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Weekend
"deserves the widest possible audience and should not be missed "
reviews
First Published: 1990
Reprint: 1991



Two days in the life of a gay man in his twenties who is facing a crisis in his current relationship. Interwoven with the tensions between Mark and Robert are Mark's memories of two previous lovers - Gene, an introverted and self-sufficient painter who lives in Paris, and Carl, a barman who is content to do little more than commute between home and his lover. To an outsider these affairs appear neither deep nor long, but to Mark each has been almost frighteningly intense.


My first novel, not surprisingly autobiographical, a young man's book with a young man's desires, fears and ignorance. As is common in my work, language and character predominate. On re-reading, I am still pleased with the rhythm and flow of words and ideas and I hope they impress others the same way. The extract below opens the book.





Mark was woken from a warm and comfortable dream by the distant sounds of Ben in the kitchen. Once recognised, the vague noises that resolved into the clatter of cutlery and plates ceased to disturb him and he shifted position slightly as if stretching out,
Weekend by Martin Foreman

Third House, UK
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letting his toes curl over the foot of the mattress and half-smothering his face in the crook of an arm, would allow him to slip more easily back into sleep. He was held back, however, by a dense and grey emotion, a deep, almost painful regret which hovered like a low dark cloud that threatened to become at any moment damp and unwelcome rain.

For a few minutes Mark lay, his thoughts as motionless as his body, knowing that even the slightest effort to recapture sleep would only frighten it away. The world receded; sounds became fainter. Light faded into dark and touch melted but his consciousness, instead of dissipating, focused on the cloud, saw it slowly take shape, resolve into Robert's features, his look of hurt and accusation, his words of disappointment, his refusal to be kissed or even touched by Mark as he walked away.

As if to sweep away the memory, Mark turned over and opened his eyes for no longer than was necessary to read the bedside clock. In doing so he saw that he had not only woken disagreeably early for a Saturday morning but that his room was filled with a summer light that London, and Mark, seldom knew. The attraction of sunshine, warmth and clear skies on a day when he did not have to teach, however, was weaker than that of sleep, and he turned onto his side, withdrew his head beneath the covers and hugged the pillow as he would have hugged Robert, as he had hugged Carl and Gene and others before them. The action was as momentarily satisfactory as a reflex, but the pillow's softness, its smallness, its lack of smell and resistance, soon irritated and he pushed it away.

Surrendering, Mark reached out a hand and switched on the radio. The bright and jaunty music dragged him gently awake while the cheerful voice of the presenter conveying a bland message of love from one unknown listener to another was reassuring, as if hidden in his words or tone was the promise of a prosperous and propitious future. Mark felt life and strength return to his body and limbs and he opened his eyes to acknowledge that he was at last fully awake. Pushing himself up to a half-sitting position he looked round as if almost expecting a knock on the door and a bell-hop to enter, carrying a silver tray with orange juice, coffee and the other trappings of breakfast.

With consciousness, however, came memory and as the images and words of the previous evening flowed back, so the sunshine which had saturated the room with optimism seemed suddenly dull, colourless, a pledge of joy and happiness that would never be fulfilled. It was as if he had awoken not only from the previous night's sleep but from the last three months, and the growing happiness he had felt had been no more real than the morning's dream which had already faded from his mind. He would, he knew, see Robert again; they would go out together, perhaps even sleep together as before, but he was no longer sure, as he had been twelve hours earlier, that their relationship would continue to develop, that their love would broaden and deepen.

He pushed back the duvet, stood up and went over to pick up one by one the pile of clothes that lay on the chair, less conscious of his actions than of the conversation of the previous night. As he pulled on underwear and jeans and searched through a drawer for a clean tee-shirt, he tried to understand why his initial and righteous feelings of hurt had diminished into guilt and sifted through Robert's words for any indication that the cut was not deep, that it was only Robert's vanity and not his self-respect that had been wounded. The only conclusion Mark came to, however, was that his ineptitude and self-centredness had all but destroyed everything that he was eager and impatient to build.

He could remember every word, not of the earlier part of the evening, their banter as they walked up Tottenham Court Road to the Indian restaurant behind Euston Station, nor later their intensity as they talked for what seemed like hours over the puri, dhosa and kulfi, but the end, when it had all begun to fall apart, when Robert had asked in the occasionally formal manner that in others would have seemed ridiculous but in him appeared perfectly natural, 'Can I ask you something?' And Mark had known what the 'thing' was, had, foolishly, he now realised, thought it buried and forgotten, unaware that it had merely stood patiently aside, waiting for the moment when, undisturbed by pressures of time and place, it could reappear.



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