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“Actually I am. I understand the individual words, but … I would like to know what it all means.” Because Charlie found it all much more interesting than he expected. Also, he liked listening to Tom talk about things that mattered and that weren’t sordid crime. He liked listening to Tom, full stop, and he was too tired to fight it.
Tom took a deep breath. “If you’re sure?” Charlie nodded. “I’ll show you.” He got out his phone and fiddled for a minute. Then he handed it over. It showed an image of a woman holding a French flag, dress slipping to show her breasts, leading a rabble over a pile of dead bodies. In the background, a city appeared to be on fire.
“This is a painting by Eugene Delacroix: Liberty Leading the People, from about 1830ish. See, it’s passionate, and conveys the message of the revolution: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. All his pictures have lots of dead bodies, and passion and messages. They’re all huge. Then there’s Theodore Géricault, who Vitruvious almost worships.” Tom fiddled with his phone a bit more and showed Charlie a picture of a group of dead and dying men, artistically draped over a raft made of planks of wood. Charlie thought it was revolting.
“The Raft of the Medusa,” Tom said. “Painted a few years before the Delacroix. I don’t know the full story, but it was a big scandal. Those men were basically abandoned by the captain of the Medusa and left to die.”
“Hence the interest in small boats and refugees,” Charlie said,
“Exactly so.”
“This is the kind of painting Vitruvious teaches?” Charlie asked.
“It’s the kind he does. Most people, including a lot of people who buy art, think it’s old fashioned and, frankly overblown. The Raft of the Medusa is sixteen feet by twenty-three for heaven’s sake. If people want to have their emotions stirred, they probably go to a movie, or read a book. There’s no room in something like these pictures for the viewer to decipher what they’re seeing; it slaps you in the face like a wet fish. I mean, the painting itself is magnificent … but rightly or wrongly, popular it isn’t. Admired, maybe, but not really liked.”
Charlie grinned and leaned against Tom’s legs. “There you go, giving both sides as usual.” Then he remembered, and sat up. It felt good to lean against Tom. It felt right. But it wasn’t right. Tom wasn’t available, and they should both stop pretending he was.
Charlie looked again at the picture of the Raft of the Medusa. He hadn’t seen it the first time, but a tiny blob on the horizon could have been a ship in the far distance. Were the men on the raft trying to attract its attention? He asked Tom.
“Well spotted. That is indeed a ship, and the rafters were rescued, though if memory serves, most of them were already dead. There was talk of cannibalism. Like I said, I don’t know the full story, even though it is a very important painting. Part of The Canon, as we say.” He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Charlie had no idea what Tom meant by The Canon, but from Tom’s expression it wasn’t something to be admired without reservations. He wanted Tom to keep talking, to explain what he meant. Charlie was tired, and his tiredness was messing with his judgement where Tom was concerned.
The guy was hot, he was interesting, and he was married. There was a fraud to investigate at the college, never mind a murder. Collusion between college authorities and the police had caused enough trouble. And he, Charlie, had already committed one massive error of judgement and had his face plastered all over the internet as a result.
“Thank you for telling me about it,” Charlie said. “But it’s been a hell of a day. I need to go to bed, but I will be in touch tomorrow.” He started to get up.
“Wait a minute,” Tom said. “There’s something I want to explain.”
Here it comes.
“I know. You’re married. I don’t sleep with married men.” Charlie said.
Tom reached his hand out, and Charlie pulled away. “Every newspaper and podcaster in the UK made out I’m a slut who hooks up with anyone who asks after a few drinks. You need to get your head round the fact that I’m not.”
Tom reached out again, and took Charlie’s hand, ignoring the resistance. He leaned forward and caught Charlie’s eye.
“Charlie. Listen for ten seconds. I. Am. Not. Married. I have never been married; I have no plans to get married. I have no romantic interest in women. I don’t know who told you I was married, but they got it wrong. I’m a gay man who helped two lesbian friends have children. I have twin thirteen-year-old daughters. I help care for them. But the only relationship I have with their mothers is that one of them is currently my secretary.”
Charlie stared at him.
“That’s what I tried to tell you earlier. And as for the other stuff, I’ve been in New York, remember. I liked you before I knew anything about the trial. I like you. I like talking to you.” Tom shrugged again. “That’s it really.”
The words burst out of Charlie before he could stop them. “I don’t know anything about art. I haven’t even got a degree. I’m a copper. One who’s probably going to be unemployed soon. I’m a fuck-up. I’m sorry, Tom, but this can’t go anywhere, and I really, really need some sleep.”
In response Tom leaned forward and put his hands on Charlie’s biceps. He pressed his lips to Charlie’s forehead, then looked him in the eyes.
“I don’t care about that stuff,” he said. “I like you exactly as you are. I liked you when you were getting drunk in the Rainbow, and I like the way you’ve changed my thinking about the assaults. I don’t know who you see when you look in the mirror, but I see someone I want to spend time getting to know. But if you don’t like me in the same way, I’ll leave you alone.” Tom stood up, holding his hand out to help Charlie from the floor.
“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” Charlie said without conscious thought. Then he lifted himself onto his toes, put his arms round Tom’s neck and kissed him. He felt warm arms around his shoulders, the brush of Tom’s beard against his skin and he melted. Tom kissed him back and it was the best kiss ever. A kiss to make you lose track of time; a kiss to go on forever.
But it couldn’t. Charlie had to sleep; he could feel the need dragging at his body. He pulled away, resting his head on Tom’s chest, his lips tingling, and his body wishing things were different.
Tom held him close, and then let go.
“To be continued?” he asked.
Charlie nodded, and reached up for a last, quick kiss.
“But not tonight. I will be in touch tomorrow, though.” Charlie needed one more day and he could unravel it, he was certain. And then maybe there could be something with Tom. Or more likely not.
