CHAPTER V

Dexter Mitchel’s Diary

8 November (written on 9th). — Continued. And then there was his face, and his build, his clothes and something else that started to nag at my lust-muscles, whatever they are.

I knew I had to say something. He was looking expectantly at me, and to ignore him would be rude. I stuck out my hand on impulse.

‘Great questions,’ I said, my throat dry.

He took my hand, damp with sweat, and shook it.

‘What a let-down,’ he said, jerking his head towards the stage.

‘Hell, yes. Not what I wanted to hear.’

‘I know the play wasn’t about Arnold’s theory, but she must have looked into it.’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Phoney.’

‘Yeah.’

We were still shaking hands.

‘You’ve read the book?’ he asked.

‘Loads of times. You?’

He nodded. ‘You’re the only person I’ve met who’s even heard of it.’

‘Ditto. You believe it? His theory?’

Hands still being shaken, voices enthusiastic, my lust-muscles now in hopeful overdrive.

‘I do, but I have one of my own.’

I grinned. ‘Me too.’

I was aware that my palm was wet, and I glanced down. It was a bit embarrassing to still be holding hands now, so I opened my fingers to release him. He didn’t open his. OMG, was that a signal of some sort? He was gorgeous. A moment of social ‘What do I do?’ and I gripped his hand again, sending my own signal.

‘Sorry you didn’t get to ask anything,’ he said as if it was his fault.

‘I didn’t need to. You did it for me.’

He looked surprised and then impressed. We were the same height, more or less, so I was able to look right into his eyes. I saw something there. Something that I couldn’t quite grasp at first.

‘Would you…? No, forget it,’ he said, and let go of my hand.

‘What?’ I continued to grip his.

‘Just a thought.’ He pulled his hand away.

That was that, then.

‘Dexter, are you ready?’

Mum was at the door. I don’t know how long she’d been there, but she would have been there long enough to see us holding hands.

‘You have to go,’ he said, a matter of fact rather than a disappointed enquiry. ‘Yeah.’ He received a disappointed reply. ‘Birthday dinner with family.’ ‘Dexter?’ Mum insisted.

I told her I would be there in five minutes and she made it clear it had to be two, which made me feel ten years old, but at least she left us alone.

‘Look,’ he said, as soon as she had gone. ‘I’d like to talk more, about Arnold’s theory, and about my own. If you’re interested?’

‘Yes please,’ I blurted, sounding lame. I recovered. ‘Dexter Mitchel.’ Except I tapped my chest like I was Tarzan when I said it.

‘Me Morgan Davis.’ He did the same, with a Tarzan voice, and I knew then that we were going to hit it off.

The question was, to what extent?

Actually, the pressing question was when? I fumbled for my notebook and tore out a page. ‘My email,’ I said, trying to write neatly (a gift I have yet to receive). I must have looked like a flustered waiter who’s just been torn off a strip. I handed it to him so hurriedly I dropped my notebook.

‘My card,’ he said, coolly offering a white business card and taking my scrap of paper.

His name and email were all that were on it.

‘I’ll message you,’ I said, picking up my book and noticing mum back at the door.

Upright again, I added, ‘I’d invite you, but it’s on the uncle and aunt.’

‘You would invite me?’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘How kind.’

Who says ‘How kind’ like that? Morgan, obviously. Perhaps he was much older than he looked.

‘Yes, I would, but I can’t. Let’s talk, yeah?’ I had to move away from him, I had to go. I was desperate to stay and learn more. I mean, who else out there has even read this book, let alone had a theory about it?

‘I’ll write,’ he said. ‘Email me.’

A sudden thought attacked out of left field, and I don’t know why I did it, but I took back the scrap of paper and wrote, ‘I’m gay,’ before handing it back and saying, ‘Don’t let that put you off. It’s not why I want to write to you.’

‘Dexter.’ The last warning from mum.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said, suddenly sick inside. What the fuck had I just done? And why? Too late to worry now, I’d done it. ‘I’ll email you tomorrow…’ I was heading for the gents so I could change, bright red and trembling.

‘I won’t, Dexter,’ he called after me. ‘And have a birthday drink for me too.’

It stopped me in my tracks. Sod the Adams family currently gathering at the Metropole. They could fester for another minute. I spun around to find him facing me. We were both grinning.

‘For you?’ Did he mean it was also his birthday?

‘Today.’ He made a small bow.

‘Mum?’ I pleaded towards the exit. She shook her head. Even randomly meeting a stranger who shares the same obscure interest and birthday was not enough to get him an invite.

‘How old?’ Morgan asked, and I didn’t find it intrusive.

‘Eighteen. You?’ It was easy to ask.

He did that friendly wink again. ‘Would you believe eighteen?’

No fucking way. ‘Today?’ I glared at mum again. We had to invite him.

No chance.

‘We would invite you,’ she told him. ‘But it’s not up to me.’

‘No, no, of course not, don’t worry,’ he said, all smiles and thanks. ‘I have a journal to write up in any case.’

‘Fuck off!’ That was out of my mouth before I knew it. ‘I do that too.’

We stared at each other until he said, ‘These coincidences are a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner.’ An altered quote from the end of chapter two (‘Dracula’ obviously). He nodded to me. ‘I’m away from my email until tomorrow night, but I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’

‘I’ll write,’ I stammered back.

He waved my piece of paper at me as he left. ‘I do hope so.’