CAUGHT IN THE ACT

I'd been thinking my boyfriend might be gay.

Or possibly bi?

Whatever. All I know is that for the past six months I was convinced my boyfriend had been cheating on me. I've had no proof to speak of initially but I definitely started noticing strange things about his general behaviour as well as some very peculiar habits of his that slowly began to reveal themselves, those things you're never made aware of when you're first dating. I liken it to dating a serial killer. You probably wouldn't know anything about it up until the early dawn when you wake up after being suffocated with chlorofrom on his secret slaughter table - the one he's kept hidden in the basement along with his dart board and unused garden tools.

Anyway, I digress.

First of, he, as in Patrick, had began to regularly ask me about calender dates in advance to see what nights I was at yoga class, book group or staff drinks. He would get agitated if something got changed or altered at the last minute and would go into a huge sulk for the rest of the day.

I would watch him put his Bluetooth headphones on and fall asleep listening to something - I don't know what exactly. A podcast? Music?

Sometimes, when I came back home early from work, he would look flustered and talk hurriedly as if he was under the hot lamps in an interrogation room.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he snapped one time.

I assumed he had just been masterbating furiously in his office and got interrupted by my sudden return.

"Why are you being so defensive?"

"I was just focused on something."

Smiling coyly, I suggested that maybe he needed some help focusing to which he shouted back.

"I am a grown man! I can handle myself."

God knows, I thought. Perhaps he's having some kind of mental breakdown.

I talked it over with my girlfriends. We call ourselves the femafia where I consider myself the Marlon Brando of the group, only lately I've needed counsel from the other members regarding Patrick's strange behaviour.

"You should check his internet search history when he's not around. Or maybe search his phone for clues when he's in the shower?

"That's no good. He takes his phone into the shower with him."

"Don't we all?" my mate Charlie joked, as we all burst into laughter, instantly recognising our hypocrisy.

Definitely sounds like he's hiding something though," she added, sounding a note of caution.

Charlie has always had the annoying habit of being right about everything and her instincts when it came to men's misbehaviour were second to none.

That's why she is my chief consigliere, the Robert Duvall of our femafia.

One day, when Patrick had gone out to play squash with his buddy Paul, I decided to have a snoop in his office.

I had always wanted to be a detective when I was little. I used to love watching episodes of Columbo with my dad and then imagine I could solve all sorts of concealed crimes in our neighbourhood afterwards. Mind you, Mrs Roberts (the widow living next to us) wasn't too impressed when I believed (wrongly it turned out) that her late husband had been murdered.

I must admit that apart from the exceptionally well straightened stationary items around his desk, there seemed nothing untoward in Patrick's office. Everything seemed suspiciously unsuspicious.

Looking at his books and music library, I wondered if he was perhaps concealing anything in these unsuspecting places.

Running my finger along his many rows of CDs, I noticed interspersed among our amalgamated collection of indie, world music and hip hop albums some musical soundtracks which I'd never seen before: original cast recordings of Kiss Me Kate, A Little Night Music as well as Sweet Charity were just a few that prompted an imaginary Poirot-like moustache twirling inside my head.

I left the office, disappointed not to find a definitive smoking gun and figured I would have to bide my time before reaching any conclusions. I didn't want another Mrs Roberts on my hands.

A couple of weeks went by without incident and then, one night, I was woken up by the sound of Patrick sing mumbling something in his sleep.

Surprisingly I could actually decipher what he was saying and wrote some of it down on my notes app on my phone.

You'll be swell! You'll be great!
Gonna have the whole world on the plate!
Starting here, starting now,
honey, everything's coming up roses!

I thought nothing of it in the moment (aside from it being quite amusing) but mentioned it to Patrick over breakfast the following morning, only to discover he found it less so.

"You were singing in your sleep last night."

"I was? So what?"

"Something about roses."

He changed the subject quickly but his avoidance of the matter made me think it must be a clue of sorts.

Later, having googled the lyrics, I discovered it was from the musical Gypsy and found myself watching various renditions of the song on YouTube, including its most definitive performance of it delivered by Ethel Merman.

It was around this same time that I noticed a couple of these videos I'd been watching had already been upvoted on our smart TV YouTube account. The fog was slowly clearing.

How strange, I thought, that Patrick would know the lyrics by heart to such a song. Maybe it was one of his mother's favourites?

Curioser and curiouser.

The smoking gun I'd been looking for finally appeared a month later when I was doing a whole load of laundry one Sunday and something fell out of Patrick's back trouser pocket. It was a folded up ticket for a recent production of Company - a Sondheim musical (I googled it) at the Gielgud Theatre.

"Aha! Busted!"

I waited until later that evening to confront Patrick about it. Preparing a meal for him, I thought I'd kill him with kindness before launching into my line of questioning regarding the ticket stub.

"That was lovely," he said, seeming relaxed for the first time in a long while.

"Glad you enjoyed it."

I smiled at him with the sweetest smile I could present.

But I just couldn't hold it and I slammed the ticket down on the table like I'd just won at dominos and sent the salad bowl crashing onto the floor.

"What the hell?"

"You've been seeing musicals behind my back!"

"What?"

As a deflective gesture, Patrick tried to put the spilt salad leaves back in the bowl before our dog, Wag, licked any more of them.

"Leave it, Patrick! I want answers!"

He stood up, holding the salad bowl and looked guilty as Wag licked the balsamic dressing off his fingers.

"Alright. Fine. I've been to the theatre. So what?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because. I didn't think feel comfortable talking about it."

I have to admit, at this moment I was lost.

"Put the salad bowl down, Patrick."

Finally, he put it down and returned sheepishly to his seat.

"Alright. I'll tell you everything ..."

"So why did he keep it a secret?"

The femafia wanted answers and as the Don Corleone of the group I felt I had to be as transparent as I could about it.

"In a nutshell. He's been living a life of shame since he was nine years old."

"How so?"

"Well, he explained that ever since his father caught him watching The Sound Of Music one bank holiday Monday afternoon and forced him to switch over to watch a Clint Eastwood western instead, he's lived in fear of telling anyone about his love of musicals. "

I could tell George wanted more information.

"Has he been going with anyone to watch this shows?"

Nodding, I continued.

"There's a whole load of them. All straight. It's like a support group of something. Not dissimilar to us I guess."

I could see all my girlfriends were taking it in, wondering if perhaps their own boyfriends were watching musical theatre shows in secret. Perhaps even with Patrick.

"What I don't understand is why he didn't ask you to go with him? Why keep it all a secret?" George enquired.  

"Shame. Pure and simple. I've suggested therapy to help him feel stronger about telling others about it."

"You mean like coming out? " Jaq asked.

"Yeah."

I must say it took a lot of bravery for Patrick to tell his father how much he resented him switching channels that bank holiday afternoon back when he was nine but he did it, fully aware that this profound sense of shame he carried into his adult life had had significant consequences for him as a man and his personal relationships.

The truth is, he's making great progress now and we're slowly working our way through all the musicals he's loved in secret and sharing them together.

The only thing I haven't had the heart to tell him yet -

I hate musicals!