Jonathan sighed as he filled the kettle. His mother had such faith in him. She had always encouraged his love of decorating as a child and let him wield the paintbrush, at first in their small back yard when there was more whitewash on him than on the walls. But as he’d grown older she’d taught him how to wallpaper and paint, and how to sew on her trusty Singer sewing machine. He had a flair for colour, and knew instinctively how a couple of bright cushions here, or a lampshade there, would lift a room and coordinate the colours on the walls and curtains. One of the best presents he had ever got was a subscription she had bought for him for Interiors & Design and he had devoured each edition, cutting out pictures and articles that particularly inspired him. He had folders, kept meticulously, divided and subdivided into furniture, fixtures and fittings, materials, colour schemes, and miscellaneous. They were his pride and joy. His best friend Alice shared his passion and they had spent many happy hours when they were children building doll’s houses from the shoeboxes from her father’s shop and decorating them to their hearts’ content. Nancy loved to watch the pair of them sitting in front of the fire in the kitchen on a wintry afternoon, chattering away as they designed delightful little houses, while she worked on her sewing machine, doing alterations or making curtains to bring in an extra couple of pounds.
Jonathan made himself a mug of tea and found a stale chocolate gold-grain biscuit and curled up on the bright green bean bag in the bay window of his ground-floor bedsit. He had had a ghastly day and the wraith-like tentacles of depression that he fought hard to keep at bay were tightening their grip on him. Normally he would have tasty food in his fridge. Smoked salmon, organic beetroot, feta cheese, a delicious hummus that he had whipped up himself, but it was a sure sign that depression was getting the better of him when he let the contents of his fridge go and lost interest in eating. He really should go and see his counsellor and therapist. It had been a couple of months since his last visit and Hannah Harrison would chide him gently for letting it go so long.
At least though he would be able to tell her that he had taken a stand against his boss Gerard Hook and his rampant homophobia. Gerard, a red-faced, fat-bellied, blustering bully, had made his life a misery since Jonathan had been transferred to the Finance Department. Gerard was in charge of his section and the first time he’d seen Jonathan he’d looked him up and down, noting Jonathan’s red Paisley scarf wrapped cravat-like around his neck, and his highly polished winkle-pickers, and sneered, ‘Quite the fashion plate, aren’t you? Let’s hope you’re as good at preparing invoices as you are at fancy dressing.’
He was an odious man, and never lost a chance to make homophobic remarks in general office conversation. Jonathan had grown up with homophobia, but he’d hoped when he had moved to Dublin to work that things would be easier. And they were, in many ways. In fact it had been a life-changing liberation for him to meet so many lads just like him, who had endured the same miseries that he had growing up. It had been as though a burden had lifted from his shoulders. He was not alone, he was not a freak, there were others like him, and life could be a lot of fun.
He had found a spacious bedsit in a big old red-brick semi in Drumcondra that overlooked a small park and was only ten minutes from the city centre and his workplace. The landlord had told him he could decorate it as he wished, and he had painted the walls a buttery cream, and the skirting boards and architraves a rich burgundy. He’d made new chintz covers for the shabby old two-seater sofa, bought a new mattress for the single bed and dressed it in a cream candlewick bedspread and burgundy and green scatter cushions, and placed lamps around the room so that he would never have to use the stark centre light that gave the room such a cold glow. His landlord had been so impressed he had asked him to decorate the front bedsit upstairs, and had beefed up the rent for the new tenant, a young teacher called Orla, to cover the costs.
Orla was from Cork and as mad as a brush, and she and Jonathan hit it off from the start; and when he was not socializing in the George or the Front Lounge, they often went to the pictures, or ordered in a Chinese or Indian meal and drank copious amounts of red wine and discussed the current men in their lives.
Jonathan grinned, hearing his friend moving around upstairs as she prepared her evening meal. She was in foul humour and was keeping to herself. Orla had been dumped by a Garda she had dated for two months, prior to moving in to her new bedsit, and she was still furious. ‘How dare that thick culchie from Kerry dump me before I had a chance to dump him! I’ll show that chancer what he’s missing. You’re coming to Copper Face Jacks with me, minus the winkle-pickers and scarves. I’ll dress you as butch as can be, because you’re quite handsome, Jonny boy, and you’ve to be all over me. An Oscar-winning performance, OK?’ She arched an eyebrow at him, daring him to argue.
‘Have I any choice?’ he retorted, entertained at the notion that he could make a straight, six foot Kerry man jealous.
‘No! You can wear jeans, and a T-shirt
