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Freddie looks up from the coffee machine and pulls his resigned face. The door fans shut behind Henry as he approaches the counter, weighed down by his laptop bag. It's a chain coffee shop, warm and welcoming. Unlike Freddie.
“Large latte for Marcus,” calls Freddie, setting it down on the counter with a firm clink.
Marcus is about Henry's age, he notices. But with more hair. Isn't that just great? Marcus smiles hopefully at Freddie as he collects his drink, but Freddie has already moved on. Henry feels really special.
But now he has Freddie's full attention. “Any part of my life you don't want in on, old man?”
“It's too cold to work in the apartment.” Henry puts on his best innocence face.
*
Henry watches Adam's skin brighten as he adjusts colour balance on the footage. It's a lip synch of 'Poker Face,' and he's watched it so many times now he could, well, really do with another cup of coffee.
He looks up from his laptop to see Freddie approaching, golden hair a halo around his face. He's carrying a cappuccino and slides it across the table to sit next to Henry's
“On the house,” he says, angel wings practically sprouting from his shoulders. “What are you up to anyway?”
Henry wants to say, You are as close to perfection as any man has ever reached. What he actually says is, “Oh nothing. Just editing. Quite boring really.”
“Go on, let me see—” Freddie darts around the table.
Henry snaps his laptop shut. But he's a second too late. “You dirty old man!”
Freddie is delighted to have caught him out. “Go on, you might as well show me. I've caught you out.”
Freddie draws up a chair. He's amused and intrigued, but there's not a hint of surprise in his face. Henry sees himself reflected in Freddie's wide eyes for a moment.
Fuck that. He opens the laptop and plays the edit from the beginning, offering Freddie an ear bud to listen through.
“This is my nephew, Adam, and his friend. They have twenty thousand followers on YouTube.”
“Yeah, I met him. You're joining the family business then?”
“I'm not proud of myself.”
Freddie watches the video for a while in silence. Henry sips his cappuccino and admires Freddie's ear. His ear bud in Freddie's ear.
“I'm seeing this as a gateway video. Am I going to have to check my room for secret cameras soon, old man?”
Henry can't tell if he's joking. “Of course not, Freddie, I—I thought we were over all that by now.”
“Who's that old man you live with, Freddie? Oh no-one, just your friendly neighbourhood porn baron.”
“Keep your voice down, for God's sake. And it's not porn. You know that.”
Freddie turns and looks directly at him. “I think about it sometimes, you know. Being a porn star.”
Henry freezes.
“They're all wanking over me anyway,” Freddie continues, “I might as well make some money out of it. Look at that one.”
“Freddie...” This sounds like one of Freddie's outbursts in the making.
Freddie indicates over to Marcus, the customer with the hair. Marcus looks down and stirs his coffee. He was clearly watching them a second a go. Watching Freddie a second ago, at any rate.
“He's in here three or four times a week. Always tries to talk to me. Sits over there by the bin because I have to bend over to empty it, and I'm on six fifty an hour. I could take off the uniform and make two weeks' wages in a morning.”
Henry gapes at him, and Freddie's eyes narrow. “I'd be doing it anyway–fucking, sucking, wanking them off onto my face like I need it to survive–it's just a case of inviting people who aren't there to the party.”
“Freddie, stop it.” Henry can feel blood rushing to his face, and other places. He's had enough. “Stop testing me like it's my job to tell you you're worth so much more than that.”
Freddie looks away. “Am I?” He's embarrassed now. Not by what he said but by being caught out. “I have no qualifications and no prospects. As soon as I start to get old I'll find jobs like this harder and harder to get. What's the point, old man? What's the point?”
Henry considers, decides Freddie is serious. “Those cartoons, Freddie, the one's about you and your... him. They were good you know. You've got talent.”
“If I had a pound for every middle-aged man that told me I was special, Henry.”
“No, I'm serious. How long does it take you to draw a page?”
“Two-three hours maybe?”
“Do two a week. An erotic web comic. Softcore, of course, you want the right type of advertisers.”
“But why is that better, Henry? Why does hiding behind a comic strip make me a better person than stripping would?”
Freddie doesn't understand. Henry can help him. Yes. “Your body isn't sustainable, but your talent is, Freddie. There's so much money in these things once you build up an audience!”
“And what do I live on while that happens?”
Henry deflates. He doesn't have any money either.
Freddie's gaze is unblinking. Does he truly hope Henry has an answer? Or is he laughing at him inside?
“I don't know, Freddie.” Henry wants to touch his hand, lightly. But what comfort can he offer, middle-aged rich white man who's not even rich any more?
Marcus is hovering by the counter again. He must want another coffee.
“I'd better go,” says Freddie, pushing his chair back and picking up Henry's empty coffee cups.
Henry bets Freddie doesn't bring Marcus cappuccinos on the house... but he checks himself before he can feels a pride, or possession. Henry's not going to be like those other men, the abusive schoolteachers and the creepy coffee-shop lurkers, no.
As Freddie walks away, and Henry knows he knows he's looking at his arse and trying not to, Henry says, quietly. “Your coffee is excellent, by the way.”
He's not sure if Freddie hears him.