Diego and Abi had met in a members’ bar in central London over ten years ago. The much older men they were both with – a client of Abi’s and one of Diego’s boyfriends – knew each other from working together in a bank years ago. While the old men reminisced, Abi and Diego found themselves next to each other on a sofa and spent the evening slagging off the bar menu, drinking outrageously priced cocktails and trying to impress each other with their knowledge of food. That first night they argued about where to get the best oysters in London, told each other what their Death Row meal would be (mole poblano ‘with a twist’ for Diego, and a seafood lasagne from Milan for Abi), and the evening ended with Diego begging to cook for Abi. A week later, Diego arrived in Abi’s Zone 5 flat and, over his osso buco with fried polenta cake, they’d started planning their restaurant.
He knew about her work, of course, but gay men, Abi found, understood the nuances of sex and the complex power plays. Apart from occasionally checking she was safe, Diego didn’t ask too many questions.
Now, Diego glances around the little kitchen, nods and smiles approvingly at the Picasso poster he bought for Abi’s thirtieth a couple of years ago. Margot pulls him into a chair so she can clamber on to his lap and give him one of the mermaid tattoos he sent for her when they moved.
‘Do you like yellow or brown hair best, Uncle D?’ she asks seriously, turning his forearm over in her lap.
‘On men or mermaids?’ Diego twinkles in reply, his accent making his words rise and fall like music.
He tickles Margot, who squeals, ‘Mermaids, silly!’
‘Oh, yellow. Definitely yellow.’
‘They seem well.’ Diego is smiling as he walks back into the kitchen in his slow, sloping, graceful way, helping himself to more wine. He’s been upstairs reading Margot’s bedtime stories and then with Lily looking at her new sketches while Abi, trying to be patient, tidied the kitchen. Diego picks at the chicken carcass Abi left on the side, which she knew he’d go looking for. ‘Lil mentioned a boy – Blake someone?’
Abi nods but she doesn’t smile and her voice is strained as she says, ‘It’s her first proper crush.’
‘Uh-oh.’ Diego can tell she’s not happy about it. He wiggles his dark eyebrows at her. ‘Is he an asshole?’
Sometimes Diego sounds just like the kid he used to be, the kid who taught himself English from watching American films in the eighties in Mexico City.
Abi shakes her head because she doesn’t want to talk about Blake or even the girls. She steps towards Diego who drops a wing on the counter and opens his arms before wrapping her up, tightly. She lets her head rest on his chest, feels her body exhale, relieved not to be responsible for holding herself up. Diego kisses the top of her head, then rests his chin in the spot he just kissed and asks, ‘What’s wrong?’
And for the first time in years, Abi cries. Her fat tears soak Diego’s shirt, and he holds her and rocks her and keeps kissing her cheek, keeps muttering, ‘Baby, poor baby,’ until her tears transform into big, billowy breaths. He pours her a glass of water and helps her to the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, wiping under her eyes. ‘I know we’re supposed to talk about work.’
Diego ignores her and keeping his fudge-brown eyes on her says, ‘Tell me everything.’
She tells him about meeting an ex-client in her new friend’s kitchen, the shock of realizing he was not only Rosie’s husband but also Lily’s head teacher. She tells him about the agreement she had with Seb and then about the row outside PLATE. She tells him about her strained conversation with Rosie.
Diego sighs, winces and says, ‘
She shakes her head. ‘Haven’t had the chance and, besides, I don’t really know what I can say, other than beg him to keep me out of it again, which isn’t just down to him any more. What if everyone finds out, D?’
Diego looks steadily at Abi. ‘You do what you’ve always done. You tell everyone to fuck off and live your life.’
Abi smiles briefly because suddenly Diego sounds decisive and clear, like he’s at work in a kitchen.
‘Yes, but it’s not London down here, D, it’s different. I tell someone to mind their own business and then I’ve got to see them twice a day at school for the next however many years. I don’t want my life, my kids’ lives to be painful and lonely just so everyone else can learn something about tolerance.’
‘Hmmm,’ Diego agrees before adding, ‘And they’d probably be bullied.’
Diego, a gay boy growing up poor in machismo culture, knows about bullying.
Abi clasps her forehead and groaning says, ‘I think I have to go back to London, D. I don’t think I can do this …’
‘Hey, hey.’ Diego shakes his head and puts his hands on her shoulders. ‘Come on, now. I’ve never heard you talk like this – you’ve never been ashamed of who you are.’
‘Not until now. Not until moving here.’