That was brutal.
“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” I said, trying to rise above the crushing rejection by sounding lofty and indifferent. “Just to satisfy my curiosity, may I ask why there’s such vehemence in your assertion?”
“Not only are we professional competitors, which makes it a total no-go zone anyway, but we clearly have nothing in common as people.”
It felt like an assassination. I could almost understand Sunny’s first point, but the second? I felt unfairly judged, and my back was up.
“You know next to nothing about me,” I said.
“I know enough,” he said.
“Go on, then.” I was holding it together, but there was a lump in my throat that risked triggering my sensitive gag reflex. I felt ill.
“All right, then.” He swigged his champagne. “You’re a rich kid, so you’re probably used to getting whatever you want. Like your job, which, chances are, you got because of who your dad is. That’s great for you, but it will have squeezed out some poor kid who could have earned that opportunity based on merit and had their life changed forever.” Sunny swept a hand over the table, gesturing at the accoutrements upon it. “You’re the kind of person who has VIP-lounge access at fancy clubs and drinks expensive champagne, so I’d say you’re probably the kind of person who pushes on doors and they just open for you. That’s great for you, too, but where I come from most people push on doors their whole lives, and those doors never open. People like you dream of something, the doors open automatically. People like me dream of something, we have to go make it happen for ourselves—all while people like you hold the door closed in front of us.”
This jolly well hurt.
“You really have such a low opinion of me?” I couldn’t control the tears welling in my eyes. I was upset, but I was also deeply, wildly angry. I set my teeth, searching for the right words, needing to precisely eviscerate Sunny Miller, but my alcohol-fogged brain was falling hopelessly, desperately short. Then, above all the background music and chatter, a familiar laugh bellowed across the club.
“Whoisthat obnoxious bellend?” Sunny said.
Suddenly, I had all the words I needed.
“That’s my brother,” I said. “That obnoxious bellend paid for the expensive champagne you’re drinking. And for the VIP lounge you’re sitting in. I’ll grant you, his laugh is a bit grating. But let me tell you something. Jonty is doing a lot more to make the world a better place to live than most people, rich or poor. He spends thousands of hours promoting environmental causes for free. Why? Because he believes in them. He’s a goodwill ambassador for the Hazel Dormouse Protection Trust—an endangered species, by the way, and a charity which could otherwise only dream of getting the kind of publicity he gets for them with a single Instagram post. Last year he raised two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the Great Ormond Street children’s hospital, doing something I don’t quite understand on OnlyFans but which he assures our parents was absolutelynotpornography, and I for one believe him because the pictures would have leaked by now. OK, so maybe a few doors may open for him here and there because of who he is, but he’s using his influence to drive real change—because you know what, you sanctimonious tosspot, whatever you may think of ‘people like us,’that’sthe kind of people we are.”
To be fair, my little brotherisa massive bellend, but it’s like Uncle Ben said: you turn up for family, good or bad. I rather hoped I’d put Sunny in his place, but rather than look sheepish, he was shaking his head.
“A bit of charity work. That’s your defence of yourself? Of the whole corrupt system you belong to, and perpetuate, and benefit from?” He scoffed. “Mate, you’re so privileged you don’t even know you’re privileged.”
I’d had enough of Sunny Miller now. He needed bringing down a peg or two. Fortunately, I found the perfect final flourish.
“Privileged enough to know the difference between an otter and a beaver, at least.”
There was, unaccountably, no audience on hand to give me a round of applause, so silence fell between us. Sunny’s face was now so red it looked like someone had boiled it in a pot.
“I should go,” he said.
“Yes, I think you should.”
Sunny shuffled his way out of the booth. He stood for a second at the end of the table, tapping a finger against the wood, avoiding eye contact. His shirt had almost completely dried. The distraction of the slender, tightly muscled body under the fabric was gone. It had lost its lustre, anyway. Sunny tapped his fingers a couple more times, as if summoning the courage to speak. He gave me the briefest flash of those peridot eyes. I raised an eyebrow. His courage failed him. He turned on his heels and disappeared through the crowd. I didn’t care if I never saw Sunny Miller ever again.
Chapter11
Sunny
Notionally, Saturday mornings are for yoga. Jumaane and I had both joined the Gay Men’s Yoga Club as part of our ongoing husband hunt, on the promise that performing regular downward dogs gave you a bum as tight as a drum, vee-gutters so sharp they could cut the waistband on your CKs, and pelvic floor muscles strong enough to shoot a billiard ball out of your arsehole and across a crowded bar. Not that I’ve tried doing that. Someday, maybe. It’s good to have goals. But on this particular Saturday morning, an ashram full of swamis could not have convinced me to haul my arse out of bed and travel into central London, even if they promised to help me avoid the Tube by levitating there. My head was thumping. My breath smelt like a fox had curled up in my mouth in the night and died there. But, worst of all, my guts were in knots. I had gnawing regret about my fight with Ludo. While it felt good in the moment, it had been a very, very stupid thing to do, and in the cold, hard light of day, I worried the consequences might be long-lasting.
My phone vibrated on the bedside table. Hurricane Stacey was touching down to leave her regular weekly trail of destruction.
“Hiya, Mum.” My first words of the day squeaked out of me like a rusty garden gate. I coughed to clear my throat.
“You sound rough, love. Big night?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, I hope you were safe.”
“Not that kind of big, Mum. Just hung-over.”
