Page 48 of Five Gold Rings
‘I take it you are looking for Lukas,’ he tells me.
‘Yes…?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘You better come in then.’
Oh. He’s not the groom then. That explains why he’s a bit off with me. I’m not sure I want to step over the threshold given this less than warm reception, but I guess the sooner I hand this ring over, the better. The hallway to the house is warm and low lit with fairy lights and Nordic garlands, two pairs of matching felt clogs by the base of the stairs, the smell of roasted meat wafting through the house. It feels like a Christmas house for grown-ups. The man who isn’t Lukas closes the door behind me then stands there with his arms folded.
‘Lukas isn’t here,’ he tells me, a scowl on his face, pointing a carving fork in my direction. Why has this suddenly taken a menacing turn? This feels like the start of a Christmas crime thriller. He’s going to lure me in with wine and cookies and then keep me in the basement, making me listen to Cliff Richard on loop until the end of my days.
‘Now tell me who you really are.’
I hold my hands up in the air. Do I run? Do I try to kick the carving fork out of his hand? I’m too young to die. ‘I wasn’t lying. My name is Joe. Who are you?’
‘Theo. Lukas’ boyfriend.’
Oh. OH. Mr and Mrs Caspar should really have run through these ring deliveries with better indications over who they were actually for.
‘Your surprise tells me you didn’t know I existed,’ he says, angry but tears starting to well up in his eyes.
I flap my hands, trying to calm down this misunderstanding. ‘No. I mean, this is a surprise but…’ I can’t seem to quite get my words out because it’s obvious the ring I have in my pocket is for this man, right here. I can’t tell him that, though, because that would ruin the surprise, surely. I can’t give him the ring. He’s also still pointing the carving fork at me.
‘How long have you been sleeping with him?’ he asks me, the tears starting to roll down his cheeks. He takes off his glasses to wipe them away. Do I yell? Is this a moment to yell or run?
‘I’m not sleeping with him,’ I say, panicked.
‘Please. Don’t lie to my face! Tell me the truth.’
‘I can’t… I’m so sorry… Lukas needs to tell you… I mean…’
‘Please do NOT take me for some sort of idiot. Look at you. You’re just his type… God, you look like a bloody model.’ The carving fork falls to the floor, and he storms into their living room. I don’t know where that carving fork has been, but I kick it under a shoe rack hoping he won’t go on the attack again. I tentatively follow him into his living room and look around to see the perfect real tree, the impeccable concrete and white décor, the pictures of them lined up on the mantelpiece. Inside, he finds a tissue box and blows his nose loudly. ‘I knew it. The last month he’s been so nervous around me, on the phone, taking phone calls in secret… I knew something was up, but I didn’t think it was this.’ He continues blubbing.
‘This really isn’t what you think it is,’ I tell him.
‘Then what is it? You’re in a dinner jacket, for fuck’s sake. Five years, we’ve been together. We’re down to adopt. I can’t believe… I guess he’s been lying to you, too, about me?’
‘Just take a seat. Please?’ I ask him. I have no idea what to do or say. He does what I tell him then looks me in the eyes.
‘Theo. There has been a very big mix-up here. Please. I’m not sleeping with your boyfriend. I’m not gay. I’m not from Amazon. I really think you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
He seems to gauge a sincerity in my tone that relaxes his shoulders.
‘But then why all the secrets? We’ve always been very open with each other,’ he tells me. ‘He must be hiding something from me. None of this makes sense.’
I see the look in his eyes that veers between all these different emotions but the primary one being love. He loves this man so much, he’s trying to work him out, to know whether his trust has been broken.
‘Sometimes secrets aren’t bad,’ I tell him, trying to level him out.
‘Secrets are always bad,’ Theo tells me.
‘But it’s the season of secrets, isn’t it? The gifts we hide at the back of wardrobes, the way we pretend to like our relatives, the white lies we tell about jolly men filling our stockings?’ Was that the right turn of phrase?
‘I don’t get you,’ he mutters, looking as if he’s trying to track my train of thought. ‘You have secrets?’
I shrug. ‘We all have secrets. I’ve been in love with the same girl for two years but have never told her and don’t think she’s that interested but hey…’
I’ve divulged something to a complete stranger I didn’t really need to and again he furrows his thick brows in confusion.
‘Why doesn’t she like you?’