The Slow Invisibility of David
There was a conversation David once had with his mother when he was about fourteen. He’d complained about Bank Holidays—that there were too many of them. As mothers do, she agreed. Whatever had prompted the outburst had long since slipped from memory. He was a schoolboy and should have welcomed the extra day off, but Bank Holidays irritated him. They still did.
In truth, they had little relevance to his life. A Monday would be no different from any other. What he preferred were the ordinary ones, when he could go about his business while everyone else worked. Not so the May Day Bank Holiday. If the weather held, the parks would be crowded, and the small café he visited each afternoon would be overrun with snotty-nosed kids.
That, at least, was still to come. For now, David was spending Sunday evening with Joshua and his friends at the King’s Arms, despairing of the whole scene. Bank Holidays drew out all the idiots who would otherwise be glued to whatever rubbish Netflix was serving. A day off work gave them licence to get drunk and be insufferable.
There were advantages, he had to admit. The students were out—released from lectures, granted a day to sleep off the previous night. David liked students. He liked young men who still had their lives ahead of them, who could do things they were too young to regret in the morning.
Joshua noticed his look of desperation.
“At what point does a chicken hawk become a pervert?”
“When he turns sixty-three,” David replied. Only the week before, he had celebrated his sixty-second birthday, and in his mind the label did not yet apply.
Still, he felt uneasy. The handsome boys no longer paid him any attention. They were absorbed in their girlfriends—or boyfriends—and David had become just another older man, regarded, if at all, with a kind of pity.
“Do you see it, Joshua? Do you see that I’m slowly becoming invisible?”
“I fail to see why you’d be interested in anyone else when you should be perfectly happy with me.”
David chose his words carefully. “That I can’t deny. But there is such a thing as window-shopping.”
Joshua turned back to his friends and drifted into a conversation about Madonna and Rosalía. David was tempted to tell them that Madonna belonged to him—that he had grown up with her music, that she was older than he was—but the argument would have been futile. Madonna had long since transcended age.
Once, David had appeared on a television programme with her, shortly after she released her first album—around 1983. He had been introduced as an exciting young writer. She had liked his spiky hair and remarked that he was handsome. For a fleeting moment, he had wondered if she might be coming on to him, though that would have led nowhere. If only, he found himself thinking now.
Joshua’s friends accepted David as his partner, but they had no idea who he really was. It had always been his rule: tell no one he was a successful author. He preferred to be taken for the stereotype—a ‘sugar daddy’ with too much time and nothing to do. Had he told them the story about Madonna, they would have smiled politely and dismissed it as the invention of a fanciful old man. And David, in turn, would have felt guilt at not having anticipated this phase of life—the gradual slowing, the dimming, the uneasy business of growing old.
But David wasn’t that old.
It was a conversation he returned to often with Joshua—usually at Joshua’s instigation, lamenting that he would turn forty in October. David could never quite accept the premise. If anyone had the right to complain, it was surely him. He was still good-looking, his hair thick and intact, though he had to admit he’d filled out around the waist.
The trouble was that David still thought like an eighteen-year-old, without quite acknowledging that age catches up with everyone. While his contemporaries were beginning to slow down, even contemplating retirement, he resisted the idea that anything essential should change simply because the years had passed.
There was also the matter of money.
The royalties from his novels had dwindled, and without a pension sufficient to sustain him, he found himself uneasy about the future. Joshua’s artwork, by contrast, was gaining attention; David suspected he was now earning more than he did. And yet it was still David who provided the house, who carried the financial weight of their life together. Would Joshua care for him when he grew old? An outsider might have answered yes without hesitation, but David was less certain. The age gap unsettled him. Once Joshua was secure, it seemed entirely possible he might choose someone younger, someone more in step with his own life.
Had David voiced these fears, he would have discovered that Joshua had no such intentions. He felt a genuine loyalty, even a debt, and was entirely content in the relationship. The thought of leaving had never crossed his mind. But the unease remained, quietly lodged in David, impervious to reason.
David, too, had grown bored with writing novels. It was becoming harder to find original ideas, and harder still to bring them to a satisfying close. Where once he might have produced two books a year, the pace had slowed; he was fortunate now if he managed one every couple of years. Research, he found, gave him more pleasure than the writing itself. He could spend weeks preparing—filling notebooks with observations and plans—only to discover, when the time came, that the inspiration to shape them had quietly deserted him.
At times he compared himself to Arthur Rimbaud, who abandoned poetry at twenty in favour of a life of action, travel, and trade—if selling coffee and firearms could be called that. Rimbaud had turned away from literature altogether, declaring a need to be “absolutely modern”: action instead of words. After his turbulent and violent affair with Paul Verlaine—an episode that ended with a gunshot wound and a prison sentence—he had likely grown weary of Parisian literary life and the weight of his own notoriety. David sensed a kinship there—though Joshua, at least, had not shot him in the hand—and conveniently overlooked the fact that Rimbaud had been forty-two years younger when he walked away.
It was not lost on him that Rimbaud’s true fame had come only after his death. During his brief career he had been known, certainly—an “enfant terrible” in certain Parisian circles—but his legend was constructed later, through publication and the romantic myth of his life. David found something both comforting and unsettling in that thought.
Whenever he considered Rimbaud, he also thought of Leonardo DiCaprio, who had played him so strikingly on screen. David’s own life had, at moments, been just as scandalous—perhaps more so—but he could not imagine anyone wanting to turn it into a film. And if they did, who, exactly, would be cast to preserve him in youth?
His publisher had offered another, more immediate concern. It had been framed as a warning: reputation alone would not be enough, nor would it guarantee a living. There were new forces at work now. AI was coming, the publisher had said, and for writers it would prove not just a novelty, but a threat.
After a life shaped by “what ifs,” he found himself waiting for the great comeback—if it ever came at all.
He became aware, with a faint jolt, that he had drifted out of Joshua’s conversation with his friends and no longer had any idea what they were talking about. He sat with his drink, half-listening, when a young couple approached, each carrying a glass.
“Do you mind if we sit here?”
David didn’t and shifted to make room. The boy caught his attention immediately—shortish, slim, almost theatrically handsome, with dark hair that fell into something wild and a small cross hanging from one ear. The girl was taller, darker, her face sharply drawn. She might have been strikingly glamorous, if not for the absence of make-up and the careless way she wore her hair. There was something unkempt about them both, a deliberate kind of disarray—grungy, even—which David found compelling.
He felt himself wavering between Joshua and his friends and these new arrivals, uncertain where to place his attention. Had he been honest, he might have admitted to a quiet jealousy—of their youth, their ease, the sense of life still gathering around them.
I’ll write a play, he thought suddenly. I’ll leave London, go somewhere warm, somewhere bright. The idea amused him even as it formed. There was something faintly ridiculous in it—but then, he had always had a weakness for the dramatic.
The young man nodded to David, then lapsed into silence. Neither of them seemed inclined to speak, and the quiet between them grew dense. Had it not been for David’s interest in the boy, he might have left—retreated to the safer promise of a comfortable bed and a good book.
The pub had filled quickly; the bar was now three deep with people waiting to be served. David was nearing the end of his drink and had no desire to join them. Again, the thought of an early night presented itself as the sensible option. But the couple intrigued him—especially the boy, and the curious fact that neither of them seemed to speak to the other. Joshua is right, he thought; I am turning into a pervert.
His days, lately, had been taken up with preparations for the Wilhelm von Gloeden exhibition, and with the uneasy awareness that the photographer was now widely regarded as reprehensible. He thought, too, of Baron Corvo, that notorious writer who had made little effort to disguise his vices. Would he be judged in the same way, after his death? The idea unsettled him, though he could not quite say why—he had done nothing, after all, that he considered wrong.
“Do you fancy my boyfriend, or something?”
David started; he hadn’t realised the girl was speaking to him. He looked at her, puzzled.
“You’ve been sitting there staring at him ever since we sat down.”
“I was thinking, that’s all.”
“Jess,” the boy said quietly, “don’t make a scene.”
Fucking kids, David thought—always on the brink of an argument. And yet, perversely, he liked the boy more for it.
“Well, stop staring at him,” she said.
The boy rose, lifting his empty glass. “I’m going to the bar. Same again, Jess?”
She nodded. David braced himself at the prospect of being left alone with her, but the boy had barely taken a few steps before turning back.
“Can I get you a drink, fella?”
The offer caught David off guard. “Yes, thank you,” he said after a moment. “A white rum and tonic, please.”
The boy disappeared into the crowd. For an instant, David felt a childish urge to turn to Jess and stick his tongue out at her—but he resisted it, not least because she seemed almost to tremble with irritation.
“Have you been together long?” he asked.
“Six months,” she replied sharply.
“You make a very nice couple.”
“We are.”
Within seconds, the boy was back, three drinks in hand.
“How did you manage that?” David asked.
“I don’t hang about,” he said with a grin. “Push to the front and shout the loudest.”
“Thank you,” David replied, taking the glass. “What’s your name?”
“Harrison.” He offered his hand as he sat down, and David shook it.
David became aware that Joshua had noticed. He was watching the three of them with a faint, unmistakable suspicion. David found that he rather liked it—a small reassurance that Joshua, too, could feel jealous when something threatened him. He chose to ignore the look, and before long Joshua was drawn back into conversation with his friends. There would be questions later; David would answer them with an air of innocent mystery.
“It’s busy,” Harrison said, by way of small talk, as though waiting for something more to take hold. Jess said nothing, merely sipped her drink. David nodded, the only one to acknowledge him.
Writers, he thought, are curious by nature. They ask questions. He knew it would irritate Jess further, but he had not come this far in life by holding back. A trace of his old arrogance returned.
“Tell me about yourself, Harrison.”
The moment the words were out, he realised he should have said yourselves. But he hadn’t—and, privately, he was glad of it.
“Not much to tell,” Harrison said, though something in his eyes suggested otherwise.
“What do you do?” David pressed.
Harrison hesitated, then gave a small, crooked smile. “Do you really want to know?”
David nodded, leaning forward slightly.
“The truth is…” Harrison paused, as if weighing the effect of it. “I’ve just got out of prison.”
It was the sort of confession that might have unsettled most people. David, however, took it in stride. He felt, instead, a flicker of interest—something sharper, more dangerous. I’ve always liked bad boys, he thought.
“Go on,” he said, unable to hide his curiosity.
Jess shot Harrison a warning look, but he only shrugged.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Let’s just say drugs and knives were involved.”
“I don’t see you as the criminal type.”
“I’m just me,” he said with a shrug. “Things go wrong sometimes.”
“He’s a dickhead,” Jess cut in.
“What did you do?” David asked, ignoring her.
“I stole some drugs—top-grade ketamine. The blokes I took it from weren’t best pleased. They came after me, so… I stabbed two of them.”
“And you got caught.”
“Wasn’t difficult for the rozzers. CCTV and all that.”
The revelation should have landed like an apocalypse. Harrison was dangerous—there was no denying that—and yet he seemed almost to relish it. Still, there was something disarmingly guileless about him, as if the weight of what he was saying hadn’t quite settled. David found himself imagining Harrison in prison: too striking to go unnoticed. He was tempted—absurdly—to ask what it had been like.
“Forgive me,” David said, “but you seem too polite—too… innocent—for any of that.”
He felt Jess shift sharply beside him.
“For fuck’s sake,” she snapped. “He’s not right in the head. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re doing your best to get into his knickers.”
Harrison tried again to calm her. “Jess, shut up. He’s just being friendly.”
She turned on David. “What are you, then? Queer?”
David didn’t answer. He simply winked.
“It’s time we were going.”
Joshua was standing behind him. Whether he had heard any of it was unclear, though the timing suggested he had. David finished his drink and rose to join him.
“Nice talking to you,” Harrison said, almost apologetically, standing as well. “Sorry about… all that.”
David waved it off. “Think nothing of it. Enjoy the rest of your freedom,” he added, lightly.
Outside, while Joshua disappeared to the toilet, David lingered and realised he had enjoyed the encounter more than he ought to have. Another one bites the dust, he thought.
The door opened, and David hoped that it was Harrison who was coming after him. But things like that didn’t happen anymore. It wasn’t him.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 