Blood Red

Two

There are four men in my life of whom I could say ‘Yes, I love him’. . not that I’ve ever been into such public declarations.

One is my dad, the eccentric David Phillips, master craftsman and totally atypical Scottish gentleman. He’s been there for me all my life, even if we’ve actually seen very little of each other for the last fifteen years. I feel the pain of guilt from time to time when I think about that, but my father is as wedded to Auchterarder as now I am to St Martí d’Empúries. He’ll die there, as I hope I’ll die here. . although not for a hell of a long time yet.

My son, he’s another; top of them all, in truth. Tom Blackstone is only eight years old, but in terms of the emotional support he gives me, he’s going on eighteen. We were a one-parent family from the start, Tom and I, not out of any choice I ever made, but, if you believe in such concepts, by the justice of Fate, paying me back for all the wrong choices I went for through the chaotic decade that was my thirties. He and I live in our big, ancient stone house, in our tiny Catalan village. His passport may say that he’s British, but his being is multicultural, with roots in Spain, in Scotland, in Monaco, where his half-siblings live, and in America, where his cousins are and where he spent some of his earliest time. In looks he’s like his father, naturally, although in the last year or so, I’ve seen more of myself in him; the colour of his eyes, the dimple in his chin. His friends are mostly Spanish kids, although there are a few junior Brits among their number, the children of people who’ve moved south to become involved in the tourist industry, or in some cases in search of a more civilised environment. For now, he goes to school in L’Escala, the ‘parent’ town of St Martí, where he’s taught in Catalan, the language that was banned during the Franco years. (The old general must have been a little paranoid about Catalunya; he even banned its national dance, the sardana.) When he’s older, he’ll. . he’ll make that choice himself. Most mothers believe that their children are special, but I don’t. I believe that my son is very special indeed, and that at some time in the future he’ll do something great, something truly exceptional. He’s my Galahad, the perfect youth formed out of the imperfections of his parents. A romantic notion? Maybe, but be sure that I won’t allow him to go out into the world as one of those innocents who are easy prey to the wicked.

Tom’s father? Yes, of course he’s on my list. Oz Blackstone, a lad about Edinburgh when we met, with no ambitions other than to get his leg over and to maintain a single-figure golf handicap. Sometimes I wonder how his life would have turned out if our paths hadn’t brought us face to face; I don’t have too many possibilities to consider. He’d have married the love of his life, as he did anyway, but they’d have stayed in Edinburgh rather than move to Glasgow. Jan wouldn’t have had the ‘accident’, and today they’d be smug, boringly blissful fortysomethings, with a raft of strangely identical children. . or she would be, to be accurate. But we did collide, he and I, an explosive reaction took place between us, and Oz, without a single scrap of planning, was launched on a career that took him to great fame, great fortune, and three marriages, the brief second, during which our boy was conceived, being to me. Oz was good at everything he did, except marriage. The world thought that his third was idyllic, but the truth is that even then, when he had a happy, stable home background, he and I could never keep our hands off each other for long. He’d have denied it of course, but if you’d known him you’d have realised that his life was full of secrets, most of them deep and dark.

No? Hey, I believed for a couple of years that he tried to kill me. It’s only recently that I’ve been persuaded that I was wrong, but the very fact that I could accept that possibility should tell you everything about him. If the true story of his career was ever written it would be a global bestseller, but I’m the only person left alive who could do that, and trust me, it ain’t going to happen. The only thing about Oz that’s clear and undeniable is this: he’s dead. Doesn’t stop me loving him, though. This is how I see it: we were apart for spells during the ten years or so from our first meeting, and only together full-time for two or three of them; so this is just another separation, only longer.

What? Sorry, I was drifting for a moment or two. The fourth man I love? His name is Gerard Hernanz Rivera, he’s thirty-nine years old, about three years younger than me, big, dark-haired, an outdoor type with strong legs, well muscled from mountain-biking, and broad shoulders from swimming, his two principal hobbies. He’s well read, amusing, courteous, multilingual, and he’s the ideal dinner companion. ‘How is he over breakfast?’ I hear you ask. He’s exactly the same, but I have to add the qualification that the only breakfasts I’ve ever shared with Gerard have been in the cafés in St Martí, or occasionally those facing the town beach in L’Escala. This is not to say that I wouldn’t like to serve him croissants and coffee on my bedroom terrace, watching the sun make its presence felt, but that was a non-starter from the beginning, the blocker being Gerard’s job as our parish priest, of the Roman Catholic variety. But why. . pray. . should that stop me loving him? He’s a truly lovable man, possessed of all the qualities I mentioned, and the fact is that half the women in his parish fancied him from the moment he moved here. I know this, because I’ve seen the look in their eyes on those occasions when he’s been my partner at local events. He probably noticed it too, but he didn’t mind, because he understood from the beginning of our friendly relationship that I had respect for his calling. There was just one time, when we had dinner together for my birthday, on the back terrace in Can Roura, that I could see an uncertainty in him. I’d had more to drink than usual, and maybe I’d looked at him in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. Whatever it was, I told him, ‘Gerard, I’ll make you a promise here and now; I’ll never be a danger to your vocation. I’ll be there for you when you’re lonely, as you must be from time to time, given that God does not do stimulating conversation. I’ll chum you to the movies. I’ll share a bottle with you whenever vanity gets the better of you and you feel like showing off your undoubted knowledge of the fine wines of Spain. I’ll be your informal confessor, as you’ve been mine. But I will never, ever, try to entice you into my bed. I don’t need any of that stuff right now, and if I ever find that I do, I’ll make alternative arrangements, of which you will know nothing. This is not to say that I’m not physically attracted to you, but I value your friendship and your company way too much to ever put it at risk.’

He raised an eyebrow as he looked back at me. ‘I have one brother,’ he began, ‘in Granada, although he is everywhere. His name is Santiago, Saint James in English. . although he is no saint. . called Santi for short. But I have no sisters. Perhaps, Primavera, you would like to fill that gap.’

And that’s how it was. He became the brother I never had, and vice versa. And if there were still a few cynical crones who muttered behind our backs, then, as Gerard would never say, far less do. . fuck ’em.