Free Sottopassaggio by Nick Alexander Page B

it’s much emptier; only one other table is occupied.
    Tom has changed into baggy hip-hop jeans and a blue, seventies tracksuit top. His beard is waxed intopointy perfection, and he looks younger and fresher than this morning. He’s looking good.
    I offer him a drink but he shakes his head and waves a full glass at me.
    When I return with my drink, I sit opposite him, pulling my chair to a respectable distance.
    â€œSo what did you get up to?” he asks.
    I smile. “Ab-so-lute-ly
nothing
!” I say.
    â€œI went to the gym, but other than that,” he rolls his eyes and continues shaking his head, “God, there’s these two guys at the gym, they’re
so
annoying.” He rolls his eyes and then blows through his lips.
    â€œThey’re just constantly
there
, you know?”
    I shrug.
    â€œIt’s like, whatever machine I’m on, whatever I’m doing, at some point I look up and there they are, either side of me.”
    I wipe the foam from my lips.
    â€œMaybe they like you,” I say. “Maybe they want a threesome?”
    Tom nods. “I expect so, but they’re just so …” he shakes his head and sips his own drink. “They’re actually gorgeous,” he says. “I mean they have nice haircuts, lovely bodies, little matching goatee beards, lovely clothes …”
    I raise an eyebrow. “I take it there’s a but?”
    Tom nods. “Yeah. The
but
is the
conversation
! They just constantly talk through me, and it’s all BT you know?”
    I shrug. “BT?”
    â€œBitch Talk. You know, she’s a bitch, and he’s a bitch, and I’m a bitch, and you’re a bitch and ha, ha, ha, isn’t it
fun
being a bitch!”
    I laugh. “Maybe you need a walkman?” I suggest.
    Tom nods. “I already decided to get one, just so I don’t have to listen to it anymore. It’s
unbearable
!”
    We chat a little about life in Brighton, and inevitably Tom asks me about myself. I tell him that I’m single, that I split up with my ex last December, conveniently dropping Steve from my history. Poor Steve – he didn’t deserve that.
    I move quickly on by asking Tom about Antonio. It takes mere seconds for me to start to hate the dark swarthy Italian – the time for Tom to produce the photo. And it takes less than a minute for me to hate his Carmen Ghia, his villa, his swimming pool, and his rich publishing magnate parents.
    Yet it’s funny, because despite Tom’s clear respect, his obvious
love
for Antonio, and his eyes do twinkle as he tells me about him, his body language strikes me as confusing.
    Maybe it’s just the alcohol, we’re on our third round already, or maybe it’s the music which is getting louder and louder, but he seems to be sitting closer than before, leaning in towards me ever more, and he seems to be missing no opportunity for contact. A poke with a finger here, a slap on the shoulder there, a pinch of the cheek …
    â€œDidn’t you say you don’t go to Italy so much now?” I ask, as casually as possible.
    Tom nods, but his face changes, becoming instantly taut and pale.
    â€œYeah,” he says. “A bad thing happened.”
    I frown.
    â€œA terrible thing,” he says shaking his head. “I haven’t been able to go back since. But I will,eventually.”
    I nod. “A bad thing you don’t want to talk about, I take it.”
    Tom sighs heavily and swallows hard, apparently with some difficulty. “I just can’t,” he says with another shake of his head. “Sorry.”
    The bell rings. Last orders.
    â€œOK, so!” I say, purposely moving on. “What now?”
    Tom looks up. He forces a smile but his eyes look terribly sad.
    â€œD’you want to go to a club?” he asks.
    Revenge
seems instantly familiar, so much so that I keep looking around trying to work out where it reminds me of. We