"Oh, don't forget your rose."
I turned back to retrieve the wretched thing. I'd hoped I could have left it discreetly behind but he'd been too quick for me. As we walked down the marble stairs I started to wonder about what all the fuss had been about. "Don't you like restaurants?" I said.
His eyes still had that scared rabbit look. "No, it�s not that. It's just that...I...don't like talking when there are..."
A couple passed us on the street and he shut his mouth faster than a clam grabbing a fish. As soon as they were out of earshot he started to talk again.
..."people around."
This was just great. Instead of meeting a romantic man I'd ended up with a boy who had a very bad case of social phobia! It was hard to believe that this was the same guy that I'd had such a riveting discussion with about Oscar Wilde's plays three nights before.
"I know a place where we can talk in private," he said.
My reply was less than enthusiastic: "Well, if it makes it easier for you then let's go there."
He led me up Oxford Street and past a succession of nightclubs, cafes and restaurants. Every time I tried to engage him in conversation a passer-by would
come within hearing distance and he'd do his, 'I've lost my voice' trick. After ten minutes of this stop and start method of communication I decided to simply shut up as well.
Turning a corner we found ourselves in a dark and sleazy-looking street. I began to wonder if this was a good idea when he began to climb a flight of stairs in a building that looked like a warehouse. Was he taking us into an empty building full of packing cases to discuss literature?
At the top of the stairs was a dimly lit counter with a muscular guy behind it dressed in a white singlet and black, leather pants. The name above the counter said Roman Baths and I assumed it was some trendy nightclub. The doorman affected the typical bored expression doormen usually ware. Looking Barry up and down he said in a loud voice, "I.D. please." Barry produced his student I.D. card from his wallet and slapped it on the table. The doorman picked up the card and examined it as carefully as a detective searching for evidence. Then he looked at Barry and back to the I.D. photo on the card.
Barry looked agitated. Undoubtedly he'd gone through this I.D. check a hundred times before. "That's me on the card, mate - not Dorian Grey."
The doorman returned the card, not realising the obvious literary reference to Oscar Wilde, and asked for twenty dollars. I had to wonder what exclusive nightclub Barry was taking us to that had a cover charge of fifteen dollars?
The doorman glared at me. "Well, at least you don't look underage."
Handing over my money I ignored his unflattering comment. There was no difference in our ages. We were both twenty-four. I couldn't help the fact that my companion looked half my age.
Pushing two towels with two keys attached across the counter he pressed a buzzer and a door opened right next to us. This was getting more and more bizarre. I couldn't imagine why you would need towels to enter a nightclub. Maybe because you got so sweaty from dancing? Or was it some signature for the club?
As we walked into the room I immediately noticed a row of lockers. It was just like a university sports center. Men were changing in front of me, out of their gear and into the towels. This just didn't make any sense but I decided to follow the rules and see what happened.
As we changed I noticed other men come and go through the locker room. Sometimes they would eye us up and down, other times they'd circle the locker room and walk out again. But the one thing that was most obvious about this place was the way no one talked. Now in the correct �club look� we locked our lockers and I followed Barry down a set of stairs. He seemed to know exactly where to go.
At the bottom of the stairs was a full-length pool with a group of men sitting around it as if it was a resort. We passed this group and down a hall. At the end of a hall was a spa which bubbled away except for what looked like a pair of eyes peeking out of the water. The eyes where attached to a bald head which gave me the distinct impression of being like a crocodile waiting for its prey to enter the water. Barry walked up the stairs to the spa and I followed suit, noticing the eyes in the tub following us. As we both waded into the spa 'croc-man' suddenly rose out of the water and his size seemed to take up two thirds of the spa.
