This Still Happens

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Revelation II: Etta

It's about half-five when Gordon starts texting me that evening.

I'm curled up on my bed, sipping an oversized mug of tea, and trying not to stare at my phone--a watched pot never boils--when the screen comes to life, lighting up with Gordon's picture, and the text superimposed on it.

Quickly, I take a screenshot, and send it to him over Facebook, because the text says, "Kill me," and it looks like some kind of tech-savvy hitman's "wanted" poster. Which is exactly what I tell him.

"Lol, topical," he writes back, and then he's typing, and typing, and typing, and I'm sipping, and sipping, and sipping, and trying not to imagine what he's going to say next. But this is Gordon we're talking about. THe things he says can rarely be imagined by anoyone else in advance.

"I told myself I'd never go back into the closet, but here I am in the airing cupboard! What have I done?! How many times must I come out??!!" he writes.

I stifle a giggle, have another sip of tea, and write back, "How doi know you're telling the truth? What if you're out there, in the world, committing a crime, and only telling me you're in your airing cupboard, so that you'll have an alibi when the police inevitably catch up with you, hmm?"

Because this conversation seems to be leaping from one platform to another, taking us frog-hopping across social media, Gordon sends me a Snapchat.

A purple Snapchat.

I open it, grinning, to see a delightful ten-second video of Gordon, hunched like a smirking gargoyle in a dark cupboard, stacked with folded towels and clean bed-linen, giggling as the door opens, and Mrs Benn looms in with a face at once puzzled and exasperated.

The caption Gordon's put over the video is, "Coming out to Mummy Dearest," which is nothing if not on-brand.

"Foiled!!!" he texts me a moment later, back on SMS again, "because Mum's turned off the Wifi! This is literally homophobia!!"

"Noo, babby!" I text.

"I know! Poor little Gordy-Wordy! What way is this to treat an astrologer!"

Oh, well, that probably makes sense in his head.

"Are you suffering greatly, honey?" I ask, gulping down another mouthful of my tea, which has cooled to the perfect temperature, hot but still plenty comfortable to slurp.

"I do everything greatly," replies Gordon, "And, for real, this evening is absolutely shite, and if it weren't for Auntie Lizzie and Uncle Ross, I would be flipping the dining table by now."

"Is Paul up to his usual fuckheadery?"

"You know it. Must dash--parsnips call--but will definitely tell you anything Dr Wank says during tea."

"Dr Wank," I mutter, wanting to admonish Gordon for being a cheeky bastard, but knowing it's pretty much the perfect nickname for Paul.

Not that he deserves the honour of a Doctorate.

I open up my laptop and scroll through the Rainbow Room for about... ooh, it must be thirty or so minutes, because I manage to read about two-and-a-half articles... until my phone lights up again.

Another text from Gordon.

I pick up my phone more slowly than I should. He's probably texting me something silly, and I tell myself so. He's probably writing something along the lines of, "This evening is terrible, please find a way to kill me without damaging my incredible wit, beauty, and/or charm."

But, at the same time, we're talking about an evening with Paul. There's a reason I'm having to calm myself down with reassurances that everything is fine It stops working just as I get hold of my phone, and my fingers clench tightly around it, just like my jaw would snap shut around your average custard cream..