“Yes, Petey’s parents sound like exactly the kind of people who’d gladly step in to perform the human sacrifices.”
Mum rolled her eyes. “You know what this is, though, don’t you, darling? It’s exactly the excuse Petey needs to come back and visit—and in a few short weeks. The great goddess has provided, exactly as I knew she would.”
I wasn’t so sure. Given Petey’s relationship with his family, this might give him more reason to stay away. Besides, a few weeks? I couldn’t be apart from him for three whole weeks. A fellow can’t go cold turkey: The shock could be fatal.
That night, when the folly door downstairs announced Petey’s arrival, I jumped to my feet.
“I have news,” I said as he stomped his way up the stairs to the study.
“So do I.” He slapped a copy ofThe Bulletin—the UK’s trashiest tabloid newspaper—down on the coffee table. I turned my nose up at it like it was a turd in a teapot. Petey flicked the pages open to a photo of the two of us—walking arm in arm towards the village pub, laughing at something or other, a joyous expression across both our faces. Adrenaline flooded my body. The headline read: “BISEXUAL BARON TO WED TRASH TV TWINK.” My hands shook. It had happened again. I took several long, slow, deep breaths, trying not to freak out. It was actually a lovely photograph of us. The first ever photograph of us. But it wasn’t ours—it was public property. Cheap entertainment.
“Twink?” I asked, trying to appear outwardly calm.
“Scrub round that bit,” Petey said. “When the tabloids start appropriating terminology from gay culture with any accuracy, it’s a sign of the apocalypse.”
But the apocalypse was already here. I sat down on the edge of my father’s chair and picked up the paper, my breath shortening.
“How’d they get this?”
It was all there, the facts and the fiction—The Love Manor, Petey taking up residence in the folly, “inseparable for weeks,” “very much in love,” “secret engagement.”
“Horatio Blunt?” Petey asked.
I shook my head. “Horatio might be an unrepentant cockweasel, but he’s smart enough to be strategic. This doesn’t get him any closer to his goal.”
“Then someone from the village?”
“They wouldn’t. Besides, they’ve known for, what, a week or so. It doesn’t take that long to call a newspaper.”
“Maybe it took the paper that long to get a picture?”
I turned the page over to see if there was any more. There wasn’t. I went to flick it back.
“Wait!” Petey said, pinning the page open. There was an article about summer fashion trends featuring a photo of a woman in a yellow dress. I vaguely recognised her face.
“I know how they got the story,” Petey said.
I looked at him blankly.
“That’s Kiki Galapagos, one of our banished contestants.”
Something vaguely flashed into mind—another contestant calling Kiki a hotline to the press. Why had it never occurred to me that inviting all these attention-hungry people into my house would lead to more attention on me? It was the last thing I wanted.
“I’ll ask Indira to get the lawyers onto it,” Petey was saying, “but I don’t know if she’s in breach of contract.”
The mention of lawyers added a lead weight to my already heavy stomach.
“Petey, I have to tell you, I got an email from your father today.”
“I know.” He sighed—and I felt relieved he knew about it already. “He called me when I was in the village. In fact, if he hadn’t called to congratulate me on my engagement—which he did not bat an eyelid about, by the way—I wouldn’t have seen the article.”
“He congratulated you?”
“For getting engaged to you. Yes.” Petey threw his arms wide. “I know. In twenty-seven years, I’ve never once won my father’s approval for anything I’ve done. Today, he finally uttered the words ‘Well done, son’—and it was for something Ihaven’tdone at all. Press the buzzer for the irony klaxon, please. Petey Boy has hit an all-time low.”
He was dismissing it, but I could see it hurt.
“Petey, I’m so sorry.” I stood and wrapped my arms around him.
