There is a version of me who has never existed, never tasted air or felt the sun on their face, yet I compare myself to him all the time. He is my nemesis. Why? Because he’s got it all.
I’m not talking about hick-town ambitions like being rich beyond your wildest dreams or even being Sunday Times bestseller six weeks in a row – although I’ll take that if you’re offering. This me, this Never Was, he doesn’t live glamorously, only better than I do. His eyes are clear and bright and his first yawn of the day comes ten minutes before bedtime, which is at the same time every night. When he wakes up in the morning, he’s never feels exhausted and the bathroom tiles are warm under his feet. He brushes his teeth for the full three minutes and doesn’t get bored. He never says ‘Oh I’ll do the HIIT class tomorrow instead’. He doesn’t just put things down, he puts them away. When he walks into rooms filled with strangers, he doesn’t lurk in corners, and there isn’t a light spray of perspiration on his forehead, because he walked at a normal pace, and wasn’t in a hurry. He never hurries. He remembers everything on his shopping list without checking even once. The lighting in the fitting room is flattering. He never has to suck his stomach in to fasten a top button. The skin on his face is all the same tone. Clothes hang off him, beautifully; they don’t pinch or sag or ruche. He is constantly able to find pleasure in things rather than search for the rain clouds. He has a light but strong touch and when he asks a question he sounds sincere and interested, not awkward. He knows where everything is in the supermarket. He is organised. His kitchen worktops are clear of debris. He never has to google adjectives to make sure he isn’t using them incorrectly, and he is thrifty with adverbs. He drinks lots of water, but somehow is never bursting for the loo at inopportune moments. He never worries about anything because why would he? Most importantly, he looks good wet.
I’ll be honest, I don’t drive myself mad over this, only occasionally letting my mind wander to check in on this perfect brute. But I’m fascinated by that strange wistfulness for an impossible ideal that either physicality or circumstance block you from fulfilling. Instead of descending into madness, I channelled that curiosity into creativity, into Leo, the main character of my next book Leading Man. Leo is taller than he would like, and has spent most of his life trying to origami himself into smaller shapes to avoid attracting attention. He’s gay, which he very much likes, but is conscious of not quite being the ‘right’ kind of gay man. He will concede that he has ‘a certain something’ but doesn’t match up to the ‘conventionally attractive’ ideal. His features are sharp and pointy rather than chiselled; his teeth don’t run in a perfect, gleaming rail of white; his nose is a talking point; his hair doesn’t fall perfectly over one eye like most rom-com heroes; he has a small patch of vitiligo on his face, and others on his body, that makes people look twice for all the wrong reasons; spin class destroys him; and, one trait we share, he doesn’t look good wet either.
At thirty-three, Leo is coming to terms with the fact that there are some things he can never be, telling us early on:
All that time I wasted wishing I were hot, with no discernible way to make it happen, went on longer than it should’ve, right up to my late twenties. What if the little patch of porcelain by my mouth, or its cousins at various points of my body, disappeared overnight? What if my dark thatch of stiff hair suddenly lightened and loosened into luxuriant waves that fell around my face? What if my eyes changed from dark, expressionless, peering currants into bright, blinking jewels that gazed or sent sensual glances across crowded restaurants to slick-haired men in tuxedos? What if my stature withdrew slightly to a respectable six feet, and my protruding rib cage retreated behind sculpted pecs atop granite abs? I imagined my arms and legs solidifying, toned, and moving in fluid slo-mo. Whatever. Every morning I looked exactly the same.
But that doesn’t stop him wondering. When he goes running, he can’t help but let his gaze linger for an extra second on other men and puzzle over the alchemy that makes them who they are but has somehow eluded him.
Looking at other men, I couldn’t work out where these bodies came from. Was it genetics? Diet, exercise, sport? Just dumb luck? They seemed out of reach. I couldn’t ever see my body transforming like that, it looked like too much hard work. So I accepted my fate, I wasn’t meant to look that way.
There are other hints that dreaming about being someone else might be getting in his way; he idealises a gay couple he happens to see on Instagram who always look happy together and stage perfect photos to mark special events. There is often bunting, and matching Breton tops. People always tell you that Instagram is just a snapshot, that their lives couldn’t possibly be so amazing all the time, away from the camera, but the fact is, fake or not, at least they have that experience. For Leo, and people like him, whose lives contain few moments worth committing to Instagram in the first place, these ideals only accentuate the gaps. When Leo finds himself not only chasing those perfect moments, but living them, he discovers that maybe… actually, perhaps I shouldn’t spoil it for you.
As for the other, perfect, nonexistent version of me, some of this I could actually achieve, if I really wanted. Especially the water, God. But they’re amazing to me, those cruel moments your brain decides to turn on you – usually thirty seconds after lights out – and wonders how life would feel without those petty obstacles. Most of which I placed in my own path, might I add. Maybe imagining the alternative universe version of ourselves coasting through life motivates us in a way, keeps us striving to make the next day better, the day that everything changes, the day you feel at peace. No bad hair days, no rainy weekends, no unkind lighting in fitting rooms, no skincare breakdowns. No worries. Emerging, glistening, from the shower looking like a god. Maybe tomorrow, eh? Mind you, the trouble with perfection is, the universe would soon find us new problems to solve; that’s how it works.
To borrow something I read on a fridge magnet once: you are you, and that is enough.
But, yeah, maybe drink the water.
LEADING MAN is a story about a drama teacher who’s used to being a background player all his life, until a new boss, a face from his past, and troubles in his friendships suddenly make him the star of a show. And he’s no idea how it’s going to end. If you can, pre-order LEADING MAN so other booksellers, critics, events organisers and readers can see it’s a horse worth backing. It is absolutely my best book and I never usually think things like that, let alone say them. It’s out 9 May.
PRE-ORDER LINKS: Waterstones, Bookshop.org, Amazon (ignore the cheaper paperback version, it’s a mistake, it’s hardback only), Bert’s Books, Foyles, and Lighthouse Books.
Here’s me ‘meeting’ the hardbacks for the first time:
A green read in itself… Full of intrigue…