“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a real mate.” Nick was the straightest talker I’d ever met. Losing the use of your legs will do that to you, I guess. Nick had zero time for nonsense. Which was ironic, because what he did for a living was interrupt music to talk crap on the radio.
“What do you actuallywant?” Nick said. “Like, how do we fix this?” I sucked on my can. It was a good question. I didn’t have the answer. “Like, does Ludo literally have to make his dad sit you down, offer you a job, and swear on a copy ofHorse & Houndthat it’s based on merit, for you to forgive him? Because that’s mad.”
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “My reputation is going to be toast up and down Fleet Street once Ludo’s version of events begins to spread through his father’s media contacts. They’ll close ranks around him. Hugo will never give me a job. Nor will anyone else.”
“Nor would I, pal,” Nick said.
“Oh, cheers, mate.”
“If I was Hugo, I mean. Think about it. If he gives you a job now, he’s introducing a ton of complications and toxicity into the workplace. That’s before you get to the all-points clusterfuck it’d cause at home. Hugo Boche might be a chinless walloper, but he’s not a total melt.”
On the telly, senior foreign leaders were filing into the abbey. The US first lady, the Canadian and Australian prime ministers, the German chancellor. In the kitchen, Dav was swearing at the fridge, which had started to beep. We needed Stavros. He normally catered for our Brent Boys events, but he, Jumaane, and Petey had all gone down to the Mall to watch the gold-gilded knee-bending jizz-fest first-hand.
“This is exactly why you should never get involved with a colleague,” I said. “What hurts is, I actually cared for him, you know? Despite the rules, despite my better judgement, I took a shot on him.” I took another swig from my can. If Dav didn’t bring some snacks through soon, I was going to be hammered before old George even left the palace.
“You need to work out what the endgame is here, Sunny,” Nick said. “What do you want? The job? Or the boy?”
The pause while I considered this question could not have been more pregnant if it had its legs in stirrups and a midwife crouching between them with a net.
“Both, maybe?” I said, unsure of myself. Nick lifted his can to his mouth.
“Right. And you currently have neither.” Brutal. He took a sip of his beer, giving his words time to sink in.
“What do you suggest I do?”
“I’d probably start by apologising to Ludo, you daft bawbag.”
The TV coverage cut to a picture of the Mall, lined with hundreds of thousands of cheering people. A loud roar went up as the gate to Buckingham Palace opened, the crowd anticipating the King’s procession. Somewhere in amongst them were Dav’s parents, Stav, Jumaane, and Petey.
Dav came through the living room carrying an overloaded platter of meats, fruits, and cheeses in each hand and plonked them down on the coffee table. No bhajis, I noted. The decision was made. If I couldn’t fix the fix I was in, I’d comfort eat until I was too fat to see my bellend over my belly.
“Did I miss anyfink?” Dav said, dashing back to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
“You missed Bimpe Lasisi making the archbishop of Canterbury look underdressed,” Nick called after him.
“Yaasss, my queen. Iconic,” he said, returning with a bottle of Tesco Finest cava and three glasses.
“And you missed Sunny realising he’s made a terrible mistake.”
Chapter45
Ludo
Ifound myself up the palace end of the Mall, pinned between a lamp post and a rather jolly woman called Bertha. She was from Southend-on-Sea, probably in her late sixties, and was wearing a happy and glorious Union Jack waistcoat. Her husband, Dave, was wearing what I took to be the matching trousers. Barking mad, I thought, then caught myself. If anything could be salvaged from my disastrous flirtation with Sunny Miller, let it be not leaping to snap judgements about people based on first impressions. As it turned out, Bertha and Dave were delightful.
“Kettle crisp?” Bertha slid an open packet of mature-cheddar-and-red-onion potato crisps under my nose, hand cupping the bottom of the bag.
“Thank you,” I said, gingerly dipping my paw into the proffered packet and picking out a solitary salty offering.
“Take a handful, love,” she said, in a broad Estuary accent. “Ain’t you brung nuffin?”
“Afraid not,” I said, grateful for Bertha’s generosity. “I didn’t really plan to come down. Spur-of-the-moment decision.”
In my head, going down to the Mall to join the eleventy billion well-wishers hoping to catch a glimpse of the new King and Queen bobbing past in a golden carriage seemed like a great idea. After all, when you felt like a miserable pillock because the boy you had a massive crush on turned out to be an unapologetically grasping wanker, what better way to cheer yourself up than with a bit of good old-fashioned British pomp and ceremony? In reality, my nose was full of dust, my feet were killing me, and the smell of the Portaloos kept drifting over to remind me just how awful life really was. Thank heavens for Bertha. I plucked a crisp from the little stack in my hand and popped it into my mouth.
“They’re good, in’t they?” Bertha said. I nodded enthusiastically, mouth full of mushy potato. “We don’t normally buy the posh ones, do we, Dave, but it’s a special occasion, in’t it?”
“Don’t normally buy the posh ones,” Dave confirmed. I noticed he was missing two fingers on his left hand. “But if you in’t gonna push the boat out for a coronation, when are you ever?”
