CHAPTER
FOUR

“I’m doing a speech,” Noah said, glancing at Connor Evans as they waited next to each other in the playground for the French bus to turn up.

“Yeah? That’s great,” Connor muttered, clapping his gloved hands together to stay warm.

“No biggie,” Noah said. “Just a few words to welcome them to the UK – someone’s gotta do it.”

“Cool,” Connor said. He looked at Harry. “You helping with the speech too, Haz? Little joint effort?”

Harry shook his head. “Some things are best left to Noah.”

Connor chuckled. “Damn right.”

Noah nodded and gave a polite smile. He wasn’t massively keen on the fact Harry and Connor were still so matey with one another. How, when Harry had blatantly dumped Connor for Noah, were they still such good friends, able to exchange conversation and have a laugh? A laugh that felt like it was, quite possibly, at Noah’s expense?

Worse, Connor was positioning himself as some sort of alpha gay within the school. He’d dyed his quiffed hair peroxide blond, his trousers had got tighter, his muscles bigger, and Noah had no doubt his body hair situation would be completely in line with what the gay websites said it should be. Rumour had it, Connor was seeing a boy in Year Thirteen – two years his senior! How very edgy. That meant Connor was also probably sexually experienced now, taken under the wing of this sugar daddy in the sixth form, who would have doubtless shown him exactly what to do and when to do it. If anything did ever happen with Noah and Harry in that department, Noah was going to have to rely on playground banter, dubious websites and his book on puberty (that didn’t mention anything about being gay in it) for guidance. Some people had it so easy.

All the more reason for Harry to see that what Noah might lack in the GAY SEX KNOWLEDGE department, he more than made up for with public speaking skills. And, after all, which was more important?

“Hey, booooys!” Jess Jackson sidled up to them. Her little baby bump was beginning to bulge under her school shirt, but in every other respect, she was the same old Jess: dressed for a night out rather than a day in school, manicured and perfect, with her silky hair and flawless make-up.

“Noah’s doing a speech, Jess,” Connor said.

Her eyes lit up. “Are you doing a speech, Noah?”

“Yes, I’m doing a bit of a speech.”

“What about?” Jess grinned, like this was somehow the most exciting news she’d received for months.

“Just stuff.” Noah shrugged, picking some imaginary lint off his blazer. “Just about welcoming them to our humble country. It’s not like I want to do it, but the school asked.”

“Mmmm,” Jess giggled, “that’s so cool. I love that.” She looked over to where Melissa was standing with some of the other aloof and possibly mean girls. “Hey, Mel? MEL?! NOAH’S DOING A SPEECH!”

“NO SHIT, YOU DOING A SPEECH, NOAH?!” Melissa shouted back.

Noah grimaced. “Just … yeah, a bit of one.”

“WHAT?!”

“YES! A BIT OF ONE!” Noah shouted back. “God, why’s everyone going on about it so much?”

Connor gave him side-eye. “You mentioned it, mate.”

“Just in passing, though—” Noah stopped as the coach pulled into the yard. “Oh goodness, they’re here, I’d better go and stand near Mrs Stirling so I’m ready.”

Noah pushed through the crowd as everyone descended into hushed anticipation. Noah knew what that was about. His peers might be mildly curious about what the French students would be like, or who they would each be assigned to, but the big question most of them were asking was would any of them be fit?

Noah cleared his throat, straightened his school tie, brushed a bit more imaginary lint off his blazer and glanced at Mrs Stirling for his cue. Across the playground, Jess Jackson blew him a kiss. “I’m hot for your speech, Noah!” she called out.

Noah gave her a brief nod. He had worked out the best approach with Jess was just to go along with it – not fight.

The coach opened its door with a hiss and the French students made their first steps on to UK soil. Thirty or so students gradually spilled out. Boys, girls, short, tall, some with spots, some with braces – despite the reputation of their provenance, they were, in essence, just like them. Noah straightened his tie again. Mrs Stirling was busy looking at her clipboard, but he supposed she would give him the signal for his speech any second now.

“SPEECH!” Jess Jackson shouted.

Noah looked over and scowled. Jess should realize that these things were properly stage-managed – official speeches didn’t just happen willy-nilly. He had to wait for the cue.

Mrs Stirling raised a loudhailer to her mouth. Noah frowned. Was he to do his speech through that, like some sort of fire marshal? Didn’t this school have a proper PA system?

“OK, everyone!” Mrs Stirling began. “Let’s give a warm British welcome to our guests from France!”

Cheers and whoops erupted from the crowd, at a level and intensity completely at odds with the thing being celebrated.

“OK, OK,” Mrs Stirling boomed, “it’s very cold so we’ll crack on…”

Noah cleared his throat again. This was surely the moment. He glanced over at Harry, Connor and Jess. Harry gave him the thumbs up.

“Give it to us, Noah!” Jess shouted, to laughter from her mates.

Mrs Stirling was looking at her clipboard again, apparently unaware of the disruption. “Right, if you can all form an orderly queue, Mr Baxter will be introducing you to your new French ami…”

Noah looked at her with wide eyes.

“The luggage needs to go to reception until you take your student home with you later on…”

Should he say something?

“And don’t forget our very own England versus France football match this afternoon. And just to remind everyone, it’s a friendly match, not an opportunity, as I overheard a certain individual in Year Twelve mention, ‘to remind them who won the Napoleonic Wars’. Thank you, and behave responsibly.”

No, no, no, no!

Everyone started to shuffle off, forming a queue to collect their French student. Noah stood, wide-eyed and going red, at the apparent fact he’d been forgotten.

What. About. His. Speech?!

He glanced over at Harry, Connor and Jess. Connor was in hysterics, loving every second of it. Harry was as wide-eyed as Noah was, watching open-mouthed as Mrs Stirling disappeared into the crowd. Jess looked delighted.

Fine, it was fine, Noah thought. He didn’t care about the speech anyway. It was fine that he’d spent weeks writing and rehearsing it, even whilst revising for mocks, and that was all now time wasted. The next time Mrs Stirling, or anyone, asked for his help, he would politely decline – then they would be sorry. Who would run the tombola at the summer fair? Not him.

Noah bowed his head and surreptitiously started to skulk away from the small podium, pretending like he was just a normal part of the crowd like everyone else, and he’d had no special duties he’d been meant to perform that day.

Jess collapsed into him with breathless excitement. “It was epic, Noah! So good! Best speech I ever heard!”

He glowered at her. “Thanks,” he muttered, through gritted teeth.

“My favourite bit was the part where you literally said nothing and didn’t even make a speech. It’s like you subverted the whole concept of public speaking!”

He wasn’t going to rise to it. Maybe acting like she was genuinely giving him a compliment would confuse her. “Thanks, Jess.”

“That speech will definitely get you head.”

Or possibly not.

She winked at him and flounced off through the crowd. Noah took a deep and calming breath before Connor tumbled into him, all smiles and laughter. “Fuck me, Noah,” Connor said, slapping Noah on the back, “that was hilarious, mate.”

Noah forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Dodged that bullet!”

Connor guffawed. “We gotta hang out more often. Actually, we gotta, ’cause have you seen the little fitty that Harry’s been paired with?”

Noah looked around just as Harry pushed through with the second most beautiful boy Noah had ever seen in his life.

“Hey, guys!” Harry chirped.

Noah understood why Harry was so goddam chirpy. With his chiselled jaw, smouldering dark eyes, roguish smile, lightly tanned skin and deep brown, tousled hair, this boy was mesmerizing. This boy looked ready to film a perfume commercial.

“I’m Pierre,” the boy said, in smooth, silky tones. “Pierre Victoire.”