“Never has.”
“Sod that, babes. My mother has every single copy ofPastiche MagazineI’ve ever worked on. Even if all I did was write the captions.”
“IthinkMum does it to stop me getting ideas above my station.”
Jumaane looked horrified. A drag queen rolled up to take our order.
* * *
I was three Bloody Marys and a Long Island iced tea into our brunch when the notorious GayHoller chime pealed from a telephone. Every gay in the vicinity (except Dav and Nick, who had no need of GayHoller because they were unbearably loved up) checked their phone.
“It’s for me,” I called out, like a teenager in a nineties sitcom who had answered the family phone to find her girlfriend on the other end, ready to gossip. A round of applause went up from nearby tables. Gays were so sarcastic-slash-supportive. It was hard to know which this was. I had so much booze in me, I didn’t much care. I opened the app.
Cabbage98:Bravo, Ginger. You kept that quiet. Father was so miffed he smashed a plate, so you’re pissing off all the right people. He’s making me work tomorrow, as punishment for missing your “sexclusive.” I’d cut the brake cable on your car but I’m not sure if you even drive. Still, well done. Posh x
That made me smile. I replied telling Ludo where we were and suggested he join us. I wasn’t sure why I did that. It might have had something to do with the three Bloody Marys and the Long Island iced tea. It also might have had something to do with the fact that, in the days since getting home, I’d also started to miss his company. I missed the banter, the cosiness, the smell of warm linen and cashmere. I missed hanging out. Was it a good idea to invite him, though? It was too late. I’d sent it. Somewhere across London, the GayHoller chime was pealing a notification for Ludo Boche.
“Er, who is that?” Nick said. I felt the flush of heat in my face, and I knew my skin had betrayed me. I put my phone back down on the table.
“Whoever it is, Sunny’s got the hots for him,” Dav said. “I haven’t seen his face that red since that day he fell asleep on the beach at Hornsea.”
“Shut up, I do not. It’s just a colleague.”
“A colleague texting you on GayHoller?” Stav said. “If you say so, Romeo.”
“Your message waslong, bruv,” Petey said.
“It’s just one of theSentinelreporters saying congrats. That’s all.”
A quick look at the faces around the table told me not a single one of the Brent Boys believed me. If Ludo did turn up, they’d be unbearable. It was better to rip the Band-Aid off, tell them what I’d done, and let them get it out of their system before Ludo arrived. If he came.
“Ididinvite him to join us a bit later,” I said. A chorus of “ooooooh” went up around the table (sarcastic, not supportive). I rolled my eyes. Petey’s hands were flapping like a maimed seagull.
“O. M. G.Whichreporter? Please tell me it in’t that Ludo Boche geezer?” he said.
“Why?” I swallowed. “Christ, you haven’t slept with him, have you?” While it might be against my professional code to sleep with a colleague, I doubted Petey lived by the same rules.
“Bruv, it in’t that! I in’t supposed to say nuffin, cos Krishnan made us all sign an NDA right after it happened, but?—”
“Spill. The. Tea. Peter,” Jumaane said, clapping between each word for emphasis.
“Immediately,” added Stav, with lawyerly authority.
By this point, nothing could have prevented Pete spilling the tea on Ludo. Wild horses could not have stopped him, even if they’d been butchered and stuffed into his mouth like some sort of equine foie gras. It all came flooding out. When Petey was done—when he’d finished describing in spectacular detail how Ludo had sat on theWake Up Britaincouch and then vomited all over the three-timesGay TimesGay Man of the Year, and when my mates were all rolling around on the (metaphorical) floor, howling with laughter—I found myself feeling a bit hacked off.
“People throw up sometimes. It happens,” I said. “To be fair, I nearly threw up all overhimat one point this week, and he was proper supportive. Ludo’s a nice guy.”
“Bugger me, youhavegot it bad,” Nick said.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” Dav said. “And I’ve known you since we were eight.”
“He’s just a colleague.” Why did no one seem to understand this? “We’re covering the same story, that’s all. He’s still a posh bellend.”
“Why would you invite a posh bellend to join us?” Stav asked, with the precision of a jurist.
“To teach you all some table manners?”
“Is that your little arrangement?” Jumaane said. “He shows you what fork to use and when, and you show him what goes where?” The boys roared with laughter. Cake crumbs shot from Stav’s mouth and across the table. Gross.
