“I want you to know that I wasn’t justhandedmy job. I graduated with a first from the LSE. I was the top student in my class. I aced theSentinel’s cadetship exam, but I also had job offers from the BBC, theTelegraph, and theSpectator. I chose theSentinelbecause it meant, every day, I got to work alongside the person I admire, respect, and love more than anyone in the world—to see up close how he does what he does. Yes, my father is the paper’s editor, but Iearnedmy place there on merit.”
I nodded. But I couldn’t let him get away with that. I swallowed, summoning a little courage as I risked ringing the bell on the start of round two.
“I understand that.” My nerves were making my accent slide back, which acted like a flashing neon sign pointing out our class difference. “But as much as you like to believe you got all those offers on merit, having the name Boche on top of all the applications won’t have hurt your chances. You must see that, surely?”
I waited for him to get angry, to strike back. Instead, silence fell between us. I looked into Ludo’s eyes and realised that what I’d just said had never occurred to him. He seemed, well, a bit crushed. Despite myself, I felt compelled to smooth things over. I only wanted the guy to acknowledge his privilege, not descend into depression.
“To be fair, youaretalented,” I said. “Last week made that painfully clear.”
It hurt to say, but Ludo brightened a little.
“Thank you,” he said. He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. “I owe you an apology too. I’m afraid I felt so jolly embarrassed after you called me out for messaging you on GayHoller that I basically goaded you into that fight. It was petty.”
That was a surprise.
“You stuck up for your family,” I said. “I would have done the same, mate.”
By this point I was feeling magnanimous. I’d somehow gotten away with it. Career saved.
“Why did you unblock me on GayHoller?” Ludo asked. Blindsiding your opponent with a left-field question is a hardcore interview technique, and I’d walked into it. But what to say?I wanted to trawl through your photographs because I’m obsessed with the colour of your eyes? I had a Saturday afternoon chub on and wanted to wank off to pictures of your extraordinary arse? I was unsettled after fighting with the Boche family dauphin and was petrified I’d ruined my career?I opted for the truth. Mostly.
“I was correcting a wrong,” I said.
“Unblocking someone on GayHoller is not an apology.”
“No, the wrong was blocking you in the first place. I only did it because VladPop kept suggesting we’d be great together. He saw your messages to me, and?—”
“Oh myGod. All the stuff about Posh Spice?” Ludo put his head in his hands.
“Also, I guess I wanted?—”
Ludo wasn’t finished.
“Holy mother of God, the chief whip has seen my profile pictures. The chief whip has seen my butt. Jesus, Bungo, and Great-Uncle Bulgaria, Sunny. What have you done to me?”
I put a hand on Ludo’s shoulder. The heat of his body was warm against my skin. He smelt of ironed linen and worn cashmere. Proper cosy.
“I’m in the dirt file,” he said. “We’rein the dirt file.”
“There isn’t any dirt.”
“There’s an awful lot of ballet butt.”
Indeed, there was. That took my mind somewhere else entirely. Ludo sat staring at the wall, his face in his hands. He sighed heavily but, I noticed, didn’t shake my hand off his shoulder. I imagined sliding it around him and pulling him into a hug, as if that might help him feel better. I shook the idea off. Where did that come from? I removed my hand. This was still a Tesco-versus-Asda situation. Ludo sat bolt upright, suddenly perky.
“Is that… Jessica Simpson?” he said, pointing at the poster on the wall.
“Wait, have you never seenThe Dukes of Hazzard?”
I jumped up and reached for the door, knowing exactly what the evening needed.
“Where are you going?”
“To get my laptop. We’re going to watch a film.”
* * *
It had been a long day, and we were both tired, but watching a truly terrible movie together seemed like an excellent way to put everything behind us and make a fresh start. Ludo had come alive at the suggestion, immediately calling it a pyjama party and opening the packet of crisps Mrs Gallacher had helpfully supplied alongside a few individually wrapped biscuits on the tea-and-coffee tray. Before long we were hunkered down on Ludo’s bed, computer in front of us, watching the General Lee get airborne and Boss Hogg get his knickers in a twist, laughing our tits off at the Christmas cracker–quality jokes.
