Footy

INVITATION (3)

After Tom had left, Adam exorcised him and the whole experience by going for a half hour jog, followed by a swim at the Carlton baths. Then he undid all the good work by having noodles with garlic, mushrooms and olive oil at the Café Università on Lygon Street. No one even glanced at him, depressingly, except a noisome beggar, whom Adam got rid of with a dollar coin. That afternoon, he had a long phone call with Fiona (who asked him, as she always did, whether he’d found someone, meaning a man), and then another with his mother (who asked him the same question, meaning a woman). And that night he went to bed, blackly depressed, sick with love, and knowing that the object of his affection would never return it.

Old Foss was still sulking, and wouldn’t respond to his conversation, and either sat on the windowsill glaring at him, or on top of the cupboard pretending to be asleep.

On Monday, he went to the gym in the morning quiet period. He knew that it was unwise to feed his addiction. Keeping away from Tom was the sensible, intelligent thing to do. On Tuesday, he again chose mid-morning for his session, but on Wednesday, he had a meeting with a client at ten-thirty, and with a mental shake of his head at his own cowardice, decided to go at his usual time. Tom had already arrived and was working out. Adam was glad he wouldn’t have to see him in the change rooms, and gave him only a brief wave when he saw him. When he saw Tom go down to the change-rooms, he deliberately added another ten minutes on the treadmill so that they wouldn’t meet.

In the change-rooms, Tom was dressed, and sitting sideways on the bench. He gave Adam a small smile when he came in. It was unexpectedly vulnerable, and despite his misgivings, Adam smiled back.

“I was wondering whether you’d like to have a coffee with me afterwards,” Tom said, tentatively, expecting a ‘no’.

No, fuck off, thought Adam. “Yes,” he said, and was angry with himself for giving in.

They went to the little café behind the Stock Exchange bookshop, at Tom’s suggestion, because it was small and unfashionable and they were unlikely to be stared at.

Without any preliminary skirmishing, Tom launched into an apology. “I’m sorry I behaved so badly on Saturday night.”

Adam shrugged. “It happens to everyone, at some time or another.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. I’d like to make it up to you. What’re you doing tonight?”

I’m staying at home, by myself, thought Adam. “Nothing.”

“Would you like to come out to dinner with me?” Without waiting for an answer, Tom nervously added, “I’ll pick you up at seven. OK?”

Adam nodded mutely, stunned. Was this a date?

Tom smiled in relief at him. “Lovely!” He put a fiver on the table next to his empty glass, and went out, not looking back, his back straighter than usual. He came back in a minute, looking sheepish. “What’s your address?”

Adam grinned at him, and gave it. The evidence of mental confusion was comforting.

That afternoon, Adam mixed up the names of two of his oldest clients, by mistake sent the whole of a very large spreadsheet file to the color printer, blocking it for twenty minutes, and caused Samantha from reception, who fancied him, to lose her temper twice with Christina, the librarian. He didn’t care. He was happy. With one part of his mind, he knew nothing would come of him and Tom. Yet another part inside him threw aside caution and wisdom and whispered ‘maybe’.

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