| The 40 In 40 Days Project. | ||
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26. The Worst Thing I Ever Did To Anyone (1986) |
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The Au Pairs |
Writing about
my life for this length of time, and in this degree of detail, makes me
keenly aware of the total control I am afforded here. In particular,
control over the way I choose to present myself to my readers. There is
therefore an obvious danger – of presenting a carefully screened image
which shows me as wholly good, kind, wise, loving and true. I am – naturally! – all of these
things. But – and I realise this might come as a bit of shock – I
too have my faults, just like you. My “something of the night”. My
Dark Side. And so – in the interests of balance – I feel it is only
right and proper that I share with you the details of The Worst Thing I
Ever Did To Anyone. Spring 1986. I am back in Berlin,
spending a few days with Brad (not his real name), an expatriate flight
attendant from New York. Brad and I went out together for a couple of
months, a couple of years ago. Our relationship swiftly ran its natural
course, and finished quite painlessly, thus freeing us up to become good
buddies instead. Brad and I made far better buddies than we did lovers;
so, not having seen him for a very long time indeed, there is a lot of
catching up to do, and we are greatly enjoying each other’s company. Brad arranges a large dinner party for
the Saturday night, and spends hours preparing the food – in
particular, a spectacular Beef Wellington which is to be the centrepiece
of our meal. His culinary training in International First Class has not
been in vain. Most of his guests also work for the airlines, and many
have flown in specially to be here tonight. Including Brad’s most
recent, but now former, boyfriend – a German flight attendant
called…well, let’s call him Max. I have already heard much about
Brad’s tempestuous relationship with Max. Max treated Brad appallingly
– deceit, manipulation and general mind games being his particular
specialities. But Brad was besotted, and no matter how badly he was
treated, kept coming back for more – until, eventually, something
snapped. Brad came to his senses, and gave Max his marching orders. They
have not seen each other since – until tonight. Max too has flown in
specially from London to be here. Two things quickly strike me about Max.
Firstly, he is quite bowel-shakingly obnoxious, in a smugly insidious
way. You have the constant feeling that he is playing games with
everyone in the room, for his own private amusement. Secondly, he is
quite jaw-droppingly sexy. Sexy in that arrogant, knowing kind of way
which I would normally find deeply off-putting. But not in this case. I
can scarcely take my eyes off him, and observe him throughout the
evening with awed fascination. Brad is not comfortable in Max’s
presence. There is a nervous, under-confident edge to him tonight, which
is quite uncharacteristic. At one point, in the crowded bar we have
repaired to after the meal, he draws me aside and – rather drunk by
now, as we all are - quietly offloads his anxieties. “That man possesses
me!”, Brad hisses in my ear. I make sympathetic noises, flattered that
Brad has chosen me to confide in. I have always been slightly in awe of
Brad, with his impeccable New Yorker’s cool, his glamorous
international lifestyle and his smart circle of friends. At one point, Max thinks it would be
great sport to reach over, in the middle of the bar, and unzip my jeans
in front of the whole group. He does this while staring me straight in
the eye, a fixed smile on his face. I stand there and let him do it,
staring right back at him without blinking, playing along with his
“Who can psych who out first” game. And feeling, despite myself,
incredibly excited by this. “You see?” - Brad is hissing in
my ear again – “You see what he’s like?” Everyone says goodnight and we all go
our separate ways. Max is staying at Brad’s flat tonight, so the three
of us go back there together. Max starts quizzing me about my friendship
with Brad – firing me questions in quick succession, and barely
listening to the answers. So we were lovers, were we? How did it end?
Why did it end? Was it upsetting? Who was most upset – him or me? Brad
and I form a united front. No-one was upset, we explain - and it was
really a blessing in disguise that we split up, because look, we are
such good friends now, can’t you tell? No residual bad feelings at
all. Isn’t it great when former lovers can behave in such a grown-up
fashion with each other? The inference is clear. The implied criticism
is perfectly well understood. We both sit there in front of him,
slightly smug and slightly triumphant, and very, very drunk. I go to bed
in one of the spare rooms, and fall into a deep sleep. There is a dull thud, and in the
darkness, I can feel a huge weight on top of me. Disorientated, I raise
my head up and peer ahead. There is someone on top of the bedclothes,
leaning over me and talking softly. “Hi there – how are you
doing?” Oh my God. It’s Max. He’s stark naked, and he’s
beautiful. And he’s reaching under the bedclothes and stroking me. Oh,
Christ almighty. He wants me. And oh, do I ever want him. I cannot
believe my luck. I smile, and start to reciprocate. Oh boy. Oh boy oh
boy oh boy. This is going to be…so….good…. Max pauses, and takes my hand. Shall we
go next door? The bed is bigger there. Sure, whatever. I stand up and he
guides me by the hand, through the double doors, and into the adjacent
bedroom. I look down at the mattress on the floor. There’s someone
else there. It’s Brad. Max leads me to the bed and guides me
down. I am half-asleep, and still drunk, and very, very horny, and
completely under his spell. I am quite powerless to resist. And so I lie
down with Max, and we resume our canoodling. I am barely aware of
Brad’s inert presence next to us. Maybe thirty seconds later, Brad gets
to his feet, and silently slips out of the room. I scarcely register
this, or what it means, or what I am getting myself into. We continue
canoodling…it feels great…nothing else matters to me now. It is morning. Broad daylight outside.
I am still on the mattress, wrapped around Max, and we appear to be
canoodling again. Things gradually proceed to their natural conclusion.
Firstly Max’s, and then, a couple of minutes later, my own. The second – the very split second
– that I reach my own conclusion, Max springs apart from me, and jumps
out of bed. “Right!”, he commands, briskly. “Coffee!” And looks
towards me. I meekly clean up as quickly as I can (so much for a tender
post-coital moment, then), and trot off to Brad’s kitchen – piled
high with last night’s dirty dishes. I switch the filter machine on,
and wait. Oh dear; something is definitely not
right here. The coffee is not pouring into the jug. Instead, it’s
seeping over the top of the filter paper, and covering Brad’s work
surface and kitchen floor with thick soggy granules. As one of
nature’s great incompetents when it comes to anything involving
electrical gadgets, I am quite helpless, and do nothing to stop the
flow. Besides which, I am badly hungover and disorientated. I find the
instant coffee instead, and take a couple of mugs back through to the
bedroom, where Max is already fully dressed. His manner, so attentively
flirtatious until a few minutes ago, is now one of brisk efficiency –
and physical distance. I tell him what’s happened with the coffee
machine. He is quite unconcerned (“Ach, who cares!”) Somewhere at the back of my mind, a
vague image of Brad leaving the room has appeared. I begin to feel
mildly concerned, and attempt to voice these concerns to Max. You
don’t think he might be a bit upset, do you? “Ach, who cares? He deserves to
be!” I choose not to pursue this line of
conversation. Max and I drink our coffee, slightly awkwardly now. My
attempts to make further cheerful conversation are all stalled. Max gets
up, says that he has to be on his way now (an early afternoon flight
back to London), and leaves the flat. He will have been in Berlin for
less than twenty-four hours – but his mission will have been fully
accomplished, with commendable efficiency. Revenge, you see. With me as
the all too willing fall guy. I am just beginning to process these
thoughts, when Brad appears, looking rough. Apparently, he has not slept
a wink all night. Oh, shit. Brad! What have I
done? I’ve barged in on him, practically instigated a threesome with
him and his ex-boyfriend - who he’s still crazy about - and then
stolen his ex-boyfriend right from under his nose. And stayed the whole
night with him. And, just to add insult to injury, I’ve even
broken his bloody coffee machine! What sort of house guest from hell am
I? I start apologising. Brad is the very
model of dignified courtesy. I am not to worry. Max is the one who
created the situation. No, he’s fine about it really. No, really –
these things happen, right? And I gratefully, guiltily choose to believe
him. Now, there is actually a point here
where I could at least start to partially redeem myself. I could help
Brad clear up all the mess from last night, couldn’t I? Well, isn’t
that what any right thinking person would do right now? In my case, actually not. Instead,
feeling too mortified to stay in the flat a minute longer, I leave Brad
to do all the cleaning up, and spend the rest of the day with other
friends. In the evening, I return. A meal in a Vietnamese restaurant has
been arranged by Brad’s friends, all of whom have been rallying round
in my absence. The sole purpose of the evening is to make him feel
better. The friends show up. I feel so ashamed of myself that all power
of conversation thenceforth leaves me for the rest of the evening.
Instead, I trail round with everybody else, maintaining a sullen, silent
presence at the end of the table, being spoken to by nobody. Instead of
helping to ease the situation, I allow my own self-obsessed feelings of
guilt override my duties to a wounded friend. It’s not big, and it’s
not clever. An air of strained courtesy prevails
over my last couple of days in Berlin. Brad maintains truly heroic
levels of politeness and continued hospitality throughout. We take our
leave of each other, fixed smiles upon both our faces. Neither one of us
ever makes contact with the other again. Brad, although you will never read this, may I take this opportunity to offer you my sincerest apologies. From the very bottom of my heart. |