He’d also made the executive decision to keep us—the proverbial Us—vagueat official events.He’d hang around with my other personal guests, but since cameras were everywhere and my (our) relationship was good content that shouldn’t go to waste or detract from the anniversary, he’d forbidden any PDA.Which was horribly sexy in a Victorian, nightmarish way.Lakshmi approved, which made it worse.
In her slinky black dress and red heels, Lakshmi moved between people like a white blood cell, an antigen, herding brightly colored influencers toward me, and be-suited automatons toward one another.Should anyone approach me with a question, Lucas and Lakshmi had joined forces to provide me with a series of readymade answers.
They were mainly variations on: thank you, so glad to be here, so glad you could be here, so glad we could be here together, I am very excited aboutSurrogate Goose’s future, I am very excited aboutSurrogate Goose’spast, I am very excited aboutSurrogate Goosein this current moment, I am generally very excited.This, which you see before you, is excitement.Not abject fear and a desperate longing to cuddle my boyfriend.
I got a brief reprieve when Hettie Marks—human boulder, the lesbian, Jewish, gorgeous stone in her sixties who’d founded The Black Capeas an homage to the old Camden cabaret pub—wrapped a muscled arm around my shoulders and bravely talked at the encroaching storm cloud of cameras, phones, and boom mics.She’d first met me as a hopeful, comic-book-devouring teen, then as a strung-out, comic-book making (if not quite yet selling) twentysomething.
“I knownSGwas the real deal from the very first issue.”That uncut Cockney rolled across my sunburnt nerves like aloe vera.“Been hawking this lad’s wares ever since, haven’t I?Even if he is a gooner.”
I gave the requisite eye roll.“Can’t help where I grew up, can I?”I could see Sam whispering to Lucas, likely giving him a crash course in London football geography, class, and historical context.My sweet cowboy was nodding, frowning, and presumably trying not to look both bored and a bit frightened.
“I got all kinds coming through my shop, and everyone’s welcome, save for TERFs, Nazis, Tories, and Martha Comfrey.She knows what she did.”Hettie was slowly leading me—and the pack of lightly scandalized journalists—over to the scribble-covered wall near the toilets, known by locals as theLupanarafter ancient Roman dirty pictures.“Show ’em your dubs, love.”
God, this was embarrassing.Like presenting an old primary school project at a work function.Which was almost exactly what I was doing.
With heat camping in my ears, and stumbling over unnecessarily complex explanations for very simple artwork, I pointed out the few graffiti I’d added to the wall as a pubescent narcissist.Then everyone watched as I added a new one—not Harcourt, but a quick self-portrait from behind.The full Eisner.I answered more questions, then a Drake House person gave a little speech, and everyone laughed, applauded at appropriate intervals, and stopped paying quite so much attention to me.
Once the event had lasted roughly forty-nine years, the music turned up and the lights went from glaring white to a rainbow pulse.Despite the exhaustion and constant fear of saying or doing the wrong thing in front of the entire comic-reading world, the bass and rhythm crept up my hips in a friendly, familiar way.The crater in the back of my palette where safety wasn’t ached like a bruised bone, but Sam and Florabelle pulled me onto the dance floor.
“Come on, Armo, you remember how to do this!”
“Yeah, let’s show your Yank how we do it on this side of the pond!”
WherewasLucas?He’d stayed on the periphery with my friends, but now half of them were on the dance floor.I spotted the other half, Craig and Abigay, stalking a server with itty bitty sarnies.
I was doing my best not to feel cheated.I’d agreed not to cling to Lucas like a toddler to their transitional object all night, but surely we could dance together?The kind of socially acceptable dancing between adults that wasn’t exactlynotgraphic, but through a series of what I assumed were elaborate loopholes would permit me to touch my boyfriend in public in a way I hadn’t allowed myself all evening.
So where—
Lucas stood at the end of the bar.
And he wasn’t alone.
Lucas is Charmed, He’s Sure
October 1
The anniversary, according to anyone with eyeballs, was a raging success, even if Armand was too overwhelmed to appreciate it.But I’d been schmoozing, joking, and networking for the past three hours, and no matter how much I’d wanted to wrap Armand in my arms and shower him with pride and affection, I’d been good and kept a professional distance.I snapped photos and hung around Armand’s friends, not holding his hand or kissing him in public or any of the things I wanted to do.Which sucked, but then again, it had been my idea.I wanted Armand’s hard work to speak for itself without me around as The Boyfriend to pull focus.
This did mean, however, that as the lights dimmed and the music cranked a dancy pop song, that the only thing standing between me and making terrible dietary decisions at the buffet was a six-foot-four fortysomething with auburn hair and a crisp, crooked grin.
“Let me guess.”He leaned closer so I could hear.Even with the loud music, I could tell his voice bore a deep, very pretty French accent.“Would you happen to be the photographer who’s been taking such exquisite photos of Armand on FotoBom?”
For a second I was thrown that someone in his age range kept up with the youths on social media.But then I smiled back, gesturing to my camera that I’d laid to rest around my neck.“And here I thought I was being stealthy.”I held out my hand.“Lucas Barclay.”
He shook firmly.“Jean-Michel LaRoux,” he said with a straight face, though that was the most cartoonishly French name I’d ever heard.“Enchante, Lucas.”He plucked one of the chocolate eclairs I’d been gluttonously envying from the pastry tray.“A respectable turnout,” he remarked, glancing out at the packed room of now-dancing fans and art-world celebrities.“Though I do believe I saw a few people simply wander in from the street and head right for the dessert and champagne.”
That would explain some of the casual dress I’d seen.Everyone else, who I assumed were rich and famous artists, was in fairly formal attire, looking and smelling astonishingly expensive.I took in Jean-Michel’s Gaultier herringbone overcoat.“Can I assume then that you’re here on purpose?Fellow artist?Press?Prime Minister or whatever they have in France?”
Jean-Michel chuckled.“I’m agaleriste—art dealer.Previously anartistemyself.But, I’m afraid I must be completely upfront with you—it was not coincidence that we became acquainted.”He leaned closer again, a bashful twinkle in his blue eyes.“I am also LowRezMedici.”
“Oh my god.”The pretentiousness I’d been reading into those comments and DMs made way more sense now in a French accent.“I feel like I’m meeting internet royalty.”I toasted him with my flute of sparkling cider.“I should thank you for all your commenting and reposting—it’s been a bit of an uphill battle trying to build Armand’s platform from basically nothing.You’ve been a huge help.”
He grinned, raising a dark eyebrow.“I can imagine.Now please, you must tell me—you and Armand, you are together, no?”He quickly held a hand to his chest.“I will say nothing; it’s just that there’s such a poignant intimacy in your photos.It’s clear when the photographer is viewing his subject with great affection or desire.As you must know, the camera does not lie.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I hoped it was too dark for him to notice.“Well.There goes my plan to stay undercover.”More than ever I wished I hadn’t lost sight of Armand in the crowd.“We’ve been together a few months, basically since the Drawn & Quartered Convention in California, where I guess a lot of people saw us staring at each other, so.”I took a deep breath—why was I telling all this to a stranger?“I came with him back to London to help prep for, well,this, but now that it’s here ...”I managed an awkward shrug.“I don’t know.We haven’t really talked about it.”
Jean-Michel pursed his lips in sympathy.“Pity to have such a wonderful trip cut so short, don’t you think?”He nodded to my camera.“You know, I was serious when I asked for your portfolio.One of my connections and a dear friend Ichika Ito, who owns The Gallery Obscura, is in desperate need of a new artist to feature in her winter exhibition.There was a scheduling emergency; someone dropped out at the last minute.Tres terrible.” He pulled out his phone, tapping a few times before showing me the screen.“She has launched the careers of hundreds of artists, one of which is Patricia Yang.You may be familiar.”
