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  • The only reason, I suppose, that we didn't call it quits when we were evicted from our Old Brompton flat was selfishness. Chanson had told me that he was to strike it lucky on his 21st birthday, inheriting a whole load of cash. He? Well, a conversation last night drove it home to me: his visa. Perhaps I should rewrite my stories.
    After searching for a considerable period, we managed to find a credulous Italian who would let us a flat for little deposit, no security and no letters. We moved into a tiny flat in Doughty Mews in Camden. It was another attic. The artist was back in his garret again. But this time the ceiling was so low that Chanson at 6'3" had to stoop to get around. There was a single ring, no oven and no cupboards or any other kind of storage. The bed was a collection of rugs and other fabric piled on top of each other. The room itself could be covered in about five paces. Far from my dream of material security - or just normality to build something good on - I had ended up back at the bottom of the heap. Our relationship at that point was also beginning to descend into something fairly hellish. Chanson was withdrawing further into himself and I was beginning to turn into a person I hated.
    The further that he withdrew, the more desperate I became to try and make contact. I was trying to organise him and his thoughts. The silence enraged me. I took it absolutely personally. And the fact I had to plan and cook all the meals and feel guilty about, if not actually do, the cleaning. We took refuge in sleep. Many was the day that I would wake up at 11 and stay in bed until 2pm watching the colours change in the room. There didn't seem to be anything to get up for. I was not able to write. There was not enough structure to create anything on. There was just my old computer and two browsers open - since you can't have two profiles open on Gaydar on the same browser. And we would hang around and wait for some old guy to chat to us.
    But it was soon to be Chanson's 21st birthday. March 21 came along and we celebrated by sitting in the gloom in front of a green screen. I already knew that the whole thing was a huge hoax, really, but I humoured the situation by asking a series of questions about how and when the money was coming, which were answered with single words. Eventually, it came out. There was to be no money. It was not true. What could I say? I could harldy be angry that my desparate grasping had come to nothing. But I could be unhappy that he lied.
    I began to be more sceptical. He found me emailing his contact at the Royal Opera House to find out whether he had been in the Royal ballet as he said (turns out he went to the college in Richmond).
    As another gloomy, empty day dawned, I was sitting in the dark with a pathological lying kid who didn't love me. And yet everything was becoming clearer by the day.
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