“Don’t worry, darling,” Mummy said. “It’ll be old news by tomorrow, and he’ll be outraged about something else. It’s just your turn for the firing line today. You and the dinner service.”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to feel in that moment. On one hand, I’d been scooped on a story I had originally broken, by a man I had spent the entire week with and had come to really like—a man who had given no hint that he was working on a story as massive as this. I sort of felt tremendously proud of him. On the other hand, Sunny Miller’s rise had apparently led directly to my disgrace—and the end of a long-planned jaunt to the V & A with Uncle Ben. And for that, frankly, I was jolly well annoyed with him. Still, I couldn’t deny Sunny was setting the news agenda today. Council estate kid: one. Establishment: nil. I made a mental note to send him a message of congratulations on GayHoller. Later. I wasn’t feeling quite that magnanimous just yet.
Chapter29
Sunny
Stavros:If there’s not an indie band called the Soviet Honeypots by five o’clock this afternoon, youth culture is dead. Congratulations on your big scoop, Sunster.
Davinder:Hi, actual music journalist here. Pleased to inform you the Soviet Honeypots formed at ten minutes past midnight last night, when the early edition hit the streets. Their debut album, “Fingerbang,” is already topping the UK charts and is Spotify’s “most downloaded.” If you tune in to PureFM right now, you can hear my talented husband playing their debut single, “Bob Chooses the Nuclear Option and Ends His Career.”
Petey Boy:Dav, that’s peak, man. Sunny, congrats on the splash. If it was a weekday, we’d have got you on the yellow couch, boyo. Believe the hype!
Jumaane:Celebrate after yoga, yeah? Miss Timmy’s for Bloody Marys and a fat slice of Occasion Cake?
* * *
By eleven o’clock I had knocked off a bit of national breakfast radio, toned my tummy on the yoga mat for an hour, and was sitting opposite Jumaane in a booth in Miss Timmy’s, waiting for the other boys to turn up. I loved Miss Timmy’s. As gender non-conforming teahouses go, it was the best one on Old Compton Street. The house specialty was a chocolate torte covered in edible glitter. It looked like a unicorn turd, but the menu said it was perfect for any occasion—hence the name Occasion Cake. Specifically, the cake was “the ideal way to celebrate your birthday, bar mitzvah, coming out, going back in, changing your mind, changing your gender, gay wedding, gay divorce, meeting a new lover, reheating an old lover, getting over a lover, getting over the clap, the release of a new Zac Efron movie, or even just a particularly invigorating wank.” They knew their market.
My phone rang. It was that time of the week.
“Hiya Mum, did you hear me on theTodayprogramme?”
“I didn’t, love. I’m down the food bank cos I done a swap with Wendy from number thirty-three. She’s taken Shirley Trimble down A & E, cos that leg of hers has gone septic. I said to Wendy, better you than me. I ain’t holding Shirley’s hand while they lop her leg off. The doctor’ll be hacksawing away at her knee joint, and old Shirl will be rolling her eyes and telling him to stop making such a fuss. You can’t help these old dears.”
“Mum, a little focus.”
“Sorry, love. Well done on your big story. I haven’t read it, but I’m sure it’ll make a real difference.”
“I’m just sitting here with Jumaane. We’re having cake to celebrate.”
“HELLO, JUMAANE LOVE!” Mum was shouting into the phone. I had to pull it away from my ear.
“Did you hear that?” I said, as if they hadn’t heard it three tables over.
“Thanks, Stace,” Jumaane said, waving at my phone as if this were a video call. Honestly, the pair of them.
“THANK YOU FOR THE CHRISTMAS CARD,” Mum shouted.
“Mum, it’s nearly May.”
“You’re welcome, Stace.”
“YOU’RE A VERY WELL BROUGHT UP YOUNG MAN.”
“OK, can we call time on this love-in, please? We’re meant to be celebrating me today,” I said.
“Orright, love. Well, stay safe. When are you coming to visit me?”
“Soon, Mum.”
“OK, love. BYE, JUMAANE. And Sunny, remember what I said about fisting?—”
I hung up the call. Jumaane looked at me in disbelief.
“Don’t ask,” I said.
“No, we’ll be circling back to fisting in a minute, but does Stace really not read your work?”
