you. We'll get tested together."
It took a bit more convincing, but the next morning James turned up outside the clinic, still in his hoodie and sunglasses. Michael, who'd arrived in his usual work attire, felt as overdressed as he'd been the night he met James in Brixton Park.
James started out nervous and progressed to near spastic when the secretary passed him a three-page questionnaire. He stared at it for a moment, then placed it defiantly on the floor. "I'm not doing that. I can barely see it. Don't have my contacts in."
Michael, who excelled at filling in forms and was already finished with his, put out his hand. "Give it over."
Asking the questions and jotting down the answers taught Michael a lot about James. He'd recently turned twenty-two, but never mentioned his birthday. He'd been born in Scotland but his parents had moved first to Manchester, then London, before James was five years old. They divorced when James was seven. His father was a mason; his mother was a hairdresser. He'd stopped going to school around age thirteen and the truant officer, his cousin, had covered for him. For a long time he'd apprenticed with his mum, sweeping up hair clippings and giving old women shampoos. But the work hadn't suited him, so James teamed up with his father and did masonry for a year. Then sometime around age sixteen, he discovered he could make as much or more seducing men in clubs, bars, even street corners.
"So you knew you were homosexual at sixteen?" Michael asked.
James shrugged. "Not really. I knew men liked me. Hadn't quite decided what I liked yet." His discomfort had lessened considerably since Michael took custody of his paperwork. "Did you know you were heterosexual at sixteen?"
Michael smiled. "I knew I liked girls. And once in awhile—this was a deep dark secret, I never told another living soul—I was curious about boys. But after I met Frannie and started getting sex regularly, I never thought about boys again. Not until you."
"Labels are tedious," James sighed. "I mean, I know I'm a pouf because of what's in here." He tapped his chest. "When I was eighteen I fell in love with a bloke named Kevin. Until then I'd fucked—I don't know, four or five girls, and had a good time. But when I fell for Kevin, I knew I was a pouf. And it felt so right I didn't give a damn."
"What happened with him?"
"Kev? Oh. Nothing much." James glanced shyly at Michael, as if already regretting what he'd said. "Once we got drunk and made out. Other than that, Kev's always been with someone else. Usually a big bloke with muscles on his muscles and a cock like—well, yours." James grinned, hand snaking up to cover his mouth.
"None of that." Michael pushed the other man's hand away from his face. "Bad habit."
"I look like a freak."
"You're still beautiful. Just injured." Michael drew in his breath. "I always thought of myself as heterosexual. Until I met you. You arouse me like no one else."
"How many people have you fucked?"
"Two," Michael lied. "Frannie and you."
"Well, then, I'd say the jury's out. The good news—it doesn't matter. If you adore being married to wifey, so be it. If you like fucking me on the side, so be it. It's all about personal truth, mate."
Michael thought about that phrase, "personal truth." It was a long time until the frowning, harried nurse call him back—almost an hour—but even by then, he had no idea what a "personal truth" was, much less if he had one.
***
The test results came back around noon. The Nautilus's bar—called the Seashore—opened at 1 p.m. Michael maneuvered James inside and ordered him a margarita. "Make it with Patron Silver," he told the bartender.
"You don't even drink. How do you know about Patron Silver?" James sounded bleak.
"I hear things." Specifically, Michael heard things from Germanotti, who knew all his wife's favorite cocktails. But to reveal the source of enlightenment would spoil the mystery.
James said nothing until Michael returned from the bar with a cola for himself and that Patron Silver margarita for James. James finished the drink, head bobbing to the dance beat, trying not to make eye contact with Michael. He fetched another from the bar and drank it. Half way through his third, he announced, "I am a whore. A dirty, diseased whore."
"Hush." Michael leaned over the table, trying to intimidate with his eyebrows and his shoulders, wondering if it were time to cut James off.
"No, really. I have the paperwork to prove it," James slurred, sipping the margarita through its pink straw. "I have HSV-2. Isn't that romantic? Sexy?"
"You're not the only person to have genital herpes. The incidence is at least one in six males in Britain. I checked."
"You'll have it next," James predicted, pulling the straw out of his drink and poking it at Michael. "The gift that goes on giving. I don't understand how I could have it and never know. I mean once—
once
—I got itchy for a day or so. Before I could get an appointment, I went back to normal. Figured I dodged a bullet and never thought about it again." James sank half the margarita in one gulp. "Seriously, Michael, if you stick around, you'll catch it from me. I'm a dirty, diseased whore. Bet you never thought about the consequences when you chatted me up in that park."
"I did," Michael said gently.
James stared at him.
"I knew what you did for a living. I knew I was about to have sex with a stranger. I would have had to be deaf, dumb and dead not to understand what I was risking. Thirty years of public service announcements," Michael said. "Not all of them fell on deaf ears."
James, who'd already cried once, looked ready to tear up again. Michael reached across the table and touched the other man's hand. "If I contract herpes, I'll deal with it. My point is, I knew the risks and I chose to go forward. Wouldn't even let you wear a condom while I filleted you."
James made a startled noise. Then, despite his red eyes and boozy melancholy, he flashed that grin. It wasn't gorgeous now. It was a parody. Yet inexplicably, Michael found he still liked it.
"First time you've ever joked around with me."
"First time I've ever joked around at all. Now," Michael said briskly. "Let's get you some food on your stomach before you start vomiting."
But the hamburger and chips came too late. James ate half of it at a fair clip, then disappeared into the men's room for ten minutes. "It's not just the margaritas," he gasped when he returned to the table, translucently pale and shaking. "It's those damn antibiotics."
"Right. Come on, follow me. You've had a grim couple of days and I'm putting you to bed."
James, still tipsy despite all the purging, let Michael lead him to the tube station. They disembarked at Shepherd's Bush and walked to an old building called the Highland Arms. The stairs gave James the dry heaves, but eventually they made it to the third floor. Once inside No. 32, Michael half-carried James through the small sitting room and into the bedroom.
The bed, just an IKEA frame, a mattress, and white cotton sheets, seemed to be exactly what James needed. He stretched out on his back and groaned with what sounded like pleasure.
"Oh, this is so much better than my fucking futon. I'll be crippled before I'm thirty sleeping on that thing. And I haven't really slept since that bastard broke my teeth... I keep dreaming he'll come back and kill me..."
"He's not coming back," Michael said in the same matter-of-fact tone he'd used when six-year-old Edward was plagued by nightmares. "You're safe here and you need to sleep." Michael started to undo James's belt, thinking the other man would sleep more comfortably in just his T-shirt and shorts, but James flinched.
"Sorry." Michael withdrew his hands. "Look, I have to at least check in at the office, so I'll be gone for a while. Stay put till I get back and I'll order us some dinner."
"Michael." James's eyes were red again, tears spilling over. "I owe you. I know I do. But I don't... I just don't think I can..."
"I said dinner. That's all."
"But—what is this place? Where are we?"
"My new flat. Now go to sleep."
***
Michael worked on his current textbook—the overview of world religions—until his boss, Peter, returned from his usual late lunch. Not long ago Peter had allowed one of the more junior writers to work from home most days, turning up at the office only to make presentations and attend meetings. That writer, though competent, frequently missed deadlines and sometimes needed coaching from the senior staff to finish his projects. The only reason he'd been permitted to work from home was, surely, his friendship with Peter. Michael knew he was a far better choice—not only was he capable of supervising himself, but he was the company's most prolific author. After bestowing such a plum on a comparatively undeserving employee, Peter would have no choice but to say yes.
"Absolutely not. And frankly, I'm surprised at you," Peter told Michael, smiling in his usual secretive way. "Perhaps it's time you came clean to me. Is something wrong at home?"
Michael waited, unsure why Peter would ask that. Germanotti was many things, but he was no grass. He hadn't gossiped about James—Michael would have staked his life on it.
"You've radically changed your appearance. You pushed for the world religions survey when you knew I wanted you to handle the machine shop primer. And today you buggered off without so much as an apology."
"I told you. It was medical."
"You don't look sick to me." Peter gave him that secretive smile again. Not a writer, not a teacher, and not an educational theorist, he'd been hired by the company for his expertise as an MBA. It pleased him to look down his nose at subordinates who didn't understand the value of money, who hadn't attended management seminars and motivational talks. "So what's really happening? Why do you need more time at home?"
Michael, who only wanted to spend his workdays in his new flat with James, fought back a smile at the notion of voluntarily spending additional time with Frannie. And she would like it no better, he realized. Possibly less.