with a frown. “I’m getting fat.”
Dan wrapped his arms around Bill from behind. “More to love?”
Bill reached behind, impatiently tugging at Dan’s zipper again. “More,” he commanded.
“Later,” Dan said, doing up his fly. “We have to be downstairs to meet your friends” — he checked his watch — “forty minutes ago.”
Bill made a disapproving face. “Friend,” he corrected. “I’ve never even met this other guy.” He stood. “All right, then. Mr. and Mrs. Thom Killingworth await.”
A picture window gave way onto an unbroken view of the harbour. Idyllic, grand. For a moment, the sun broke through the clouds like a promise of better things to come. The light reflecting on the waves lent the room a solemn stillness, mysterious and exotic, like something hidden in plain view, all the more startling when you finally notice it.
Bill looked around the empty room and shrugged. “Told you,” he said. “There was plenty of time. We could have done it again.”
Oil paintings hugged the walls. Even someone unversed in art would know it for a serious collection. The intricate filigrees and whorls of the frames spoke of cultured tastes and leisurely times when the art of woodcarving was a commonplace but necessary attribute. Still lifes predominated — apples and pears in bowls, flowers in vases, slabs of butter, and loaves of bread on tables. There were also landscapes — glowering forests, rugged mountains, stormy lakes, and open-throated skies — in cartoon-dreamy colours. There were no portraits. Impressionism favoured the inanimate.
“Thom’s a collector,” Bill said, looking them over as though considering a purchase. “What do you think this room is worth?”
Dan glanced over the walls. “I have no idea. I don’t know much about art, except that it’s usually bought by rich collectors for a lot of money after the artists are dead.”
He recalled the impressive jade tiger dominating Bill’s living room. On their second date, Bill had tossed a silk shirt over it as though it were a hitching post. The garment sizzled and slipped to the floor. Bill had left it lying there as he went for Dan’s belt.
“Do you know anything about Canadian Impressionism?” Bill asked.
“Not really.”
“That’s what this is. It’s pretty pricey stuff. I’d say this room is worth at least three or four million.”
“I didn’t know there was anything other than Group of Seven.” Dan looked over the nameplates at the bottom of the frames — Mary Wrinch, Clarence Gagnon, and a few others. He’d never heard of any of them, apart from an A.Y. Jackson over the fireplace.
“Well, there is,” Bill declared. “This is it. Most people don’t know about this stuff. Thom collects it. Paintings and sports — that’s Thom.” A photograph frame sat on the mantle. “Here, just look at this.”
It was a triptych of Thom manning a sailboat on the left then in his scull on the right. In the middle, a much younger Thom sat on a black horse, an alert-looking hound by his side. The mantle thronged with trophies and awards.
Footsteps approached. Dan turned to see a slightly older version of the rower in the flesh. Keenly cut hair hugged the sides of his head, giving him a distinguished look, like an ad for business executives flying first class on British Airways. His deep tan and billowy shirt exuded a casual sportiness.
“Billy!”
Bill’s face lit up. “Thomas, old man! How are you?”
Dan listened with amusement to the good old boy affectations. He knew the private school system and its presumption that money and social worth went hand-in-hand. He’d have plenty to fill Donny in on later.
“Let me introduce you — Thom Killingworth, this is Dan Sharp.”
Thom turned to Dan with an appraising stare. “Wow. You’re pure sex,” he said as they shook.
“I don’t know about the ‘pure’ part, I’m afraid,” Dan said.
“Don’t believe him! He’s all that and more,” Bill said, in much the same way as he’d declared the value of the paintings.
Thom flashed his matinee idol smile. “I’m intrigued. Does Bill lend you out? Oops! Forget I said that — it’s my wedding day, after all!”
“I’ll forget it,” Dan said.
Thom shot Bill a look. “You didn’t mention he was cocky. I might just have to steal this one away from you, Billy.”
“Go ahead and try,” said Bill, glancing at Dan. “If you think you can. This one has staying power.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of a young man with an impressive physique and a chiselled face that looked far more serious than might have been intended. He was twenty-one or twenty-two at most, dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt over a gym-sculpted body. Mother Nature at her most appealing. The shirt emphasized the boy’s chest and squared triceps. The jeans packaged bulging thighs and a spring-form butt. On a catwalk he would have been a one-name supermodel — Tyrone or Ché or Lars. In an escort service, he’d be top-dollar flesh rented by the minute. Here, in the living room of the Killingworth estate, he radiated a mercurial sexual appeal few could equal.
“My husband,” Thom said, with an ironic inflection.
“Isn’t that husband-to-be?” Bill said.
“We’ve had the pre-nups already,” Thom said. “The test drive was awesome!”
The boy stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. His permanent scowl wasn’t eased by a row of pearly whites bared into a grimace like a child’s approximation of happiness.
“Does he have a name?” Bill said.
“This is Sebastiano Ballancourt,” Thom replied.
Dan offered his hand. “Dan Sharp.”
“I am very pleased to meet you,” the boy said with an articulation straight from a translation phrasebook.
“Sebastiano’s from Brazil,” Thom said, as though anxious to explain away the single flaw in an otherwise priceless commodity.
“How did you meet?” Bill asked, savouring the boy like an after dinner mint.
“We meet … I mean, we met,” Sebastiano corrected himself, “on the site for gays on the computer.”
“We met on sex4men.com.” Thom looked at Dan. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
“Actually, I’ve never been on a chat site,” Dan said, annoyed by Thom’s presumption yet feeling strangely prim, like somebody’s maiden aunt discovering a skin magazine stashed under a mattress.
“Really? How queer.” Thom’s tone was ironic again, though whether out of disbelief or disdain wasn’t clear. “Seb’s a mail-order husband. We had a brief chat the first night and I flew him up from Sao Paolo the next day.”
