Theletterbox clattered in the hallway downstairs, making both of themjump.A heavy slither followed, and a thud.“Papers,” Sasha saidcheerfully, getting up.“Want me to vet your reviews?”
***
There were several.TheGuardiancritic had written at somelength.Laurie listened while Sasha read out the salient points tohim.Paul Jacobs, the Rayne’s End director who had given him hisfirst break, had told him long ago not to read the things himself,one of the best lessons Laurie had learned—the good ones made himfret about how he could please his next audience in the same way,and the bad ones, few though they were, could wipe out with twowords column after column of rapturous praise.Still, they wereuseful, and Sasha knew which parts he would find instructive.Laurie nodded, trying to follow attentively.Roiling around in hisbrain was his stupid, unprecedented, upper-class-twit mistake ofthinking Sasha’s former life could have afforded him anyopportunity of popping over to enjoy cream teas and pasties in thewest.
Aheadline on the next page caught his eye, and he reached to touchSasha’s hand, grateful for the distraction.“Wait a bit.Never mindme—look at this.”
Sasha glanced at the article.He recognised the initials ofthe London Youth Ballet, but it was the photo that made him smile:a line of neatcorpsdancers, and, sweeping in front of them, barely more than ablur and a scrap of tulle, a slender little figure he knew well.“My God, that’s Clara.”
“Yep.Rocking the hell out ofJaneEyreat the American Ballet Theatre in NewYork.Wow, they love her, don’t they?”Drawing the paper across thetable, Laurie skimmed the review.A pang went through him.Tenyears his junior, still Clara had been his only real companion inthe glittering wasteland of his father’s house.She’d said shewould come home for the summer break between LYB’s tour dates, butLaurie knew too well how difficult those promises were to keep.Hemissed her.“Oof, look at what this guy says...The years were unkind to Miss Eyre, who grew up inexplicablyfrom the enchanting Clara Fitzroy into a rather dull and bovineRachel Pearce.”
“That’s cruel.Clara will hate it.”
“Er...Yes.”Laurie drank some coffee to disguise a slightflinch.Sasha’s stern, quiet monosyllables always packed a punch.He sounded at his most foreign then.Laurie could imagine himfacing down an awkward customs official, a nervous new immigrantunder his wing.“She will.Rachel’s her friend.”
Anotherstrange silence, once more terminated by a rattle and a slitherfrom downstairs.Laurie met Sasha’s eyes in wry acknowledgment ofthe comedy.“Another paper?”
“I didn’t order one.”
“Not post on a Sunday, either...I’ll go get thisone.”
The paper was a red-top, to Laurie’s surprise.Not many ofthose found their way into the Fitzroy-Petrica household.Sashadespised them, and Laurie respected his tastes, though sometimes hehimself found inspiration in the rollicking, scandalous worlddepicted there.Neither Dickens nor Trollope would have batted aneyelid, Laurie thought, once brought up to speed on terminology...“Slumming it today, are we?”he called back up the stairs.“It’stheSunday Star.”Idly he glanced at the headline.It took him a moment to recognisehis own face.“Oh.Christ.”
Sashawas with him in an instant.He found Laurie on the fifth step, theone he’d hung on to the night before.He was huddled up, the papertightly folded in his lap.“Sasha.This never happened.”
Sashathought about all the news Laurie tried to protect him from.Attacks on Romani travellers’ camps, stories of persecution,racism, ethnic cleansing...Yes, he’d snap the TV off at least oncea week, frowning apologetically as if he’d set the vans on firehimself.And Sasha would switch it back on, gently explaining thathe needed to know, if he was going to do his job properly; lovinghim all the while for the attempt.“What never happened,love?”
“This.I never touched her.I never would.”
Withsome difficulty Sasha extracted the paper from his grasp.Therebeneath the three-inch banner headline was a photo of his lover—nota bad one at all, considering the tabloids’ usual delight incapturing people at their humiliated ugliest.Then, it was tough totake a bad shot of Laurie.“This is from last year’s Pride march,isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but that has nothing to do with it.”
Sasharather thought it might.Sir Ian McLain had been there, elderly andfrail but very vociferous, using a lifetime of acting fame to layinto a group of red-top reporters for their stance on gay marriage.There’d been some pushing and shoving.Laurie had swung in, grabbeda mic from the nearest journo, leapt onto a wall and taken up fromwhere the old man’s breath had failed him.Sasha smiled at thesememories, then finally recognised the other picture on thesheet—much smaller, much less flattering.Wide eyes, their gazebarely focussed.A bright, desperate grin, as if given on command.“Laurie, that’s Alison Jones.What is she...”
“Read the fucking headline.”
Sasha did.Odd that it hadn’t sunk in with him yet: there wasenough height, ink and force behind it.He was a foreigner still,he supposed, accustomed to seeking out images over English.Butthere it was.He’s NotGay, the paper screamed on Alison’sbehalf.I Should Know.
Sasha took in a few more words.The byline,My red-hot night with LaurenceFitzroy, thenkiss-and-tell, allegedly homosexual,andhypocrite.
Hefolded the paper up.“Where’s Alison?”
“At the bottom of the bloody sea, I hope.Why the hell wouldshe do this?”
“I don’t know, but she looks awful in this shot.Drunk or high.We should check she got home.”
“What?Can youseethis stuff?Why aren’t you...”Laurie ruffled his hair infrustration.He couldn’t even form the words for the way he thoughtSash should be reacting.“This is vile.She’s accusing me of thingseven I haven’t got stamina for.Why aren’t you...”
Sasha took pity on him.“Outraged?Betrayed?Packing my bagsbecause you never did it for five hours non-stop tomewith your ten-inchjoystick?”
“Well, yeah.Why...”Suddenly Laurie heard the absurdity of it,drew a deep breath and answered his own question.He sank his faceinto his hands.“Because it’s fucking ridiculous.Because you’dnever believe such a thing in five thousand years.”
“Well, it is a nice joystick, if not quite—”
“Stop it.”Laurie looked up to find the sable gaze steady onhis, bright with compassion and amusement.“Okay.Thank God.Butit’s still not funny.”
“Let me see.They’re outing you...for being straight, right?My, how times have changed.”
