Entering Autumn

Chapter 1 It was the second day of a new year. Christmas had been and gone for another twelve months and with it the related yuletide stresses. The New Year’s Eve hangover had been vanquished, leaving in its place a sense of melancholy, as it often did. But this year the feelings of sadness and loss seemed altogether different to Clayton. They ran deeper, as though they had bored into his very soul. Stepping in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, he observed his naked form with a peculiar detachment. Despite having seen it many times in the past, he’d usually been thinking of other things, always in a hurry to get to work or to meet a friend. The images were easily dismissed, not given more than a fleeting thought. But now he was alone with this stranger, this interloper, who’d taken over his once slender, athletic body, and there was nothing to distract him from the image reflected back. There was a general lack of tone and a noticeable droop to once firm pectoral muscles. In truth they were now nothing more than pectoral skin. Where there’d been a flat, muscular stomach there was now a paunch, and to his dismay there were sizeable saddlebags sitting atop each hip. But when had this crime been perpetrated? Surely it was a recent assault. Even with a busy lifestyle, he’d have noticed such a wanton display of vandalism. He sighed, determined to continue the torture, and raised his hands to more closely examine their features—the soft, loose skin, the fine wrinkles, and the liver spot on the back of his left hand. Immediately his melancholy transformed into a deep depression. He turned around and looked back over his shoulder to view this middle-aged man from an angle rarely seen and felt his stomach lurch as he beheld buttocks that appeared as though someone had let the air out of them. They resembled nothing more appealing than two mounds of dough left out too long at room temperature. And those saddlebags didn’t look any more attractive from the back, either. He turned to face the mirror, staring into the cold, unfeeling glass with an almost defiant expression, daring it to reveal more. It seemed only too pleased to accommodate. To his horror there was actual hair sprouting from his ears and from each nostril, and one maverick eyebrow hair, growing out across his brow like Jack’s beanstalk. He instantly plucked it out. There was also the dusting of grey at his temples he’d naturally noticed many times before, but he’d known of men who’d gone grey in their twenties. Grey hair, in itself, was nothing to be alarmed by. It was when it came with the whole “Getting Old” package that it became infinitely less desirable. Clayton stared for a long while, mesmerised by the body of this forty-eight year old stranger in front of him. He realised he was shaking his head, but couldn’t determine if it was in disbelief or in denial. The reflected image was at such odds with the way he pictured himself in his mind’s eye, but there could no longer be any denying the fact he was showing his age. In two more years he’d be fifty. Fifty! More than half his life was behind him, nothing more than memories. He suddenly felt weepy. An unguarded moment and a mirror were a dangerous combination. Finally, he could no longer bear to look at himself. He turned and walked across to the built-in wardrobe. He slid the door open, revealing rows of neatly ironed, colour-graded shirts and jackets. He pulled his white towelling bathrobe from the hanger and put it on, tying the belt securely around what remained of his waist. As he did so he saw an image of his silver-haired father doing the same thing. He snorted and shook his head. In days gone by, whenever he was alone, he used to wander the house naked. Remembering that, he removed the bathrobe and flung it to the floor. Not everything had to change so dramatically. He was rescued from further maudlin thoughts by the sound of his mobile phone ringing. “How are you, love?” The ebullient voice on the other end belonged to Jan, his fifty-year old friend whose lust for life was incomparable. Never one to refuse an invitation or a drink, she once joked the doctor had called her after some blood tests to inform her that they had in fact found some blood in her alcohol. After an operation the surgeon informed her that instead of a liver he’d found a note saying “No longer at this address”. “I just had to tell you about my night.” “The pilot?” Clayton sat down at the kitchen table and started fidgeting with a corner of the newspaper he’d left there at breakfast. “You bet the pilot,” she bubbled. “Broad shoulders and abs you couldn’t crack with a sledgehammer. Oh, I’m still sore, love. I’m sitting here on a cushion.” Clayton smiled as he imagined Jan’s tiny frame perched precariously on something akin to a large, blow-up haemorrhoid cushion. “If there was a position we didn’t try then it doesn’t exist.” She laughed. “When are you seeing him again?” “Tonight! Oh God I hope my v****a’s recovered by then. Muhammad Ali never took a battering like the one my p***y got last night. And again this morning!” Clayton guffawed. The trick with Jan was to just let her go. The odd comment to show he was listening was all that was required during a phone conversation with her. “Anyway, love, what are you doing for lunch? I was wondering if you wanted to meet somewhere.” “I’m surprised you’ve got the energy to eat,” said Clayton, and he wasn’t joking. Jan was older than he was and just listening to her wore him out. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with Emmett today.” Emmett was a tall, exotically handsome Turkish man, and Clayton’s oldest and dearest friend. They’d spent the majority of their twenties in clubs and pubs, and at parties together. In fact, Emmett was the only friend from that period that Clayton still had in his life. Many people used to think they were an item, but they’d never even shared a kiss. “Oh bring him along, too. We’ll order wine and get sozzled. My treat. Will you call him now? Call him now so he’s got plenty of time to get used to the idea.” (Emmett wasn’t a fan of last minute changes.) “Okay, I’ll see you at Mezzo at noon. Don’t be late or there mightn’t be any wine left when you get there.” “Okay, I won’t. Ciao.” “Call Emmett. Ciao, love.” Clayton hung up from Jan and went into his directory. Emmett was at the top. “Hi, Emmett. How’s things?” “Clay?” The voice on the other end sounded groggy. “You’re not calling to cancel, are you?” “Of course not. When do I ever cancel? I’m calling because Jan has invited us to lunch. Her treat.” Clayton usually preferred to pay his own way, a trait his middle-class parents had instilled in him from an early age. Jan, however, was the exception. Due to three divorces, the still sexy and vivacious Jan had amassed an obscene amount of money and if it made her happy to occasionally take him out for a meal then who was he to deny her? Emmett groaned. “Clay, I invited you over for lunch for a reason. I’ve got something important to tell you.” “Can’t you tell me on the way?” asked Clayton. “I’ll pick you up. We can talk in the car.” Silence. Clayton felt a twinge of guilt. “Look, if it’s that important, I’ll call Jan back and cancel. I’m sorry. My fault. I shouldn’t have accepted in the first place.” “No, no, it’s okay. I suppose we can talk about it later.” There was a tone of resignation and disappointment in Emmett’s voice that he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to mask. “Are you sure?” asked Clayton, who was now awash with guilt. “Because it’s no trouble to call Jan back. I will. You want me to?” “No, no, no,” said Emmett, more and more emphatically. “A nice lunch sounds wonderful. What time will you be here?” “She wants us at Mezzo at twelve so how about eleven-thirty?” He twisted around to look at the kitchen clock. It was now eleven. “We’d better get our skates on.” “I’ll see you then,” said Emmett before hanging up. Their short conversation haunted Clayton. It took a lot to get Emmett down, which was exactly the way he’d sounded. Emmett was quite shy, but somehow always ended up being the life of the party. In fact, Emmett had more in common, personality-wise, with Jan than he did with him. Clayton was quieter, deeper; a thinker and prone to periods of time spent in reflective solitude. He’d been that way his entire life. Had it not been for Jan and Emmett, he wouldn’t go out a fraction of the amount he did. He toyed with the phone, turning it end over end against the newspaper. Should I call Jan and cancel? he wondered. Emmett had told him not to, but had he meant it, or had he just given in? Finally, he decided to go and shower, and leave things as they were.