Date: Sat, 26 Feb 2005 10:35:43 -0000
From: Mike Arram <marram@wanadoo.co.uk>
Subject: the-decent-inn-20

LAX was as scruffy as they remembered it.  It was an odd airport to be the
gateway to the capital of glamour.  But it welcomed them with that same
scented air they remembered from their last expedition to California, and
so they forgave it.  Matt sat nervously at the wheel of a rented Lexus in a
lot, the engine ticking over and the airconditioning roaring.  Andy
couldn't drive in the USA for the next four years.  Matt was tired from the
flight, and wary of driving on the 'wrong' side of the road, especially as
his experience of driving in Britain was not all that extensive as yet.
  'So what happens with roundabouts?'
  'There aren't any.  The problem is turning on crossroads.  In California
you can go right if there's no oncoming traffic.  Left turns are the really
scary ones for Brits.  But don't worry, I'll scream and have hysterics if
you make a wrong turn, so you'll know if there's a problem.  Confident?'
  'What d'you think?  Thank God it's an automatic.'
  'Just take it easy.'  The air conditioning had reduced the internal
temperature of the car to a level where human life was possible.  They
eased out on to the streets round the airport with Andy navigating.  After
a while they came to a shabby residential area with desolate and bare front
yards: none of the sprinklers that you found in the well-heeled suburbs.
Matt turned into it and drove round and round several blocks until he felt
more confident in driving on the right.  Finally they hit the Santa Monica
Freeway and joined the streams of traffic up into the hills towards
Pasadena.  Matt found this part easier, although the number of lanes was
intimidating.  Andy navigated them to their hotel without too much trouble;
their car was parked for them and they checked in with some ceremony.  Andy
had decided that they would live in a hotel till Matt returned from England
in October, so he had taken the penthouse suite and they were employing a
letting agency to find a suitable house for the rest of the year.  The
manager himself was waiting to show them round, with a team of porters and
clerks on hand.
  'Strangely, and this will surprise you, it was quite a bargain this
suite', said Andy when they were on their own.  They looked out over the
downtown area to where there was a hint of mountains through the yellow
afternoon smog.
  'Surprise me.'
  'To take it for a month led to a 75% saving on the daily rate.  I don't
think they get many people who want it, normally.'
  'It's nice, very glamorous.'  The suite was more like a self-contained
apartment.  It was split level, with fantastic balconies looking west and
east, rooms in their own right.  They were standing looking east over the
street grid to the mountains.
  Andy excused himself, wandered off into the interior and checked in with
his father in Santa Barbara.  He had the longest conversation he'd ever had
with him.  At one point, Matt heard Andy laughing from the balcony.  He
caught his eye, and they grinned.  Andy mouthed, 'My mother!'  By the end
of the conversation it was settled that Andy would got to his father's for
a few days.  'I'll go on my own,' he told Matt.  'Why?  I don't want you
frightening the Stepmom.  If she's any sense she'll be scared rigid of you.
You don't understand how awesome you were on that day at Burnett: an angel
of vengeance.  But let's see if we can attain something resembling a normal
family relationship for a few days.'
  'OK.  I have confidence in you.  Go for it.  But don't drink anything she
gives you, and eat the green side of the apple if she offers you one.  In
the meantime, let's see how long we can stay awake before we collapse.'

The next morning, still feeling a little woozy from the flight, Matt drove
Andy back to the airport to catch a shuttle to Santa Barbara.  This being
California, they enthusiastically kissed goodbye at the barrier.  No one
gave them a second look.  It was the first time they had separated in
nearly three months.
  Matt made a decent and leisurely breakfast at a bagel house, reading the
New York Times, watching downtown Los Angeles go by in the sunlit street
outside, and sipping a strawberry frap through a straw.  He felt Britain
disappearing behind him, and he was for now very glad of it.  He marvelled
at the fact that he was alone again and was half-ashamed that he felt just
a little bit liberated.  He loved Andy desperately, but was finding that
his love had matured to the point that he could tolerate and even welcome
the idea of being separated from him for a little while without much guilt.
He drove back up the freeway to find the Huntington Library, analysing his
feelings as he went.  He wondered if Andy felt the same and he had a
feeling that Andy did.  If so he welcomed it, because it proved to him that
they were no longer lovesick teenagers, and that their relationship had
found a new and mature core.
  It took a while, but eventually he found the gate to the library and
talked his way past the security barrier, for it was closed to the public
in the mornings and readers were supposed to have passes.  He discovered a
temporary parking space and stood in the appalling heat on the melting
tarmac to admire the San Gabriel mountains, which had appeared momentarily
in all their morning glory.  Provincial Britain seemed a very long way away
at that moment.
  But strangely, that day provincial Britain seemed very keen to remind him
that it existed.  He sat in a waiting room in the administration suite next
to another British postgrad, a very pretty second-year medievalist from
York called Rhiannon who was starting a two month scholarship.  She was
dreadfully excited and very interested in Matt.  After they'd got their
passes and signed off all the many required forms, they walked downstairs
to a waiting room which had a coffee machine.  Matt quite admired her,
especially the beautiful cascade of fair hair down her back.  She had a
certain elegant poise, but was by no means remote.  She wore a fashionable
short sweater that showed her midriff and a pierced navel, but her abdomen
was trim and muscular enough to show her to advantage, unlike most women
who had adopted the fashion. Her voice was a light and throaty contralto,
and even Matt found it quite sexy.  He was quite sure that Katy would have
hated her.
  'There's a lot of Brits here, my supervisor said.  There aren't many
historians like us, but a big crowd of literary people, especially
Shakespeare scholars.  They're supposed to be a bit of a clique.  I expect
that means we had better watch out for ourselves.'  She grimaced as she
sipped the coffee, as awful as machine-made coffee anywhere.  'Where are
you staying?'
  'Oh, I'm in a hotel temporarily until I can find an apartment or a house
or something.  How about you?'
  'They put short-term students up in postgrad dorms in Caltech.  It's very
comfortable, although it's not easy to get here from there.  I don't drive
and that's not something that figures in American calculations.  I suppose
I'm going to have to investigate the Greater Los Angeles transit network.'
  The sound of very British voices made them look around.  A group of three
older men, in shirts and light jackets, breezed into the waiting room
talking very loudly about the deficiencies of English university funding
and looking round to see who was watching them, or so it appeared to Matt.
One of them caught Matt's eye.  He gave his usual No. 1 friendly smile, but
it bounced off the older man's stare.  He turned back to his friends and
led them loudly out of a door into the subtropical gardens.  Interesting,
Matt thought.  There are status games going on here which I don't
understand.  So this is what academe is like.
   He turned back to Rhiannon, 'Do you think that was the clique?'
  'I'm willing to put money on it.  They didn't seem very friendly, did
they?'
  'What's York like as a university?'
  'Great if you're a medievalist.  It's a beautiful old city.  Some people
don't like the university.  A guy I know in Sheffield says that York poses
as a northern suburb of Oxford.  It's just envy, I'm sure.  Everyone seems
pretty normal there to me.  They say that your place is pretty good for
history, although it's not cheap to live in: too close to the M4 and the
outer London green belt.'
  'I was lucky, my dad bought a house for me to live in while I was there.
It didn't work as a place to rent out, but it was OK for me, and he tells
me the house price rise means that he's made a packet on it even in two
years.'  His euphoric mood suddenly bubbled up to the surface again.  He
was thousands of miles from home, Andy was happy and he was about to start
the greatest intellectual adventure of his life.  He sat up and stretched
like a cat, grinning all over his tanned, Pre-Raphaelite face.  'Isn't this
just the greatest thing?  Here we are, in the sun, in the most glamorous
place on earth, with our time at our own command and no one to bug us or
set essay deadlines.  I love this.  This is freedom you cannot buy.'
   Rhiannon could not but be fascinated at this quite unselfconscious
apparition of male beauty which had just manifested itself in her life.  As
usual, Matt had forgotten the impact he had on those around him.  Rhiannon
fell beneath his chariot wheels, as so many others had, and he didn't even
notice the bump as he went over her.
   He then made it worse by asking Rhiannon some more personal questions.
'So, er, did you leave anyone behind when you came here?  Excuse me for
asking, and I don't want to seem nosy at all.'
  Rhiannon looked a little curious and indeed hopeful at the question.
'No.  I had a live-in boyfriend when I was doing my first degree, but we
broke up when we graduated, and he went off to work in the City.  I hear
he's doing very well for himself.  Since then I've sort of buried myself in
my work.'
  Matt nodded and said he knew the feeling.  He was suddenly aware, all too
late, that the conversation was going down an avenue that he didn't want to
pursue.  Rhiannon might be interpreting this as softening her up for a
pass.  He asked her when she was leaving that day and offered her a lift to
her dorm.  Then he realised his caution was too late, there was that look
in her eye that Matt was at last beginning to recognise: it was when men
and women were calculating the chances of getting him into bed.  He saw it
a lot.  Oh dear, thought Matt, she's in for a bit of a disappointment.
What a fool I am.  Katy would have given me a good kicking at this point.
  He explored the manuscript reading room and library, and was impressed.
But he wished he'd brought a sweater; the air-conditioning was fierce, and
every metal surface crackled with static.  He was trying to remember
whether he'd packed a jumper of some sort when he almost bumped into the
loud Englishman he'd seen earlier.
  'Do mind out, please,' he snapped.
  'Sorry.'  Matt replied.
  'Oh, you're English.'
  'Yes.'
  'Postgraduate student, I suppose.'
  'That's right.'
  'Subject?'
  'History.'
  'Good God, they seem to let anyone in here.'  Matt hoped that was
intended to be some sort of joke.
   'Matt White,' he introduced himself.  'PhD student at ...'
   'Dr Anton Matusiak.  St Johns.  I expect I'll be seeing you around.
Good day.'  Matt looked after the youngish but already balding don, as he
disappeared briskly between the stacks.  Suddenly Dr Faber seemed
remarkably normal.
  He met up with Rhiannon at closing time in the extremely well-appointed
reading room, she was packing up a box of what Matt took to be medieval
charters.  He was fascinated by the ancient and dirty pieces of parchment
with their chipped and broken seals.  She was explaining her project to him
as they walked out of the library.  She clutched his arm as they were about
to leave.
  'Look!' she hissed, 'At reception.  Wow.  It's that actor, the science
fiction one.  He's a lot shorter than he looks on the screen.  This really
is Los Angeles.  I love it.'
  The mountains had disappeared once again behind their veil of smog.
Rhiannon directed him to the Caltech campus, and they smiled at each other
as she got out.
  'See you tomorrow, Matt.'
  'Bye.'

The next day Matt brought his laptop and set up in the reading room.  He
caught some sideways stares from nearby readers checking out the make and
model of his machine.  He almost laughed.  It was a top of the line Apple
with a ceramic finish, and the stares had all been approving, or envious.
Status games and competition.  This was what academe was all about.
  He soon lost himself in the beginning of his book search.  It took him by
surprise when Rhiannon appeared at his shoulder and asked if he was doing
lunch.
  'Lunchtime?  Sure.  Do you know where we go?'
  'The readers go sit outside under the palms in the gardens, unless
there's a "brown bag seminar", whatever that is.'
  They found an outside sandwich bar and tables, cool under lush palms and
foliage.  Strange and colourful birds hopped around the ground picking up
crumbs of food.  The tables were occupied by a variety of scholars, staff
and volunteers.  Rhiannon and Matt sat together on a table only a little
distance from Dr Matusiak and a large circle of US and British scholars.
It was not too difficult to work out that they were Renaissance and Baroque
literary scholars.  They were talking about what Matt guessed to be
contemporary art cinema, and again seemed to be looking round to see who
was watching them.
  Another young girl, an American, asked if she could join them.  They were
welcoming.  She introduced herself as Katherine from Wisconsin-Milwaukee
and was charmed to be talking to two Brits.  She was researching culinary
manuscripts of the eighteenth century.  She had been in London the previous
semester, and was surprised that Matt and Rhiannon hardly knew the place
and had never been in the new British Library, which she greatly admired.
She asked if they knew Dr Matusiak and his circle.  They said they'd only
just arrived.
  She leaned toward Rhiannon, 'You watch out, girl.  That guy has a real
predatory reputation, you ask the staff.  Thinks he's God's gift to the
female race.  The odd thing is, he scores more often than not.  Me, he
gives the creeps.'
  Rhiannon looked faintly disgusted.  Katherine continued, 'You guys coming
to the reception Friday?'
  Rhiannon looked a question: 'It's the one for new scholars and fellows.
The trustees and the director give us a glass of wine and a few bites,
while they make long speeches about scholarship and mission, and you mingle
with the great and good of cultural California, who get a decent meal out
of it.'
  Rhiannon said, 'I got a card ... so did you Matt.'
  'I did?'
  'It was in the welcome pack.  Dress formal.'
  'Was it RSVP'
  'No,' said Katherine, 'it's worse: DTNC.'  They looked uncomprehending.
  'Don't Think of Not Coming'.
  'Then we'll be there,' said Matt.
  'How's the apartment search coming on, Matt?'
  'Oh, not doing anything at the moment.'  Matt's conscience was troubling
him.  He thought that perhaps it was time to alert Rhiannon to the true
state of affairs and remove any doubt, 'I'm waiting for my boyfriend to get
back.'
  'Ah,' she said, as the significance of the remark sank in.  She rallied
magnificently.  'Is he an academic too?'
  'Nope, just an ordinary guy.'  Which was perhaps as big an understatement
as he had ever made.  As they were going back to the library Rhiannon's
curiosity brought her back irresistibly to the subject. 'How long have you
and your boyfriend been together?'
  'Two years now, we met up in university, and just sort of clicked.'
  'Where is he at the moment?'
  'He's got family up the coast.'
  'So is he American?'
  'No, he's a Brit.  Tell me Rhiannon, did you reckon I was gay when we
met?
  She smiled a little wistfully.  'Actually I didn't.  Some gays I've met
are so obviously not into women that the temperature drops, and others are
a narcissistic performance.' She smiled, 'But you Matt, are a nice guy.
No, don't smirk.  You are nice.  Kind too.  Although now you mention it,
you do have the hair thing.'
  'What do you mean?'  Matt was intrigued.
  'It's something women notice.  Gay men spend more time on their
appearance than most straight men.  It's not necessarily vanity.  I just
think that you're more sensitive to the impact of your looks.  I bet you go
to get your hair done more regularly than the average man, and spend more
time on it than your average straight.  It's nice by the way.  Long hair
suits you.'
  'Thanks.  Hair, eh?  I'll remember that.  Now we've got that out of the
way and without any chance of misinterpreting the gesture, can I take you
out for dinner tonight?'
  'Oh Matt, that'd be great.'
  'Excellent.  We're here in the USA, in an exciting city, let's start
getting excited.  Bars, restaurants, clubs.  Let's begin with Old Pasadena,
and see what it has to offer to twenty-somethings on the razz.  Let's use
our freedom.  Maybe I can set you up with that nice guy you're looking
for.'
  'What?  Is it that obvious.'
  'No.  But I'm going on a theory of my friend Katy that all beautiful and
unattached females are on the lookout for that perfect man ... or woman.  I
forgot to ask if you were a lesbian, by the way.  Sorry about that, can't
think what came over me.'
  Rhiannon shook her head, but had to laugh, 'You walk on dangerous ground,
Matthew.  Behave.'
  'It's a good idea going out with a gay man.  I'll be like the pot of jam
that attracts the wasps.  If they eye me up they're gay and won't be
interested in you, so you won't waste time on them.  If they give me the
evil eye 'cos I'm with you, then they're straight, and they'll be fair game
for you.  Neat strategy, huh?'
  'Something tells me there's a problem somewhere in that strategy, but I
can't put my finger on it at the moment.'

  He rang Andy on the cell phone late that evening, leaning on the
penthouse balcony in the cool of the evening, the lights of the great city
kindled below him.  He told him about Rhiannon, his night out and the hair
thing.
  'Poor girl.  You really are a heart-breaker.  We know why they're
attracted to you.  Moody dark looks, pouting sensual mouth, lovely little
arse.'
  'Who's moody?  I have a very cheerful demeanour and an open, friendly
smile which is much admired.  What about the hair thing?'
  'Well, I suppose she may have a point.  You are keen on your hair, and
you do spend a lot of time on it.  More than I do, incidentally.  On the
other hand, we're hardly big into dressing up.  And when did we ever go for
a manicure?'
  'How're things with Cruella de Vil?'
  'She's just left.  Apparently the United Nations needs her to solve the
problem of world peace.  Either that or she's got word of a potential
source of dalmatian fur coats.  That gives me an idea for a Christmas
present for her.'
  'You wouldn't!  It'd just make trouble, don't think about it.  How're the
kids?'
  'Twins send their love.  Peter ... doesn't.  Not much progress there
unfortunately.  But I'll keep trying,'
  'And how's your dad?'
  'Ah, there's the big change.  We've just had a long, long chat about mum,
and me growing up in Nuneaton, and why it was it all ended the way it did.
He's a different man, or maybe he's the same man but I've just come to
realise what a great man he is.  He said he thought he was losing me last
year, and he couldn't bear the thought.  He's very enthusiastic about you.
He says you've done miracles with me.  He may adopt you.  Anyway he's going
to give me a lift down to LA on Friday.  He's got some charity function and
he'll drop me off.'
  'Cool.  Paul'll be here at the weekend.'
  'What, really?
  'Yup, I got a text.  He and Rachel have succeeded in completing their
transcontinental bonk - as he put it - and they're at her home in Oregon.
Paul's coming to stay and will fly back to the UK with us for the start of
term.  He's taking a bus down to LA.'
  'Hope he survives.'
  'We'll have to do something special.  I'll ask around.'

On Friday afternoon, Matt dressed as formally as he could bear, but feeling
insecure, he went for expense.  Chinos and his Armani blazer, tailored
shirt, new suede Rockport casuals, a chunky gold TAG Heuer watch that Andy
had bought him in London, and a Milan silk tie from a day spent in Paris.
'Fuck you, Dr Matusiak,' he thought as he looked in the mirror.  His hair
was indeed longer these days, over his ears, thick and curling at the ends.
His even white teeth and unblemished brown skin were just right for LA; he
didn't look at all English.
  He picked up Rhiannon in what she called her M & S graduation frock.  She
looked him over with interest and great approval.  'How can you be gay?
There is no justice.  Love the gear, it must have cost a fortune.  What do
your parents do?'
  'Dad's a jobbing builder in Northampton.'
  'Then your mother must be a very successful international jewel thief.'
Matt laughed, but he did no more to satisfy her curiosity.
  The director's reception was held in a cool marble hall in the museum.
The literary types congregated snootily together by the free bar, sipping
Zinfandel and nibbling olives.  Matt went to get Rhiannon a glass.
Matusiak encountered him as he tried to get to the table.
   'Excuse me, young man.  Really, this is the second time you've pushed
past me.  Perhaps you need to get your hair cut to see where you're going?'
  A retort about at least having hair to cut occurred to Matt, but he was
British, so instead he said he was very sorry, and took two glasses handed
across to him by a sympathetic waiter.  He looked around.  The literary
scholars were jawing away happily.  One or two gave him curious glances,
and a younger one gave him a very obvious once over.  Matusiak gave Matt a
sidelong sneer, and shepherded his group quickly away.
   Matt rejoined Rhiannon and Katherine and a couple of other grad
students.  Introductions were made and soon there was a lot of laughter
from their end of the room.  Others joined them, and Matt found himself at
the centre of a fascinating gathering of American, Canadian and Japanese
students.  He learned more about international scholarship in half an hour
than he could have discovered in a year in England.  He learned that US
universities were not all vastly wealthy, but that most of them were as
underfunded as those in Britain and jobs were scarce; that there were
American conferences in History and English so vast that the programmes
were as thick as telephone directories; that the key date for an American
with hopes of a job in history was the week after Christmas when the AHA
met, and most job interviews were held in hotel rooms, with hopeful grad
students queuing in the corridor outside.
  'Would you think of a job here?' he asked Rhiannon.
  'There's no brain drain in history, Matt.  The Americans have got enough
historians of their own not to need to import them from Britain.  But given
a chance, I might.  For all that these guys are moaning, there's not so
much of a feeling of depression and hopelessness here that you get in the
UK.  If these people aren't going to get a job, they at least are positive
about wanting one.'

After half an hour a door opened and the director and his principal guests
appeared.  Matt almost dropped his glass: one of them was Richard Peacher.
Hardly surprising; he would be a dream trustee for any cultural
institution: academic, entrepreneur and multi-billionaire.  Richard caught
his eye, and smiled in his direction.
  Rhiannon prodded him, 'Who's the short fair-haired man, who smiled at
you?'
  Matt stalled, 'Oh, umm, he's ... probably mistaking me for someone else.
Maybe he's a pervert who's trying to hit on me.'
  Rhiannon was not fooled, 'You're getting more mysterious by the minute,
Matt White.  What's ...'
  The director began his little speech of welcome.  Perhaps he had given it
several times before, but he spoke elegantly and was appreciated by a
ripple of applause around the room.  He then talked about the massive
contribution made to the library and museum by its trustees and patrons.
He was especially delighted to have with them today a great friend of the
library, Mr Richard Peacher, who had recently financed the purchase of the
unique Namur Book of Hours, the new glory of their liturgical book
collection.
  'So that's who he is!' whispered Rhiannon.  'It cost three million
dollars, and he outbid the British Library.  He's the fifth richest man in
the world, or so they say.'
  'Oh,' said Matt innocently, 'I'd heard that he was number twelve.'  She
looked at him suspiciously.
  The director finished, and there was a polite surge of guests in the
direction of the trustees, with Anton Matusiak in the van.  Richard was
moving down the room when he was buttonholed.  Matt heard the braying
tones, 'Oh Mr Peacher, could I introduce myself: Matusiak, Oxford.  I think
you know my friend Sir Frank Williams, one of our fellows, he worked with
you at Manchester ...'
  Richard Peacher half turned and gave him a decisive brush-off, 'Very nice
to meet you Mr, er ... Matusiak, but do excuse me, I see an old friend I
must say hello to.'
  Matusiak's mouth flapped as the great man sailed past him, gripped Matt's
hand and threw an arm around his shoulder.  He grinned broadly.
  'Great to see you Matt.  I was hoping you'd be here.  Hey, Otto!'  The
director came running.  'Let me introduce you to Matthew White, a family
friend from England.  One of the most promising young historians in
Britain.  Do you know he published his first professional article at
nineteen!'
  'It was twenty, sir.  Don't exaggerate.'  Richard bellowed with laughter,
'Whatever.  He's brilliant.  It's a great asset to the library to have him.
I know you'll take the best possible care of him.'  The director smiled and
shook his hand, saying he'd like to meet him next week some time if he was
free.
  Matt didn't dare look round.  He could see that Matusiak had gone white
with shock.  Matt dared not blush, he knew every pair of eyes in the place
was on him.
  'Sir, could I introduce you to Rhiannon Pierce, from the University of
York.  Don't curtsey, Rhiannon.'  She giggled and Richard was absolutely
charming to her.  Matt introduced Katherine, and as many others of the grad
students whose names he could remember.  Richard chatted very happily
amongst them for twenty minutes, while the Matusiak gang hovered hopefully
round the fringes.  Finally he apologised and took Matt alone out into the
gallery.
  'Son, I knew you were a good man when I first met you.  I'm never wrong
about these things ... though sometimes I should pay more attention to my
instincts, I'll admit.  The difference in my boy is amazing; you did full
credit to my confidence in you.  You've brought him back to life.  I can
never thank you enough.  You are welcome in my home any time.  Any time,
remember that.  I hope we'll see a lot of you while you're in California.'
  'Sir, I hope so too.  Where's Andy now.'
  'Back at the hotel, waiting for you.'
  'Then I'll be off.  Could you do me a favour?'
  'Just ask.'
  'Could you give Miss Pierce a lift back to Caltech.  I've got to go.'
  'No problem, she's a very attractive girl and it'll be a pleasure.
Goodbye son.  That was fun, wasn't it?'  He winked.
  'Yes sir, it was hilarious.'  He disappeared out to the car park, and he
was indeed chuckling all the way to the car.