Secrets - The Pub Evening (1)

After supper, I make the journey to Gordon's, reaching Burrington at around eight thirty. I park by an apartment block opposite the town's main car park, near the river.  Gordon lives in a first floor studio flat, he told me yesterday on the phone. I press the buzzer. 
           
'Hey, Al,' he says, grinning back at me when he appears in the ground floor lobby, more padded out than the last time we met. His hair's shorter and the blue t-shirt he has on shows off loads of muscle, more than before. His eyes are smiling too. I get the feeling he's dying to throw a punch at me just for the fun of it. It's the sort of thing blokes do – but not when they haven't spoken for twenty-five years due to tragedy. 'Thanks for coming,' he says. 'You okay?'
           
'Yep, thanks.'

'Cool. Race you up the stairs.'
           
Just like old times with the others, even though we're blokes in our thirties. Gordon and I arrive at the flat on the first floor, Gordon ahead of me.  'After you,' he says, nudging open the flat door with his foot.  Inside, rock music plays on low volume. The smell of sport deodorant and shower gel lingers in the hallway.

He hands me a bottle of lager from the kitchenette area and asks if I want a sandwich or takeaway. I say no and thank him for the lager. I take several swigs of the stuff to calm my thoughts and spend a few moments looking round the place, aware of Gordon watching. He's weighing me up too, but this doesn't bother me at all, since it's our third meeting in over two decades. He's into vitamins and protein drinks. There are containers of whey protein, a set of weights near the sofa bed and a pile of men's fitness magazines next to the CD rack, along with a flat screen television, a laptop and a printer, but no photographs or pictures in the flat, except for a framed shot on the glass coffee table of a girl with long fair hair spinning around a washing line in somebody's backyard.  
           
'Your daughter?'
           
'Gemma,' he says. 'She's four. Sweet kid.'
           
'She's beautiful.'
           
'Thanks, buddy.'
           
He comes over and picks up the photograph, wiping the glass with the back of his hand. A thoughtful expression settles on his face. He places the photo back on the coffee table and goes to retrieve his beer. I continue looking at the photograph. For some reason, the child in the picture reminds me of Mel as a small girl.
           
'Are there any good pubs round here?'
           
'A few.'
           
'Okay,' I say. 'Let's find one.'
           
Within twenty minutes of arriving at the pub, we're sitting by a fireplace with glowing imitation coal, getting drunk. The evening passes in a boozy haze with a buzz of activity in the background as more people join a rowdy celebration near the main bar area in the next room.
           
'Cheers, buddy,' Gordon says. He places another pint on the table. My third or my fourth. I have no idea how I will get home later. Mel will be cross. 
             
Gordon's still very much a stranger to me. I'm not even sure I trust him, but at some point in the evening I hear myself slurring my words and telling him about the break up of my marriage. About Lana's affair with a bloke on the next street. Humiliating stuff. Who wants to admit that their emotionally unstable wife has dumped them for a bloke who works in advertising and plays rugby on Sunday mornings like I used to do (minus the advertising)? Yet, talking to somebody not involved helps. The only thing I can't bring myself to mention is Lana's refusal to contact Robert.
           
'That's rough,' Gordon says, fidgeting with an empty crisp packet.  'I'm sorry, man. Haven't had much luck myself. Two kids from different women, both of them based in London, and I only get to see Gemma. Her mother gives me no end of grief, the silly moo. She loves making life difficult for everyone. Some women are like that. 'nother pint for you, my friend?'
           
'I'm driving.'

He bursts out laughing. 'You'll not be driving anywhere tonight. Not when you're like this,' he says, traces of his northern accent coming to the surface. 'I'll ring for a cab at last orders. Or you can stop at mine, providing you don't snore. Snore, and I'll throw you in the river and you'll have to swim back to yours. Same again?'