The Whiskerly Sisters (34 page)

“And don’t come out until you are presentable either,” she called after his retreating back. When he returned some time later, freshly shaved and smelling better than he had in weeks, Charley had laid the table and had taken the liberty of opening one of the bottles of wine from the rack in the corner of the kitchen. She had drawn the curtains and switched on the uplighters. The pizza box was lying on the centre of the table.

“Dinner is served,” she told the astonished Sly and, with a flourish, directed him to a seat at his own table. Throughout the simple meal, Charley peppered Sly with questions about his brother, encouraging him to talk and filling in the gaps whenever he fell silent. She left him better than she had found him, promising to return the following afternoon for to go through the photo albums with him. She made him swear he would not touch them until then.

He would hardly have dared.

Over the next couple of weeks, Charley spent quite a lot of her spare time with Sly, coaxing him through the painfully sharp twists and turns of Memory Lane. He nearly lost it when they opened the second album and stared down at a small black and white photo of him pushing his brother up the street in a smart pedal car. Ali, hands on the steering wheel, was grinning broadly at the camera whilst Sly looked hot, bothered and grumpy. He wondered how many hours he had spent behind that car. He could not remember who had taken the picture; in fact, he had been unaware of its existence.

There were dozens of photos of the pair of them. Several at the seaside, standing side by side in front of amazingly complicated sandcastles, gaily decorated with all kinds of seaside debris, bits of seaweed and tiny black stones; others of them standing in front of various English landmarks, often with their mother by their side. There were a series of snaps of Ali on his own – at school, modelling clay or cooking or blowing out candles from a birthday cake. There was one of him at the Hostel, holding a huge bunch of blue balloons and a lovely one of him smiling mischievously with a pint of ale raised in a toast.

“I took that one,” said Sly fondly, recalling the occasion on which he had bought his younger brother his first pint. He turned over the page and examined another raft of photographs in which his brother beamed out at him. Laughing, curious, loving Ali, living his life his way with the people he loved. Tears threatened Sly’s eyes at the joy that was his own little monster.

As the days slowly passed, Charley continued to offer her unstinting support to Sly. They had become quite close and yet Charley knew there would be no romance. She wasn’t worried since she had recently begun frying other fish. Nevertheless, Sly continued to intrigue her; instinctively, she knew there was something else. She didn’t know what that something was, but her gut told her that it centred on his drawings.

In time, Sly came back to class and, as a fully paid up member of the Whiskerly Sisters, he was welcomed back with open arms. A lot had happened during his absence and the girls wasted no time bringing him up to speed. He had to laugh at Tiff’s near miss in the car park. He couldn’t imagine the smartly dressed blonde squeezed underneath a car with her face pressed into the floor and her heart in her mouth. He laughed loudly when Celia told him what she had put into her boss’s coffee, but agreed it served him right. When Fresna butted in with her update, he admitted that he did feel quite sorry for Alex left waiting in the restaurant just as he thought his family life was improving. Fresna almost snarled at the remark and told him that he was a lightweight, but she said it lightly and without rancour.

In reality, the Whiskerlies were relieved to see him back even if he did seem a little drawn, a little thinner and not quite as well groomed. They showered him with tokens of their affection, taking round homemade pies and cakes, bits of shopping and bottles of wine. Several of them offered to do his laundry, but he waved them away laughing and told them he could manage. Charley encouraged him to show them his artwork and he was amazed when they responded with the same awe that she had shown. They couldn’t understand why he wasn’t a rich and famous couturier with a suite of rooms in the West End, flitting between Europe and America in a haze of fashion shows, but they nodded empathetically when he explained his reasons.

Three months after the funeral, Sly finally felt ready to return to work. The hospital had been more than generous with him. He felt that his life was beginning to return to normal, but not once since Ali’s death had Sly felt the need to visit his lock-up.

It was Izza, who inadvertently winkled out his deepest secret. She and Callum had bumped into him in the city and, while she elected to carry on browsing around the precinct, Callum begged him to go for a pint. When she finally joined them in the pub, Sly was keen to see what she had bought. At first, she didn’t think much about it, but there was something about the hunger behind his eyes when he fastened them on the soft pink boa she had bought to go with the prom dress she had tucked away for a special occasion. He had seemed like a starving man at a cake sale and she felt a little shiver caress her spine as she observed the way he had, almost unconsciously, reached out his hand to stroke the tiny petal pink feathers. At that moment, she realised he had to be gay. As he looked up into her face, Sly read her thoughts and, reacting as though he had been scalded, he snatched back his hand, gathered up his few parcels and made haste to leave. He hadn’t realised the time, he explained hurriedly and damn near ran out of the pub.

Izza shared her thoughts with Callum, who merely shrugged. Maybe he was; maybe he wasn’t. Callum felt it didn’t matter all that much as long as the guy didn’t come on to him. Together, they laughed at the doubtful prospect and began to talk of other things. Nevertheless, the feelings lingered so Izza brought it up again later the same week when she found herself alone with her mother. It was a rare event for them both since her mother was spending more and more of her time with Peter and she herself almost always had Callum in tow. Her mother listened to her daughter’s theory carefully and took her much more seriously than the dismissive Callum. Jax certainly thought the notion had legs and it certainly ticked a lot of boxes for her around the aloof Sly – the absence of a girlfriend, the impeccable grooming, his reluctance to talk about himself and just how damned comfortable they all felt in his company. He really was just one of the girls. The clincher had to be how outrageously good looking he was. Every woman’s lament – how come all the gorgeous ones are gay? Such a bloody waste and the two women laughed at themselves. Jax stored the conversation away; she knew she would be coming back to it.

She repeated it to Fresna and Charley over morning coffee a few days later. Both women agreed that they were not trying to square a circle. Fresna remarked that it felt like they had just completed a decent part of the jigsaw puzzle that was Sly. Charley secretly felt relieved since, although she had accepted the man’s lack of interest in her, the rejection still rankled somewhere deep inside her. This would certainly explain everything. She was simply the wrong bloody sex. She wondered out loud how none of them had worked it out since, when you fitted it all together, it was obvious. They finally agreed that sometimes it is impossible to see the wood for the trees and concluded that the direction of his sexual tendencies was unimportant. He was one of the girls and they loved him.

They began to discuss how they were going to get him to ‘fess up.

They needn’t have worried. As soon as Ceals heard the gossip, she bullied the truth out of the poor guy. She did it nicely, of course, but she would not relent until she got what she wanted. They had all told him their secrets, she had reasoned, so now it was his turn. They wouldn’t think any the worse of him whatever he told them and, in any case, what the fuck did it matter which way he swung. On and on she ranted, pinning him to the back of his chair, refusing to let him refuse until he had no choice but to cave in and come out.

He wasn’t gay, he told them. At least, he didn’t think he was. He certainly didn’t fancy girls, but then he didn’t fancy blokes either. Instead, he had his own way of dealing with his sexuality, alone, in comfort and with his precious things around him. As the girls listened, sometimes incredulously; sometimes with pity, but always with their mouths shut, he cautiously revealed his secret and when he had finished telling them all about it, he found that he had the confidence to show them all about it. Hardly able to believe what he was doing, having never taken anyone else there since he had signed the lease, he invited the seven fascinated women to his lock-up. Tucked away in a quiet corner of town, it didn’t look anything special from the outside, but from the inside, at least to him, it was very special indeed; a place, far away from prying eyes, where he could completely embrace himself and all that he was.

Or she was, depending on your point of view.

He didn’t take them there immediately. It took him a few weeks to muster up the courage, during which time the girls came to terms with the enormous curve ball he had tossed at them. As they drove to the venue, the girls found they could hardly contain their excitement. They had no real idea what was coming, but they could hardly wait.

Sly was there ahead of them, leaning casually on the metal skin of the container next to the unlocked door, padlock in hand. He swung back the door with a flourish and allowed his friends to walk in ahead of him.

Nothing in their lives had prepared them for this.

It was somewhere between the inside of a celebrity-at-home special and a tart’s boudoir. The floor was covered in a pale grey, deep pile carpet, which offset the lilac stud walls, each sporting at least one full length, ornate mirror. Between each mirror, and held in place by clips, were a glorious profusion of fans – delicate feather fans with intricate handles, traditional Spanish fans in bold colours, Chinese hand painted fans in muted shades. Amongst them, or draped over the mirrors were necklaces, bracelets and combs of every sort, shape, colour imaginable. Dominating the room were two deep purple, velvet covered chaise longue, which faced towards each other and between which stood a low, lacquered table set with a silver tea set. Standing opposite each other against two of the walls were what looked to Charley like Victorian chiffoniers; on each of which stood a collection of inlaid jewellery boxes. At the far end of the room was a door on which hung several expensive-looking oriental silk dressing gowns, together with several enormous feather boas. Next to that, stood a large rack of boned, netted cocktail dresses; the kind usually worn in films by can-can dancers and to which Fresna and Jax were immediately drawn. Finishing the room, to great effect, was a large crystal chandelier, which swayed gently from the central point of the ceiling and gave off a soft, lemon light so that the very space around it seemed to shimmer. The girls, normally highly vocal, meandered around the room in almost total silence, trying to take everything in whilst Sly leaned against the closed door, arms folded, almost amused by their reaction.

“Wow,” breathed Celia finally.

“May I?” asked Bex, indicating one of the jewellery boxes. Sly nodded and watched as Bex cautiously opened a black veneer lid close to hand and stared down at the startling collection of costume jewellery within. A dazzling array of rings, necklaces and earrings sparkled and twinkled up at her. Catching her breath, she tentatively reached out to try on one of the rings. It was way too big. Meanwhile, Izza had draped herself in a long yellow and black boa and was admiring her reflection in one of the mirrors. Pulling open the bottom cupboard of one of the chiffoniers, Charley found herself face to face with an impressive collection of footwear. She reached inside and drew out a single, red leather thigh boot; its heel long and spiked and inlaid with diamante.

“Jesus Christ, will you look at this?,” she said and began stroking the soft material almost reverently.

Other drawers revealed a profusion of silk and satin underwear; the kind most girls only dream of. Basques, corsets, stockings, hold-ups, thongs and French knickers, trimmed with ribbons and lace, spilled out of the drawer Tiff had opened. She found a whole festoon of elbow length satin gloves in the drawer beneath.

“Open Sesame,” she declared at last because for each of them it did seem like the most spectacular Aladdin’s Cave they had ever seen and quite beyond their wildest speculations in the days leading up to the event when they had sat together and wondered about the secret world of Sly.

What woman could resist such temptations? Their incredulity soon gave way to utter abandon and it wasn’t long before they were trying on the net dresses, draping themselves in the costume jewellery and gloves or buttoning each other up in the frothy bustiers. It mattered not that most of the garments were way too big, having been designed for larger frames and different muscles. They were intent on pretending to be models, impressing an imaginary audience on the catwalk or staring solemnly at their images in the huge mirrors like a clutch of children trying on their mother’s cast offs.

With an enormous sense of relief, Sly watched them, feeling almost physically lighter for having shared his burden and with no sense at all of the crushing shame he thought he would feel at being outed. Instead, his friends seemed delighted with him and with themselves, calling attention to one another and laughing at their appearance in the outsize dresses. After a while, Sly crossed to the far end of the room, almost ignored in the melee of strewn underwear and scarves, and disappeared through an end door behind which was a tiny kitchen, returning a little later with a tray of fresh coffee and macaroons.

“Time out, ladies,” he announced, carefully carrying his load towards the low table in the centre of the room. “Shove over,” he ordered Celia, resplendent in a blue can can dress and who had draped herself along one of the chaise longue. Sulkily, she hitched up her knees and batted her eyelashes at him coquettishly from over the top of a large silk Spanish fan, decorated with frills and flounces