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Chapter Six
Simon muttered to himself as he was closing the restaurant that he should not have been so forward, that he was sure Robin would mis-read everything, and what a bloody fool he was for imagining a man as worldly and urbane and educated as Dr. Robin Layton would find Simon attractive, and a million more whippings he repeated for at least the thousandth time in his life as an adult gay man.
Simon also promised himself to find a reasonable excuse to call Robin, when was it? Before the beginning of next month? To check on him before his trip to San Francisco. He could slip in a recommendation for a bar or a restaurant as a reason for calling, and perhaps set up another meeting at D'Urban. He would have to speak with Stuart and Raj to see if they had any sense of what Robin's feelings might be. Oh God, what a juvenile approach, he whipped himself again.
Simon Robertson had been in the US about half of his adult life; after leaving the Army in South Africa, where he had been trained as a cook, he took a job with the Los Angeles office of the British Consul General. Following that, he spent a few months in culinary school, which he abandoned for a run of jobs in Beverly Hills eateries, some boutique, some greasy-spoon, but garnered a lifetime of experience before coming to the attention of Peter Schilling and Mario Garza, first as a chef/caterer and then as a business partner in the Malibu restaurant which Robin had just left.
Lying in his third-story loft apartment, he thrashed while listening to the wind and the waves, trying to calm himself to fall into sleep, but not succeeding. Simon was fascinated by this man to whom he had served dinner: actually a meager dinner by Malibu standards, but one for which he could be proud nonetheless. The next time he had a chance, he had to blow the windows out with a magnificent feast for Robin.
But why for Robin? Simon knew almost nothing about the man, except that he was a grad school professor, that he had written some books, and he was neighbors with Stuart and Raj. It niggled at him that he was fascinated by a man whom he had just barely met. He finally got out of bed and took one of his rarely-used sleeping pills, downing it with a large slug of scotch.
The next morning, unlocking the doors of the service entry to the restaurant, he felt the effects of the scotch and the sleeping pill. It was not a familiar sensation and not a friendly one either. He slammed around the kitchen, the pantry, and the office, finally drawing up a short agenda for himself for the week, and was glad when his head cooks reported in. He showed them the plans for the day and locked himself in his office for a long whipping over a large cup of very black coffee. The cooks were aware enough to give the boss a wide berth, and proceeded to their assignments with diligence, being careful to avoid any unnecessary banging of pots and pans.
By the beginning of the dinner rush, Simon was feeling pretty chagrined at the way he had acted through the day and complimented the cooks and the remainder of the kitchen staff as well as the maître d' on a great and professional job; he truly appreciated them. He also warned them that he was contemplating a few days off for personal business, not with any dates in mind as yet.
While locking up for the day, tracing his steps back out through the service entrance just as the day had begun, Simon was only slightly more satisfied that he had a handle on what was happening in his life and how to steer the boat.
Peter called Simon's cell phone just as he was reaching his apartment. "Hey old friend, how are things? Do you have a minute?"
"Certainly, mate, what's up?"
"Well, I just got off a long conversation with Stuart and Raj, and thought maybe I could share a heads-up with you."
"Interesting. Go on."
"Look," Peter continued, "I have no background for this except what I have been told by Stuart and Raj, but it seems that Robin is on the rebound, and may not be looking for a serious new relationship right now, in fact he has not said anything about that to Stuart or Raj. So it might seem judicious if you soft pedal for a while, until Robin gives you a signal that he is ready to get serious."
"OK. Lovely."
"What?"
"Nothing, I just have been whipping myself for 48 hours about Robin and why I am suddenly developing a crush on him."
"Shit."
"Yeah. Shit."
There was silence on the line for a long moment; "Do you want to come over and talk about it? Mario and I would love to see you again."
"No, but thanks, I just might take a day or two off, get out of town, get some fresh air."
"Well, let us know how we can help."
"Always, thanks Peter, give Mario my love."
"Certainly."
Simon rested his forehead on the leather-bound steering wheel for a moment before proceeding on up to the third-floor apartment. Was he serious about getting out of town for a few days? Why not? He deserved a day off; it was his fucking restaurant after all.
After another fitful night with scotch and a sleeping pill, he arose in the morning and made arrangements online for a 3-night stay in Puerto Vallarta; he drove to the restaurant and waited for his crew to arrive, and filled them in, then drove to LAX. While finding a place to leave the car at airport parking, he sent Peter a text message filling him in.
"Bon voyage" was the response.
The flying time direct from LAX to Puerto Vallarta is just over three hours; it took Simon all of that to drive from Malibu to LAX and find parking and claw his way through the TSA security checkpoint; consequently by the time he was checked in at his hotel on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, and had found his assigned chase lounge on the sand in front of the hotel Blue Chairs, he was exhausted. He wanted nothing more to happen this day other than consuming an entire pitcher of Margarita.
The overly-attentive young hotel attendants, wearing tight black lycra shorts with bulging crotches and white polo shirts were attempting to keep Simon satisfied, but Simon found them only annoying. He fell asleep in the chase and was gently awakened just after sunset by a waiter, asking if he wanted another pitcher. He responded in the negative, and found his way to his room on the third floor of the hotel, showered and changed for dinner. A brochure in the lobby had directed his attention to Bonito, a pan-Asian seafood restaurant within walking distance from the hotel.
A bottle of wine and a round of tonkatsu ramen with bonito later, Simon was too drowsy to walk back to Blue Chairs and asked the maître d' for a taxi; he was helped into the car by his very anxious waiter and fell asleep before reaching the porte cochere of the hotel. In a more aggressive city, he might have been apprehensive, but Puerto Vallarta depends almost solely on tourist revenues, so voluntary social compliance with laws and general solicitude prevails.
Coffee was the next order of the day, after he was able to wedge open one eye and search for the time; it was nearly 9 AM, and his brain was banging inside of his cranium in rhythm to the ringing of his cell phone. It took more than a minute of stumbling around the hotel room to locate the source of the offending noise; through the heavy fog of his Margarita hangover, Simon was able to find the phone and press the appropriate button to hear Peter Schilling leaving a voice message.
"Stop shouting" Simon begged Peter; the laughter was even more painful than the ringing of the phone had been. "I'm not shouting" Peter exclaimed, "but I am wondering how things are with you this morning and if you are still in this hemisphere?"
"I am barely alive, or at least the pain is telling me I am alive, so after I have consumed about a gallon of coffee I will call you back and we can chat, ok?" Simon did not wait for a response from Peter but ended the call and sank back down on the bed.
It was at least an hour when he fulfilled his promise to return Peter's call, but he was feeling much better; a large amount of coffee, a tepid shower, and stripping open the curtains all helped to prepare him for life among the ambulant.
"Well, how are things? Any news from the tropics?" Peter had always considered himself a comic; this morning it was merely painful.
"I'm bordering on fine, but that may take a few more hours to come about; I drank far too much last night, had some mediocre Vietnamese food, and today I need to continue drinking to make up for all of the years of celibacy."
"You? Celibate? Not that I have heard!"
Simon was trying to prepare an appropriate Army commando-style retort but did not have the mental energy; fuck it, he resolved, just get to the beach bar and have a lot more alcohol.
He muttered something to Peter about spending another quiet day or two in Puerto Vallarta, avoiding all of the tourist claptrap such as the zip line through the jungle tree-tops or the glass-bottomed boat trip or the four-wheeler adventures, vowing to have a quiet day alone on the beach.
Peter laughed and said "Well good luck with that plan; just don't miss your flight home!" Simon promised to call Peter when he landed back in LA, and disconnected.
Los Angeles is one of a handful of cities on the planet which are complex enough to allow two ships to pass in the night not cognizant of each other's presence; its only rivals in that regard may be London or New York City. Other major cities such as Tokyo or Paris or Mexico City, even Buenos Aires and Miami, have enough tribal neighborhoods to compress social distancing so one rarely goes un-noticed.
Simon was an example of that phenomenon: he felt all alone in the City of Angels, not that he was self-indulgently pitying, but realizing he had been alone for all of his adult life.
We humans are social animals, we grow and learn and develop through social interaction, we learn the pleasure of a touch from our first skin-to-skin contact with a parent, we learn the benefits of bonding as well as boundaries through siblings and extended family, we learn speech and language and grammar through listening to others and we learn un-written rules of behavior, politeness, sympathy, and control through mingling with the myriad humans that surround us.
As we go along decade by decade, jostling through the crowds of men and women and Yanks and Rednecks and peddlers and ne'er-do-wells and preachers and evangelists and Hare Krishnas, we learn perspective and self-containment and the value of keeping one's own counsel. Simon had kept his own counsel for far too long, he realized; maybe this infatuation, this crush he was developing over Dr. Robin Layton, was finally the excuse he needed to leap up out of his long-occupied trench and come back into the broad sunlight.
The Airbus 320 was landing at LAX, and as soon as the all-clear had been issued, he turned on his cell phone and made two calls: first to Peter to notify him that the western hemisphere was still intact, and second to Robin Layton. His first call was filled with laughter and a promise to visit in person as soon as possible, which meant after the weekend rush at the restaurant, and the second was greeted by a voice-mail announcement.
He was deflated by the second call, but determined to treat it as merely a temporary annoyance; he would continue to find ways to get better acquainted with Robin and build a pathway to romance, if that was still possible in contemporary America.
Meeting with Peter and Mario on Monday, Simon made a proposal: most of the Malibu crowd which had gathered to celebrate Masons' annual observance might enjoy gathering together again for the New Year holiday. It was probably already too late to make plans for everyone to come for a Christmas feast, although Peter and Mario both longed for the old days when family was sacred, and Christmas was the single major event.
Simon proposed having the restaurant close early to the public, but re-open at 10 PM for the Malibu crowd, including as many from the old days of the sex parties as could be located.
Peter and Mario both eagerly agreed and volunteered to assist Simon in the planning and financing. Simon called his wine supplier and ordered two cases of Veuve Clicquot and Moet Chandon together with three cases each of Pacifico beer, Bud Light, and Coors Banquet beer, and made a note of a quick and easy buffet supper filled with salads, appetizers, and seafood (it was early in the Dungeness crab season).
Mario grabbed his laptop and found a list of contacts, including Phil Downey, Jerry Ride, Yoshio Sato, and Tad Carlyle, all veterans of the sex party days. He sent quick short emails to each, announcing the New Year's Eve party at Simon's restaurant, and asking them to contact as many of the old faces as they could.
Peter meanwhile made phone calls to Stuart and Raj, and asked them to contact Terry Baylor at the law firm, as well as Carlos Rivera and his husband Chris Martin. Peter also called Joaquin Mendez in Santa Barbara, and invited him and his new husband, Felipe Marquez; he tried to reach his cousin Paul Campbell, to extend an invitation to him and his husband David Branson, and his last call was to his nephew Sam Stephenson, whom he invited with his husband Mickey Clarke.
David Branson was at that moment in a two-day-long meeting in San Francisco with the monthly advisory panel for the San Francisco Federal Reserve Bank and would likely hear from his husband Paul Campbell when he fell into bed late that night in his pied-á-terre within walking distance from the bank. Robin received his voice-mail message on his cell phone from Simon equally late, when he was bedding down at the Union Square hotel St Francis. He made a mental note to phone Simon in the morning during coffee before the panel assembled for the second day of presentations and debates.
Simon counted twenty possible partiers, including spouses, if everyone came. He was not aware of spouses for a few of the names, as he had not met some of them, such as Yoshio or Jerry or Terry, but he was confident he could throw a pretty grand god- damn New Year's Eve party anyway.
Simon had no illusions about this becoming a replication of the old days when Mason's home was filled with surfers and waiters and neighbors, but he intended for it to be well-lubricated.
Caviar, lobster bruschetta, shrimp cocktail, oysters Rockefeller, crab cakes, lamb kebobs, prime rib, grilled salmon, antipasto salad, fresh fruit, Key Lime pie cheesecake, molten lava chocolate brownies, Tres Leches cake with Bailey's, crudites and charcuterie; Simon showed his menu to Peter and was greeted with "Who are you trying to impress?"
"You of course" Simon laughed, although they both knew it was Robin. Mario glanced at the menu and chuckled; "You know it will probably just be the three of us, maybe also Robin, who will taste the caviar."
Simon was happy; he knew this was going to be a blow-out, the biggest party he had every sponsored for his own purposes. It was going to be the Simon Robertson version of the old Mason Taylor parties at the beach house in Malibu, perhaps without the sex and debauchery; it was going to be the launching party for his attempt to capture the heart of Robin Layton.
He spoke with his maître d' about the event, and was delighted to learn that the maître d' had a jazz combo, and volunteered to play for the party. Simon silently vowed to give that man a huge end-of-year bonus. He also printed an announcement for the employee bulletin board asking for volunteers to serve, with double wages for that night.
His cell phone rang; it was Robin Layton. He was suddenly apprehensive; he had not actually spoken with Robin in a month. "Good morning, I'm involved in meetings in San Francisco, so I only have a minute to talk, but thanks for the party invitation, I would love to come and see you again, so I guess this is my RSVP."
"That's great" Simon muttered, and wanted to ask `when can I see you again before the party' but decided it probably sounded like whining, so he merely wished Robin a good day and safe trip back to LA. Consequently, he was totally taken back when his phone rang again in the late afternoon; it was Robin again.
"Sorry to interrupt you, I know you are probably very busy with the evening crowd at the restaurant, but I just landed at LAX and I am starving so I was wondering if I could drop by and have dinner?"
"Well, of course, any time, you are always welcome."
"Great, thanks, I will see you in a couple of hours."
Simon was now nervous; he had not been nervous on this order of magnitude since Army basic training. The SANDF (South Africa National Defence Force) had universal conscription for all 18-year old males, and required two years of duty. Simon stayed in for a total of five years, finally trudging to Europe and Great Britain and then New York City and Los Angeles.
He could not understand why he was shaking after hearing Robin's voice; certainly he had encountered many men with an equally intimidating presence. The minutes ticked by slowly, and Simon was sweating each of them.
Robin appeared in the main entrance of D'Urban, and was whisked inside by the maître d', who had the presence of mind to find Robin a seat nearest the picturesque bay window facing the now-fading sunset over the Pacific. While the busboy was filling Robin's water glass and the waiter was carefully intoning the evening's prixe fixe menu, Simon `wandered' over and tapped Robin on the shoulder, interrupting the waiter who merely faded into the woodwork.
"Good evening, have not seen you in forever" Simon faintly muttered, still nervous.
"Hi, sorry, been frantically busy with the end of the semester and business travel and, well,,,," Robin drifted into silence, sensing Simon's nervous energy.
They were locked in a quandary: each wanting to say so much more, and neither knowing how to broach the subject they shared.
Robin leaped into the chasm, and began "Actually, please, sit, I have to say something."
Simon gasped, he was deathly afraid this was the beginning of the end for a romance that had not fairly begun.
"I have been afraid to call you, see you, visit you, I have been avoiding you, for multiple reasons, but the primary reason is, you have dominated my thoughts, my dreams, and I have not been able to sleep, I think of you constantly, jeezus, I am sounding like a junior high school kid longing for the head cheerleader."
Simon interrupted him "I am the same. I have not been able to sleep, you are there constantly in my thoughts."
Robin was suddenly short of breath: "Well what shall we do about this?"
Simon's laugh brought Robin up abruptly: "Well you are the wise academic thinker, certainly you might have an idea?" Simon seemed almost callous in his remark.
"Yes, in fact I do. In thinking about you and recognizing how dominant you have been in my mind, I have thought that at the very least, I owe you the courtesy of being cautious, I do not want to hurt you any more than I desire to be hurt, so if it sounds like I am begging off, forgive me, but can we please take this slowly, a small step at a time, and spend some time to get to know each other, there is so much I want to learn about you, and I think those steps are necessary to setting the correct foundation for us both. "Don't make me close one more door, I don't want to hurt anymore1" Robin finished and sighed, afraid he had over-stated his case.
"I am dead on target with you and that is exactly what I was thinking; and you are a musician as well" Simon replied.
"Well then here is to us" Robin looked around for his wine glass to hoist in a toast, but having only water, smiled while Simon chuckled.
The waiter, who had been witness to all of the romantic drama, also chuckled and motioned to the sommelier, who brought the wine glass and the wine list which Robin waved away and said "Tiger Mountain Cabernet Franc" which sent the sommelier sprinting to the wine cabinet.
"And, what is for dinner?" Robin asked, deadpan.
The waiter stepped up and said "Wilted spinach salad with bacon dressing, Dungeness crab bisque, parmesan croissant, petite sirloin au poivre, galette of mushrooms with three squashes."
"Wow, better than anything I had in San Francisco" Robin volunteered.
"We do our best" Simon added.
"You are the best chef I know of on the west coast" Robin said, and they looked at each other and smiled, that fresh romance lover's coquettish smile, the one in which lovers can barely stand to prolong the gaze for the intensity of the moment.
Robin had spent many years in academic debates and interrogations, had defended academic papers and colloquies, and had built a reputation far and wide in his discipline as the best in the arena of business leadership, so a hard gaze into an opponent's eyes was a small challenge, but this was much more intense, this was bordering on pain.
Not that he could not look at Simon, but doing so at this moment would bring Robin and perhaps Simon as well to the edge of their joint precipice: take the leap? Back away? Stay and enjoy the exciting luxurious pain of new love?
Simon decided to retreat to the kitchen and "check on your dinner" he muttered as he spun away from the table; intense emotions were not his style, but dear god in heaven this man engendered such new and dangerous thoughts and feelings.
Robin sighed, then gulped a huge swallow of the wine, and chuckled; he was absolutely on target with Simon: they had shared a moment, not un-noticed by the waiter, the sommelier, and the busboy and several diners.
Following dinner and a third glass of the wine, Robin asked for the remaining half of his dinner to be boxed; he would enjoy it at lunch in the faculty lounge. Simon accompanied him to the door and embraced him before Robin turned to skip across the parking lot to his Aston-Martin, and fairly flew home south along PCH to Hermosa Beach and his beloved bungalow. He enjoyed the first deep sleep in many weeks, and he was sure that the steak was not the cause.
Noon following, Peter and Mario dropped in at the restaurant to meet with Simon and go over final planning for the New Year's Eve party: Simon shared the menu with them, and Mario merely whistled, and handed Simon his American Express card; Peter was laughing and said to Mario "You know who he is trying to impress."
"Not me, I hope" Mario replied, and they both laughed.
"Well, actually, he was here for dinner last night, and we kind of got some tentative things settled, or at least, headed in the right direction."
Simon filled them in on the events of the previous evening, and all three were smiling as the sommelier brought them each a glass of Chardonnay, from a well-established winery in Santa Barbara, "Recommended by a frequent customer" he said.
"Joaquin and Felipe" Simon shared with them.
"So tell us about Robin" Peter begged.
"Don't be intrusive" Mario patted Peter's arm.
"I'm ok," Simon answered, and then "he wants to take things slowly, which I agree with, and" but then Peter interrupted "Slowly? You?" and they all three laughed loudly.
"Actually, I hate that idea, but I suppose it is like salmon fishing. You have to set the hook and then slowly reel in the big one."
"Wow, never saw it that way" Mario chuckled.
"Have we ever been fishing?" Peter asked his husband.
"No, but there is a chance I suppose."
"We should go next summer, maybe to Alaska?" Peter was having a hard time staying on track.
"Another dollar in the non-sequitur jar" Mario muttered.
Both Simon and Mario chuckled; the non-sequitur was typical of Peter. "OK, fishing in Alaska next summer, maybe we can make it a double date, but back to the topic at hand," Mario tried to control the shift in the sequence.
Mario asked Simon "Do we have everything needed for the menu?"
"Yes, except the alcohol, which will be delivered tomorrow, and all of the food will be here the day after, so we have two weeks to make sure the preparations are complete."
Peter and Mario were quiet as they drove back home; both loved Simon and considered him family and were equally concerned about him.
Peter brought it up first: "What if this all goes to Hell?"
"There is always that possibility; we just have to be prepared to catch the pieces as they fall."
Two others were having the same thoughts at that moment: a grad school professor and a restaurateur.