Timon of Bath and London – The Bridal Suite

“I’d rather not be alone if I had the choice,” Timonthy said. Why he was reluctant to show any enthusiasm? Was it just to protect him from potential claims of being too pushy?

No, although that was sometimes in his mind: he knew honestly it was because if he showed enthusiasm and then he was rejected it would make it feel so much worse. He didn’t realise he was such a sensitive soul.

“That’s easily fixed then,” Gerard replied cheerfully. Thank God he was not so sensitive or they both would have been going to bed alone.

As it was they made their way to the third floor and found the room easily. Timonthy opened the door with the bulky metal key and stood there on the threshold for a moment confused by the largeness and grandness of the room.

Gerard brushed by him and walked into the room staring around him looking like a child lost in a palace.

This was not even a bedroom. It was an elegantly laid out drawing room complete with its own elaborate fireplace. On a side table there was a bottle of champagne and a basket of fruit. The far wall of the room was built into the roof and was sloping from head height upwards.

Timonthy walked inside and closed the door behind him. He picked up the champagne bottle and it was a good name. There was another door to the left of the fireplace and inside that slightly more inviting room there was a bed.

“You could fit thirty people in here,” Gerard said.

“Although it would be a little cosy,” Timonthy gave a stifled laugh. “A person could get lonely on their own in this place. I suspect this is the bridal suite and Peter’s taking the Mickey because I asked for a big bed.”

“He probably just said he wanted the best room they had,” Gerard said hesitantly. “I don’t expect he inspected every room.”

Timonthy shook his head again. His luggage was at the end of the bed and he moved it to the edge of the room, looking for distractions now.

The room had made him feel uncomfortable, like he shouldn’t be in it. He struggled to regain control of his mind and knew that he was lucky to be here with another man who found him attractive.

Timonthy had given up expecting this to happen a while ago. Waiting for that moment all day and now that he had what he had dreamed of he was wasting the gift with hesitation.

So many questions he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to know and above all he wanted the physical contact that had been denied to him all day but he was still reluctant to make the first move: fear of rejection again, he analysed.

“There are so many things I think that you are hiding from me,” he settled for saying.

“And you are right,” Gerard admitted ruefully. “I can only say that I have a good reason for it and I mean you no harm by it. Everything will all make more sense tomorrow.”

“When we see Stolid?”

Gerard repeated, “When we see Stolid.”

What have you got yourself into, Stolid? Timonthy wondered pityingly. He focused his pity What have you got us all into?

“I have waited to be able to touch you all day,” Gerard said simply.

His words reminded Timonthy that he had decided to live in the moment, not spend his life worrying about tomorrow.

***

The next morning the phone alarm went off with appropriate delicacy, mimicking the sounds of birds in the garden. Timonthy turned over and realised he was alone. He didn’t panic, dragging himself to the empty bathroom instead and getting ready for the day.

His heart beat started to get a little faster as he looked in the other empty room. It was half past seven.

Opening the curtains he looked outside. To one side he could see the car park with his car and in the place where Peter’s lorry had been last night an empty space. Then his heart beat stopped briefly.

Timonthy had made a conscious decision to stop worrying and fearing for the future. To start living in the moment. He had enjoyed the moment but now he was paying the price.

Believing that he would wake up and everything would be alright, he had hoped he realised. He just couldn’t get it right. This reversal was almost too much for him to take in.

It physically hurt like the pain of a blow to the stomach. He couldn’t think what it meant: thinking was a pain like being pummelled in the ribs, like hearing your best friend was dying, realising the man you had lusted after for twenty six years didn’t want you, like hearing your parents had lived and died without thinking of you at all, as if you were a person who had never been.

Was it true, that his dream had ended so suddenly? He looked around for the room key. There were so many places it could hide in the excessive room although he thought last night he had put it on the side table next to his luggage.

He went back there and checked: not there either. This was an unexpected and annoying obstacle to the furtherance of his investigation but he couldn’t let it stop him. He would burst if he didn’t keep moving.

The door wouldn’t lock anyway without the key. He packed everything into his bag. He even packed the bottle of champagne, wondering why he bothered.

There was no point to anything, he felt, although the idea of getting so pissed that driving at 150 mph down the motorway seemed like a good idea was attractive. At least it would speed the journey up, whether North or South.