EXCERPT:

Guy was British equanimity to the core. No melodrama, no fuss, and always enough tea to re-float the Titanic. Guy could be accused, perhaps, of living in his own – comfortable, chilled, charmed – universe. I often envied him for that, though I knew in his case it was born of sincere confidence, not self-delusion.

Whereas I, on the other hand, lived in the real world, which was messy, prejudiced and emotionally tangled, and happening right now in my living room. The world where my mother turned a shade of colour I’d never seen on anything except museum parchment, and where my sister’s exclamation was rich and alliterative, courtesy of her expensive, convent school education.

Guy turned to me, still smiling, and asked me to fetch some more milk from the kitchen. His eyes danced with mischief. I sighed to myself.

My sister was behind me all the way, her peep-toes tagging against my trainers, her hissed commentary nagging at me. “What the hell is going on? Rob, are you listening to me? I don’t know what Auntie was thinking, saying something like that. I mean, you’re not in trouble again, are you? At work. At home. Whatever.” I paused to reach in the cupboard for a milk jug and Melanie halted abruptly, just before her knees bumped against my legs. “Look, you know what Auntie Queenie is like, she gets nuttier every birthday. Christ, she probably doesn’t even know what the word gay means, nowadays –”

“But it’s true,” I interrupted. I watched my hand open the fridge door and lift out the milk carton, as if someone else were doing it. The door sighed shut again: I sighed along with it. There was a certain relief, at last. “She was right. I am living with Guy. We are gay.”

There have been few times in my life when I’ve rendered my older sister speechless. There was some satisfaction that this was one of them.