Date: Sat, 7 Jul 2007 21:31:55 +0100 (BST)
From: Michael Arram <mike_arram@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: After Alex 7

This is a further instalment of my long running series of sagas about Matt
White and his partner Andy Peacher, and the circle of their friends.  The
first of these was Towards the Decent Inn, which appeared in the Nifty
College section quite some while ago.  You can locate this and its many
successors through the Nifty Prolific Authors index, or use the storysites
www.iomfats.org and www.crvboy.org where they are collected and made
accessible in html by the generosity and skills of the webmasters.

This particular story concerns a marginal character in the previous
stories, Ben Craven.  It chronicles the end of his relationship with Alex
Johnson, and the new start in life which he went on to find.  I've tried to
keep down the cross references to other episodes in the saga, but I hope
you'll tolerate those that do creep in.  I can't easily let old friends go
in life, or in literature.

Here let me record my thanks to my tireless editor Rob, and to my readers,
James, Terry and Eldon.

This story features a few descriptions of sexual acts between young males.
If the reading of such material is illegal in your place of residence, or
if you are under the legal age to read them, you have at least been warned
and should act accordingly.



VII

  Karen's rage at Phil evaporated early the next week.  Phil couldn't
resist the thought that she had more cause for anger with him than she
knew.  He felt guilty, particularly in view of his impending meeting with
Ben.  He was hesitant about mentioning his trip to London to her, but she
accepted it well.  Overwhelmed with teaching commitments, he had not taken
many research trips of late.
  Deciding he might as well get on with some real research while he was at
it, Phil pulled up his Dressner notes on his laptop.  He reviewed his
stored e-mail correspondence with Dressner's publishers.  It had been long
and involved.
  As he scrolled down the screen, a name leaped out at him.  He scrolled
back up and did a double take.  It had been four years ago, when he was
finishing up his book on twentieth-century thriller fiction.  At the time,
he had made a dogged attempt to penetrate Dressner's background.  The
book-sleeve biography he'd found in the earlier hardback editions of the
man's works had been uninformative: born and educated in Essex; graduate in
English of the University of Bedford; trained there as a schoolteacher;
quit teaching after his first major book contract.
  Then he had found an inconsistency.  Oddly enough, it had been Karen who
tipped him off to it.  `That's a mistake,' she had commented.
  `What is?'
  `Says he trained for teaching at Bedford.'
  `So?'
  `Well you can do that now, but he would have been there, what ... fifteen
years ago?  They only started teacher training at Bedford eight years ago.
That's why it's so well- known.  Really innovative programme grown up from
nothing, but only a few years old.  Everyone wanted to get on it.  They
turned me down.'
  So Phil had written to Wardour's publicity officer, then to its chief
editor, who had referred him to one of their production editors, a Mr
B.M. Craven.  He had exchanged e- mails with Ben four years before.  How
weird was that?  It had not been a productive correspondence, but at least
he had not been given the brush-off.  Ben had written:
  <Dear Dr Maddox.  Your request for information about Mr Dressner has been
passed on to me.  You will understand that we do not communicate any
personal details about our authors beyond what they have agreed with the
publicity office.  I have checked the sleeve notes where you found the
inconsistency you have mentioned.  The relevant production file has
disappeared, unfortunately, but it is perfectly possible that Mr Dressner's
original information was garbled by our clerical staff.  It would not be
the first time.  Sorry I cannot be any further help.  B.M. Craven.
Production Editor.  Wardour Publishing Ltd.>
  Phil had noticed with interest that later personal details about Dressner
on his books had been changed to edit out mention of his graduate career
other than to say that he had at one time been a school teacher.  Ben had
clearly got on the case.  Phil smiled to himself.  That's my Bennyboy, he
found himself thinking, before blushing at his own presumption.

***

  Clive Dressner was persistent, if nothing else, but Ben could not quite
resent him.
  `It's my last week in London,' he had explained when he phoned Ben at the
office on Monday.  `I have to say, Ben, you've made it a lot less bleak
than it usually is.'
  `Well thank you,' Ben had replied.  `Now it's my turn to ask you out.
There's this little bistro I know on Highgate Hill.  I'd like it if you'd
let me pay for dinner this time.'
  Dressner graciously agreed.  It was only good manners, as he had paid for
their previous three excursions.  Despite being secretly glad that Dressner
would soon get back being productive behind his desk in his Tuscan retreat,
Ben felt a connection with the man nonetheless.  He was good company, and
then there was the fact that his titles were so important to Ben's firm.
  Ben selected a neat light-blue jacket he had bought in Paris.  He sighed.
He remembered the debate over the expense of it with Alex, which had been
solved when Alex decided to buy it as a birthday present.  They had kissed
outside the changing booth, he recalled.
  Andy saw him straightening his collar in the hall mirror.  `You look
nice, Benny.  Another night out?  I'm glad you're finding distractions,
even if it's only Clive Dressner.  I'm off to Suffolk tomorrow, to see dad
and the boys, and Matt's joining me for the weekend.  We should be back on
Monday.  Will you be alright on your own?  Mrs Atkinson'll take care of
you.'
  `I'll be alright thanks.  I'm meeting a guy on Saturday.  He's an English
lecturer at Stevenage.'
  `Stevenage has a university?'
  `One of the new ones.'
  `You using a dating agency?'
  `No!  Honestly, Andy.  I met him some time ago online, and I think that
he ... y'know.'
  Andy gave his little smile.  `Go for it Benny.  If anyone deserves to be
happy, it's you.'
  `Thanks, Andy.  Gotta go.'
  Ben walked down to the village.  The Bistro on the Hill was a quaint
little place.  It was on a narrow site, but went quite far back from the
road, with odd corners and tables squeezed in everywhere.  Done out in
farmhouse chintz, with lots of straw dolls and needlework, it was
apparently run by a collective of middle-aged French ladies.  The food was
fantastic, the service good.  It was decidedly not fashionable, but always
crowded and hot, and Ben liked it.
  He took his seat.  He was not in the least surprised that Dressner did
not turn up on time.  He ordered a drink and perused the menu.  When
Dressner was half an hour late, Ben began to get cross.  This was not
friendly, and he was feeling embarrassed.  The place had filled up and he
imagined he was being stared at.  The furrow between his brows was deep
enough to be unmissable even by Dressner when the man finally did arrive
forty minutes after he should have done.
  `Benny, what can I say?  I'm sorry.  The car didn't turn up on time, and
then the traffic ... I'm not used to timing my moves round this city.'
  Ben was even less happy after that remark.  Where did Dressner get the
right to call him Benny?  And how did Dressner think it was an endearing
feature of his character to turn up when he liked?  What did that say about
his respect for people in general and Ben in particular?
  Dressner had subsided, and Ben was not in any shape for an argument.
`Look, Clive, let's just forget it and go on with the meal.  Better make
your order quick, though; the ladies don't like being kept waiting.'
  After they ordered, Dressner began his charm offensive.  Ben on the other
hand was not going to be easily softened.  He already had noticed that
Clive was uncomfortable talking about his life and background, so Ben
retaliated by doing just that.
  Over the main course he said, `Your name really is Clive, isn't it?'
  Dressner got a strangely hunted look, as when Ben had asked him on an
earlier occasion about his family.  `Er, yes it is.'
  `But not Dressner.'
  `No.'  The answer was monosyllabic and abrupt, discouraging further
probing.
  `Is there a reason you don't use your real name?'
  `Yes.  I reinvented myself when I became a writer.  I preferred what I
had created to what I had grown up as.'
  Ben remembered something from his early days with Wardour.  `What part of
the country are you from?'
  `Essex.'  Essex was a big county, so that was not much to go on.
  `And you went to the University of Bedford.'
  `Yes.'
  `And you studied ...?'
  `Look, can we just let it go?  Why are you asking all this?'
  `Sorry, I thought you wanted to be friends.  Don't friends get to know
each other?  You've already found out a fair amount about me, Clive.  But
it suddenly occurs to me how little I know of you.'
  `And your mother told you not to talk to strange men?'  A pale smile
lingered on Dressner's lips.
  `I haven't talked to my mother in ten years, since my family threw me out
of the house when I went home to tell them I was gay and wanted to live
with another man.  It didn't go down too well in Keighley.'
  Dressner looked uncomfortable at that bald statement.  `I didn't mean to
...'
  `How could you know?'
  Dressner's hunted look was even more marked, but he had determined on a
resolve, or so it seemed.  `You're right of course, Ben.  How can a friend
be as reticent as I have been?  I do want to be your friend, believe me.
I'm from Basildon -- father a drunk and mother a bitch.  You were tossed
out on your ear when you were twenty-one, me when I was fifteen and put in
care.
  `But I survived, I got my A Levels and escaped my background into
university.  After that, teaching, and I put all my tensions and
inadequacies into creating Clive Dressner the writer.  You can see why he
would want to forget Clive Dawson, an unhappy and solitary kid loved by no
one.'
  At last Ben had seen the real Dressner, and felt a little ashamed for
having driven him out of his shell.  The assured and confident man on the
surface was an act, one with which Ben could not sympathise, but this inner
man, hurt by life and trembling a little with suppressed passion, this was
one for whom Ben could feel something.  Unconsciously his hand went out
towards Clive, who grasped his in return while giving a sad smile that was
on the verge of shyness.
  `I had no idea.  I'm glad you told me this.  I didn't mean to hurt you.'
  `Oh it's alright, Ben.  That's all behind me now.  You can get over these
things with willpower and hard work.  That's what my life has been all
about since I was fifteen.'  He looked intently into Ben's eyes.  `But
maybe now I want more.'
  Ben could not help the blush that flooded his face.  He looked down at
his plate.  `I hope you find the right guy ... or woman.'
  Dressner gave a light chuckle.  `I wonder if I haven't already.'
  Ben looked up again.  `Please don't ...'
  Dressner had continued to hold Ben's hand, and now he gripped it hard.
`I'm not pushing this, Ben, but you know how I feel.  If you can feel the
same way too ... I'd be so happy.'
  `Please don't, Clive ... I'm not ready for this.  You're making too much
of a few dates.'
  Dressner released his hand and sat back in his chair.  `We have time.
I'll be back in London in another month.  You'll have had a chance to think
more by then.  Now, coffees?'

***

  By Thursday Phil's nerves had him in their grip.  He caught himself
pulling up Ben's picture on his laptop every spare moment.  I might as well
make it my wallpaper, he said to himself.  Then he thought, God, I wish I
could.
  Max Jamroziak turned up in his office that afternoon.  `Alright?' he
greeted the boy.
  `Yeah, thanks.  Could you do me a favour, Phil?  I need a reference for
bar work at the union.'
  `Sure, no problem.'
  Then it happened.  `Er ... Phil?'
  `Hmm?'
  `This'll make you laugh.  I heard some of the guys talking.  They said,
"What's the name of that gay bloke in English?  Maddox innit?"'  Max was
smiling, but there was a question in his eyes.
  Phil was aware that his pulse was trip-hammering, and that there was a
sudden cold sweat on his forehead.  `You don't say,' he began.  Then into
his mind danced the vision of Ben, who had been strong enough to come out
and live his life openly as a gay man.  How could Phil not do the same, if
he were to be worthy of Ben's friendship?  The decision was made.  `Well,
eventually people work it out.'
  Max's eyes widened.  `You are gay?'
  `Yup.'
  `Thought you were married.'
  `I am.  Still gay, though.'
  `Wow!  Er ... I appreciate your trusting me with that.  Wow!  See ya,
then.  Thanks for the reference.'  Max left the office, and Phil didn't
expect to see him there again.
  He slumped back in his chair.  So the blue touch paper had been lit.
This was it.  He was an out gay.  It would get round, and he rather thought
Jerry had been helping it along in any case.
  Nothing would be said to his face.  Universities were relatively safe
havens to come out in.  But he would have to make decisions, the first of
them regarding Karen.  It was unfair to continue their marriage with this
brewing.  It was time to break it off.  The question was, when and how?
  Then there were his parents.  They were about to lose their illusions
about their only son.  How would they cope?  Of course, his mother had
always hated Karen, so she wouldn't care too much about the divorce.  But
the gay thing would distance him further from his father.
  He went home deeply abstracted, although such was the state of their
marriage that Karen didn't notice.  He fired up his laptop and was
delighted to find Bennyboy30.
  <Hi Ben!>
  <Hullo Phil!  Good day?>
  <Interesting.  But I shall say no more for now.>
  <Intriguing.  Phil, I have your mobile number, but you don't have mine.
I've sent an e- mail with it in case one of us gets delayed or something.>
  <Good thinking.  Ben, I've been meaning to ask you this for a while.  We
can discuss it more on Saturday, but I found that you and I have been in
touch before.>
  <I have no memory of it.  What wild party was that?>
  <RFLMAO.  No, I mean professionally.>
  <Tell me more.>
  <I wrote to your company four years ago asking for biographical details
about Clive Dressner.  It was for my book -- did I mention I'd published a
book of my own?>
  <No, you hadn't.  Pulls impressed face.>
  <Lol.  It's an academic study of postmodernist thriller writers,
including Dressner.  It only sold 2000 copies, so I'd be surprised had you
read it.>
  <Hold on ... I remember this.  You wanted to know about his university
career.  It was you!  This is weird.>
  <Bit of a coincidence, it's true.>
  <No.  It's even weirder than that.  I'll tell you Saturday.>
  <Er ... OK.  Anyway, your firm publishes Dressner and I'm thinking of a
new book on the hero in thriller literature.  I was wondering if you'd have
an ethical problem talking to me about him and his work.>
  <Umm -- probably.  Depends what you ask, I suppose.  I can't talk about
his personal life for several reasons.  I could talk about his novels.>
  <That's what I want ... Ben, I'm really looking forward to Saturday, I
can't tell you how much.>
  <Me too.  I hope it goes OK.  I'm a bit nervous.>
  <And me.>
  <I'm a withdrawn sort of guy.  I never make good first impressions.>
  <But Benny, we're not strangers.  We've known each other for years!>
  <Lol.  Yeah.  BTW.  You called me Benny.>
  <I did.  Sorry.  That was presumptuous.>
  <No.  Don't apologise.  It's what my friends call me.>
  <I am your friend.>
  <I think you are.  See you at the BL.  How about we meet at the book
bench at 11:30?>
  <That'll be great.>
  Both men signed off, neither having a clue what was preying on the
other's mind.  But Ben went trotting down the stairs at Highgate feeling
cheerful.  This man whom he had never met made him funny and happy.  Now
that was truly weird.  He hoped the effect would survive their meeting in
the flesh.
  Phil on the other hand swung meditatively in his study chair, looking
round at the little room that had been the centre of his intellectual life,
his refuge, which soon he must leave.  He began an inventory in his head of
the possessions he wanted to take with him.  Anything rather than face the
dread of breaking the news to Karen.

***

  The longed-for Saturday came.  Phil was up early.  He had to go through
the pretence of a day's study, so he needed to be at the station for
eight-thirty.  He was going to take the car into Stevenage, because Karen
was proposing to spend the day around the house.  He had promised to do the
Tesco run on his return.
  She surprised him by being up before he went, entering the bathroom as he
left it.  She yawned in passing `Have a good day.'
  `You too,' he replied.  He had his laptop in its bag ready with his
files.  He also had set out the latest Dressner, the one about military
cover-ups in Iraq.  He could read it on the train and think up some
questions for Ben.  He checked his watch.  Damn!  He'd better get a move on
if he was to find somewhere to park to catch the 8:45.
  Pulling his little car out of the small cul-de-sac where they lived, he
left the estate and was on the dual carriageway pretty quickly.  It was as
he entered Stevenage that Phil realised the depth of his stupidity.  He had
his computer, his files and the latest Dressner.  What he did not have was
his wallet with the British Library reading-room pass.  He had left it in
the jacket he had worn yesterday.
  He had to return, something not easily done on the dual carriageway.
Eventually he made the A1 intersection and turned round for home.  It was
already too late for the 8:45, so he had to resign himself to the next
train, which would be in a further hour's time.
  It was already past nine when he arrived back to the close where he
lived.  The road had somehow got parked up since he left.  The Taylors next
door had their camper van blocking their drive, two strange cars were
parked along the kerb, a learner driver was practising parallel parking and
his own drive was blocked by a Parcelforce van.  Phil left his car down the
road and hastened to his door.
  He slipped inside, ready to shout out his return.  But at the foot of the
stairs he paused, his key still in his hand.  He registered that a coat
which did not belong to him was draped over the banisters, and assorted
male clothing was scattered on the stairs.
  There was a sound of groaning and giggling from their bedroom.  Phil knew
instantly what he would find if he went there.  While he had no intention
of looking inside, he did need to know who was fucking his wife.  He
checked the stranger's coat pocket and fished out a wallet.  Well, that was
humiliating.  The car licence ID was in the name of Alistair Longthorpe,
and the picture did the man's weak chin and feeble beard no favours.
Alistair the Year 5 teacher, the complete pillock, although not such a
pillock he couldn't find his way between Karen's legs.
  Phil quietly weighed the man's wallet and pondered his course.  On one
level he was outraged and shocked, yet on another he was relieved.  It
seemed it was not just he who wanted out of the marriage.  How to handle
this?  He restored the wallet, then quietly gathered up all of Alistair's
clothing except his jacket and stuck it in the kitchen oven, which he put
on medium heat.  He calculated that the polyester sweater should eventually
melt nicely; it would take a good half hour before the smell of singeing
cloth reached the bedroom.  He didn't want to be a spoilsport.
  Phil remembered to take his own wallet and slipped quietly out of the
house again.  His mind was humming and his hand trembled on the wheel as he
headed back into Stevenage.  Strange emotions rushed through his heart.  He
and Karen were finished, which brought a huge surge of relief; he had been
cuckolded by that prat Alistair, and that at least was humiliating.  Yet on
the other hand, he had done the same to Karen with a security guard, so he
was not pretending to any moral superiority here.  He was almost dizzy with
relief and trepidation.  It was hardly surprising that when a car braked in
front of him on the station approach he should drive right into the back of
it.