Babycakes (34 page)

“Sorry,” said the man. “You gave me a fright too.”

Collecting himself, Michael said: “I’m looking for the bathroom…. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be sorry about that. It’s the last room on the right.” He thought for a moment. “Unless you mean the loo.”

Michael smiled sheepishly. “I do, actually.”

“Ah. Just across the way there.”

“Thanks so much.”

The man extended his hand. “I’m Teddy Roughton. Uh … what are you doing here?”

“Oh.” Michael flushed, shaking his hand. “I’m Michael Tolliver, a friend of Mona’s. I thought she’d told you.”

“Well … no matter. I expect she will. How splendid. A guest for Easter.”

“Guests, actually. There’s two of us.”

“Even better.”

“I hope it isn’t an imposition.”

“Don’t be silly. Look … why don’t you lurk off to the loo, then come back and join me for elevenses?”

“If you’re sure …”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Thanks. Then I’ll just …” He made an ineffectual gesture toward the loo.

“Yes. Go on. I’ll be here.”

When Michael returned, Lord Roughton was pouring tea at a little table by his bedroom window. He was forty-five or thereabouts, tall and lean, almost gangly, with melancholy gray eyes that bulged slightly. His graying hair was cut very short, and he was wearing the pajamas Mona had bought at Harrods.

“So,” he said, looking up. “How is everything in Seattle?”

“Oh … I’m not from there.”

“Sit down, for heaven’s sake.”

Michael sat down.

“Where
are
you from?”

“San Francisco.”

“Really?
How extraordinary!”

“How so?”

The gray goldfish eyes popped at Michael. “I’m moving there. Didn’t Mona tell you?”

“No. She didn’t, actually.”

“Well … I am. I was there six months ago and went mad for the place. What do you take in your tea?”

“Thanks, I just had …”

“Please. I insist. You may be my last houseguest.”

Michael smiled at him. “Thanks. Milk is fine.”

“Good.” He doctored the tea and handed it to Michael. “I must say, this is a pleasant surprise.”

Michael sought refuge in his tea, then asked: “When are you moving to San Francisco?”

“Oh … a fortnight or so. I have to sell the house first.” Michael hadn’t figured on that. “I see. Then this is … really permanent.”

“Oh, yes.”

“And there’s no one in your family who can …”

“Carry on? I should hope not. I am … how shall we put this delicately …?”

“The end of the line?”

“The end of the line,” nodded Lord Roughton, whispering as if he’d offered an intimate confession.

Michael smiled at him.

Lord Roughton returned it. “Mummy and Daddy are still alive—as you’ll see soon enough—but I’m afraid they’re never coming back from the Scillies.”

The sillies? They were senile?
“You mean …?”

“They live in the Scillies now. To escape the taxes.”

Michael nodded.

“Off Lands End, you know. The islands.”

“Oh … right.”

“It’s the only way to be an expatriate and still be British about it.” He lifted his teacup and stared down his lashes at Michael. “We’ve driven our aristocrats into the sea.”

Michael laughed.

“So,” said Lord Roughton, “how long have you lived in San Francisco?”

“Almost … nine years.”

Lord Roughton sighed, peering out the window at the moss-tufted gatehouse and the fields beyond. “We’ve lived here nine
hundred.”
He rolled his head languidly toward Michael. “That’s the family, mind you. I’ve lived here barely
half
that time.”

Michael wouldn’t indulge him. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Well … it isn’t. Not always. But I’ve made some decisions about the rest of my life, and Easley isn’t part of the picture. Do you know what I do here? I’m a landlord. I sit at that table once a month and take money from the villagers. I live in two rooms—the kitchen mostly, because I can heat it—and sometimes I get money for having tea with people named Gary and Shirley who arrive at my doorstep in charabancs. I spend long, leisurely mornings sweeping the batshit out of the guest bedrooms and picking moss off the stone, because it costs five hundred pounds to replace
one
of those ornamental blocks along the parapet and the moss is eating this place alive.”

Michael smiled at him. “I hope this isn’t your sales pitch.”

That got a chuckle. “1 have a buyer already.”

“Someone you know?”

He nodded. “A woman I’ve known for years and her horrid new husband. They’ve already begun making noises about Returning It To Its Former Glory.” He shuddered noticeably.

“I like it like this,” offered Michael, “all frayed around the edges.”

“Thank you.”

I mean it.”

“I can tell you do.” His brow furrowed earnestly. “Would you mind awfully if I showed you something?”

“No,” Michael replied. “Of course not.”

Lord Roughton hesitated, then set down his teacup and unbuttoned his pajama top, holding it open. There were substantial gold tit rings in both his nipples.

“Aha,” said Michael, somewhat awkwardly.

“Folsom Street,” said Lord Roughton.

“No kidding.”

He gazed down at them like a proud sow regarding her piglets. “It took me three Scotches to work up the nerve. The man who did it was a shop assistant in that little emporium above the Ambush. Do you know it?”

“Sure. That’s Harrison Street, actually. Same thing.”

Lord Roughton let go of his lapels.

“Nice job,” Michael added, to be polite.

“I expect it’s frightfully old hat to you.” He buttoned the buttons.

“No … well, I’ve seen it before, but … I think it suits you.” The man was giving up Queen and Country to hang jewelry from his nipples; the very least you could do was admire it.

Lord Roughton thanked him with a nod. “The pajamas are a bit of a cop-out, I’m afraid. I don’t usually wear them.”

“I was with Mona when she bought them.”

“Really?”

Michael nodded. “At Harrods.”

“How extraordinary.” His jaw slackened for a moment, then went rigid again. “At any rate … I thought it best to keep the gold out of sight while there are houseguests.”

“You mean … there are others?”

“Possibly. Mummy and Daddy most certainly. And Mummy has a perfectly beastly way of bursting into one’s bedroom in the morning. Are you staying for a while, I hope?”

“Well … Mona and I haven’t actually …”

“Oh, you
must
stay. It’ll make the whole thing so much more of an adventure!”

What whole thing?
“Well … thanks, but … my flight to San Francisco is day after tomorrow.”

Lord Roughton drew in breath. “So soon?”

“ ‘Fraid so.”

“I don’t blame you. If I could snap my fingers and be there …” His eyes wandered wistfully out the window.

Michael smiled at him. “Where will you stay when you get to San Francisco?”

“With friends,” said Lord Roughton. “Two sweet boys who live in Pine Street.” He poured more tea for Michael, then replenished his own cup. “One’s a bartender at the Arena. The other has a line of homoerotic greeting cards.”

“I think I know them,” grinned Michael.

“Really?”

“No. I meant … generically.”

Lord Roughton looked confused.

“I was just joking,” Michael said lamely.

“Ah.”

He seemed faintly hurt and put off. Michael berated himself; you should never make jokes about the Holy Land in the presence of a pilgrim.

“When did you decide to do this?” Michael asked finally.

The fervor returned to Lord Roughton’s eyes. “Would you like to know the exact moment?”

“Sure.”

“It was … just before Halloween, and I was at the Hot House. Do you know the Hot House?”

“Of course.”

“I was in the orgy room. Very late. I had smoked a little pipe of sinsemilla, and I was feeling glorious. There were two chaps next to me going down on each other, and another chap was going down on me, and I had my face in someone’s bum, and it was easily the most triumphant moment of my entire life.”

Michael smiled. “I think I can follow that.”

“I think you can too.
Now …
what do I hear in the midst of all this but … ‘Turn Away’!”

“The Bix Cross song?”

“Yes. Exactly. And where do you think it was recorded?”

“Where?”

“Two villages away from here. In Chipping Campden. There’s a studio in a converted barn.”

Michael nodded. “That’s … really interesting.”

“But you see … I was
there.
I was there when he cut the record. And that bloody song had followed me all the way across the world to that room full of gorgeous men. I almost cried. I
did
cry. It was such a simple moment, Michael. I just … gave up.
That’s it,
I said to myself.
You’ve got me. I give up.
It was such a relief.”

“Yeah,” said Michael.

“That doesn’t sound idiotic?”

“No. I remember the same moment.”

Lord Roughton smiled at him. “One learns a lot in orgy looms. Camaraderie. Patience. Humor. Being gentle and generous with strangers. It’s not at all the depravity it’s cracked up to be.” He cocked his head in thought. “Just a lot of frightened children being sweet to one another in the dark.”

Michael sipped his tea.

“Unfortunately,” said Lord Roughton, “we do leather rather poorly here.”

Michael looked up. “I’ve been to the Coleherne.”

“Gawd!”

“It’s not
that
bad,” said Michael, trying to be gallant.

“Of course it is! All those … Uriah Heeps lurking about!”

“Well …”

“Hardly a match for your great San Francisco brutes in their shiny black pickup trucks.”

His romanticism amused Michael. “They use them to move ficus trees, you know.”

Lord Roughton blinked at him, confused. “Sorry? Oh … you’re teasing me again. Go right ahead. I’ve made a very serious study of the whole matter. I know what I’m talking about.”

Michael smiled at him. “I’m with you, believe me.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I’m just … enjoying your innocence.”

Lord Roughton drew back. “I show you my tit rings and you call me innocent. What am I to make of that, sir?”

He laughed. “We’re all innocent about something.”

“Quite right.” His lordship arched an eyebrow. “What are you innocent about?”

Michael thought for a moment. “Country houses, mostly.”

His host laughed genially. “Mona’s shown you around, I trust?”

“Well, I took the regular tour.”

“Oh, dear. We shall have to undo that
immediately.
Where’s your chum? Would he like to join us?”

Where was Wilfred, anyway?
“I’m sure he would, but … look, can I be perfectly frank with you?”

Lord Roughton raised his forefinger. “You can if you call me by name. It’s Teddy.”

“Fine,” Michael smiled. “Teddy.”

“Good. Spill your guts.”

“Well … I have no idea what Mona’s doing here.”

Teddy frowned, then chortled. “You’re joking, surely?”

“No. She hasn’t told me yet.”

His mouth made goldfish motions. “Why, that silly girl … the silly, silly girl.”

Unholy Mess

W
HEN THE ALARM WENT OFF AT 4 A.M., MARY ANN
woke to find herself pinned under Simon’s left arm. She slipped free as gently as possible and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes while Christopher Isherwood watched.

“Where arc you going?” whispered Simon. He startled her. “Upstairs. To change.”