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The heavy, mahogany-scented air of the Grace Brothers Gents' Ready-Made department is thick with the residue of a long Friday. Mr. Dick Lucas, his tie loosened just a fraction more than Captain Peacock would ever permit, smooths the front of his tape-measure-draped jacket. Across the counter, Mr. Clay Humphries is fastidiously folding a pair of Bri-Nylon trousers, his movements possessing a grace that belies the exhaustion of dealing with difficult customers all afternoon. Their eyes meet—a quick, flickering contact that says more than any memo from the Board of Management. The biting London wind rattles the display windows, but inside, a quiet heat simmers between the two men.
As the closing bell tolls with its usual tinny authority, they join the exodus of staff. They step into the lift, the brass cage doors clattering shut with a sound like falling cutlery. Dick reaches out, his finger hovering over the 'G' for Ground, but his mind is already miles away, navigating the bus routes toward his flat, where a bottle of cheap wine and the privacy of four walls await.
"Ready for the weekend, Mister Humphries?" Dick asks, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr.
Clay offers a weary but genuine smile, leaning back against the padded velvet wall of the lift. "More than ready, Mister Lucas. If I had to measure one more inside leg today, I think I would have shrieked."
Dick laughs, a mischievous glint in his eye. He moves closer, the scent of his hair cream—something sharp and citrusy—filling the small space. As they descend, the thrill of the impending date night overcomes his professional veneer. He reaches out, playfully groping Clay’s midsection, his hand finding the soft wool of Clay’s waistcoat. Clay jumps, a high-pitched "Ooh!" escaping his lips as he swats at Dick’s hand. In the delightful scuffle of limbs and suppressed giggles, Clay’s elbow strikes the control panel. The lift groans, a mechanical protest that sounds like a dying whale. Instead of the gentle descent to the street level, the floor beneath them surges upward.
"Oh, blast," Clay mutters, adjusting his spectacles. "I think I’ve hit the wrong one."
"Or the lift’s decided to join the union and go on strike," Dick quips.
The Grace Brothers lifts are notoriously temperamental; they are relics of a Victorian era that seems to possess a malicious sense of humor. Sometimes they stop six inches too high, requiring a dignified hop to the floor, and other times they sink into the pit, forcing the staff to scramble out like commandos. With a final, shuddering jolt, the lift comes to a halt. A feminine robotic voice—tinny, posh, and entirely detached from reality—chimes through a hidden speaker: "Second floor: Carpets. Travel goods and beddings. Materials and soft furnishings. Restaurant and teas."
The doors slide open to reveal a scrawny, sour-faced youth waiting on the landing. He is a junior from the Beddings department, his face a map of adolescent misery and spite. He sports a haircut that looks like it was performed with a bowl and a blunt pair of shears, and his eyes are narrowed into permanent slits of judgment. He stomps into the lift, smelling faintly of stale chips and damp wool, and jams the 'G' button with unnecessary violence. The lift chirps back with practiced indifference: "Going down."
The junior’s presence acts like a bucket of cold water on Dick and Clay’s playful energy. They instantly stiffen, adopting the rigid, professional posture of two men who have spent far too long being scrutinized by floorwalkers. Dick stares intently at the brass gate, while Clay examines his fingernails as if they hold the secrets of the universe. The lift begins its descent, but it doesn't get far. Somewhere between the First Floor and the Ground, there is a sickening clunk. The carriage lurches, swings slightly, and then stops dead. They are encased in the darkness of the shaft wall, the only light coming from the flickering bulb in the lift ceiling.
"Oh, marvelous," the kid grumbles, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled pack of Woodbines and a box of matches. "Just what I need. Stuck in a box with a couple of old relics from Gents' Outfitting."
"I say," Clay begins, his voice rising in an indignant vibrato. "There is no smoking in the lift, young man. It’s a fire hazard, and it’s strictly against the rules."
The junior ignores him, striking a match and inhaling deeply. He blows a cloud of acrid smoke directly toward the ceiling. "Rules? I’ve had enough of rules. They’ve demoted me, haven't they? Sent me down to Beddings because I 'lacked the proper bedside manner' for the Restaurant. And now the canteen’s stopped doing the steak and kidney pudding. It’s all salad and nonsense now." He leans against the corner, looking like a gargoyle in a cheap suit. "And then my bird goes and bins me. Says I’m too 'cynical.' Can you believe that? Just because I don't want to spend my Friday nights watching the telly."
Dick sighs, crossing his arms. "We all have our crosses to bear, son. But some of us would prefer to bear them without the benefit of second-hand smoke."
The kid isn't listening. He’s on a roll now, his voice dripping with the peculiar brand of 1970s teenage angst that finds everything 'rubbish.' "And have you seen what’s on the BBC lately? That drama, Angels. My neighbor—old Mrs. Higgins—is obsessed with it. She’s always banging on my door, asking if I’ve seen the latest. It’s all about nurses, but they’ve put these two blokes in it now. Ken and Paul." He spits the names out like they are spoiled milk. "Woke rubbish, isn't it? Two blokes carrying on like that on national television. Can you believe my neighbor is calling on me to watch the mid-season finale with her? On something as homosexual as that? It's not natural, is it? Two blokes. In a hospital. I mean, what’s the world coming to?"
The silence that follows is heavy. Clay looks down at his shoes, his face flushed a deep, uncomfortable crimson. He can feel the tension radiating off Dick—a sharp, electric heat. Dick has never been one for silence, and he certainly isn't one for being insulted by a junior who hasn't even mastered the art of a Windsor knot.
Without thinking, the words tumble out of Dick’s mouth, sharp and laced with a biting, theatrical wit. "Well, don't watch my life then, sunshine. It's a series finale of gay."
The kid freezes. The cigarette hangs precariously from his lower lip, a long ash wobbling on the end. He stares at Dick, his eyes widening as the implication sinks in. He looks at Dick, then shifts his gaze to Clay, who has closed his eyes and let out a long, suffering breath.
"Dick..." Clay sighs, the name sounding like a prayer for patience.
The kid begins to cough—a violent, hacking sound as he accidentally inhales a lungful of his own smoke. He looks like he might be having a seizure, or perhaps his brain is simply struggling to process the fact that the two 'relics' in the lift aren't quite as traditional as he assumed. As if sensing the awkwardness has reached its peak, the lift suddenly decides to cooperate. It gives a cheerful little ping, and with a smooth, unexpected motion, it glides the remaining few feet to the bottom. The voice chimes: "Ground floor: Perfumery, Stationery, and leather goods."
The doors haven't even fully retracted before the junior is scrambling out. He stumbles over the threshold, nearly tripping over his own scrawny feet, and disappears into the shadows of the Perfumery department like a frightened rabbit. Dick and Clay stand in the empty lift for a moment. The silence is no longer heavy; it is light, bubbling with the absurdity of the encounter.
"A series finale of gay?" Clay asks, finally looking up. He reaches out and swats Dick playfully on the shoulder with his folded newspaper. "Honestly, Lucas, you have the impulse control of a toddler."
Dick grins, that wide, cheeky smile that always manages to melt Clay’s defenses. He steps closer, checking the empty hallway before leaning in and planting a quick, firm kiss on Clay’s cheek. "Well, I couldn't let the lad go on thinking the BBC had a monopoly on the drama, could I?"
Clay shakes his head, but he’s smiling now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re impossible. Absolutely impossible."
"And that’s why you love me," Dick says, offering his arm with a mock-formal flourish. "Now, shall we? I believe there’s a bottle of Blue Nun with our names on it, and I promise the plot of our evening will be much more interesting than anything on Angels."
They step out of the lift and into the cool London night, leaving the stagnant air of Grace Brothers behind. They walk toward the bus stop, two men in the heart of 1975, hidden in plain sight, their laughter lost in the wind as they head toward a weekend that is entirely their own.