Junction X by Erastes (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

I suppressed a sigh and gave in. I called the club and made a booking, then went next door. The rain was heavy, bouncing off the pavement and making pools in the gravel, but I held my jacket over my head and went to the back door like a wet neighbour should. I had hardly knocked when the door opened and Alec was there, his eyes wide and surprised.

“Hello,” he said. I remember wishing that it had been one of his parents who opened the door. I found I had to grit my teeth to stop myself staring at his feet, bare and pale against the dark red quarry tiles. “Come in.”

“I’m dripping.”

“It’s all right. We aren’t so fussy.” He coloured after he said that, and I realised what he thought he’d implied. He stepped back and I moved past him. “Mum!” He bellowed. “Mr. Johnson’s here.”

I didn’t correct him because I didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to speak to him. So I pretended to rub my hands together for warmth.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?”

I cursed his good manners. “No, it’s all right. I’m not staying, I jus—”

Sheila interrupted us and I invited them. “My treat,” I insisted. “They won’t let non-members pay.”

“I don’t know…”

“You’d be doing me a favour, to be honest,” I said, quickly, not wanting to report back having failed. “We’ll make you baby-sit in return. It’s all a part of a fiendish plan, you see.”

She laughed and accepted. I was suddenly aware that Alec had gone and my stomach lurched again in that unfamiliar way for what seemed to be no particular reason.

I’ll gloss over the lunch, mainly because it’s not memorable, not for the food nor for the conversation. I’m sure the food was good—I’ve eaten there many times since that day—but whether I had lamb or roast beef is a mystery to me now. I’m sure we all chatted and learned more about each other, but all I can remember about it was avoiding Alec’s eyes. Several times I knew that he was looking at me, particularly when I was speaking, but I couldn’t trust myself to look at him, in case anyone spotted that I found him more than just a young man, that I found him beautiful. His attention was distracted, to a certain extent, by the twins; they were well-behaved in public, of course—that’s something that I never had to complain about—but they were, as Valerie had predicted, interested in the Upper School of St. Peter’s, and they inundated him with questions.

We were also interrupted time and again by members that I’d met the night I’d joined, and, as I introduced everyone, I was not unaware that Valerie received some appraising glances. But, for all that, I was glad when it was over.

I brought the car around to the front of the club and jumped out to let the ladies in. As I reached for the back door, Alec did the same and my hand landed on top of his. It was stupid of me to recoil as if scalded—we’d shaken hands at least four times—but now it seemed different. It seemed wrong to touch him. I drove back and hardly noticed the road or the journey.

The weather was still blustery, but the downpour had shrunk to no more than spots in the wind. Valerie took the twins into the conservatory to play a board game. I read for a while and then, feeling caged and inactive, I wrapped myself up and went for a walk. I even asked the twins if they wanted to come with me, but they thought I was mad. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I still am.

The wind pushed at me like an invisible thug, violent but warm. It whipped against my legs, and Brylcreem wasn’t enough to hold my hair, which was wrenched from its confinement, making me regret not wearing a hat.

I managed to get my thoughts under control by the time I reached the seafront. I turned right and walked half a mile toward the Mecca of sorry slot machines and flashing light bulbs that fringed the sea, but I stopped short before getting swept up in the maelstrom of late summer tourists. I wanted solitude, not crowds. I turned and walked quickly in the other direction toward the residential area of the esplanade, where tourists did not go; there was nothing at that end for them to spend their London money on. The tension I’d felt that afternoon had lessened during my long walk, and I had calmed down considerably. I took my thoughts and lined them neatly up, like train tracks all in a row, each one slotting neatly into the next.

It isn’t so bad, I rationalised. Alec was a good-looking young man; I just hadn’t noticed before, that was all. It didn’t mean I was some kind of pervert. Surely I could look at someone and find them attractive without it meaning more? Valerie had many women friends, and I’d been able to look at them and realise that they were good-looking—or plain. It wasn’t as if I had ever had thoughts to ambush the sultry and very newly divorced Cecily Hawthorne, who, according to Valerie, had been fighting advances off since her Absolute came through. This was no different.

And anyway, he was hardly more than a boy.

If only I could go back and talk to that idiot, Edward. I have looked back on him and his thoughts on that day many times, and he often makes me laugh that he was so unaware of who and what he was. He’d accepted that he enjoyed his ‘queer’ episodes, but he had not yet turned to face himself in the mirror.

I lost track of time, my feet thudding along the pavement, fighting the wind and winning, mostly, occasionally being buffeted sideways. When I stopped, ready to turn for home, I realised how far I’d come. Phil’s