Coming Soon from Fearne Hill

To Catch a Fallen Leaf

Rossingley, Book Two

Rossingley is gloomy as hell in the misty dawn light, the neoclassical, whiteish-grey façade of the main house hinting at all kinds of ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night. The taxi driver clearly thinks so, he’s twice offered to drop me off halfway up the drive so I can enjoy the walk. Unfortunately for him, I’m not so easily spooked, having grown up on a country estate myself—a tad smaller than this one, admittedly. Even though the achingly familiar looming cattle and whispering trees don’t give me the willies, it doesn’t automatically follow that I like them—goodness, no, not at all. Give me the swinging, bustling streets of London or New York any day. I can’t fathom how Lucien stands it living here, week in, week out. No shops, no gossip, definitely no hot men to ogle; he’s wasting his best years, in my opinion.

I’m hoping he’s still an early riser because I didn’t phone ahead to warn him I was coming to stay, and it’s bloody freezing out here. I only made up my mind a few hours ago, and no one appreciates an unexpected night-time call, especially Lucien. His life was comprehensively shattered by the mother of all out-of-hours phone calls a couple of years ago, so if he saw my number appear on his screen at three in the morning, he’d immediately assume the worst.

I’m not exactly dressed for the inclement January weather, having expected to be spending the night at my father’s London home. I’d flounced out of Vincent’s place after our miserable row wearing only the tightest pair of chocolate-coloured skinny jeans, which are threatening to guillotine my balls, and a rather divine, yellow silk Paul Smith shirt. I was not anticipating having to shout at the housekeeper through a Belgravia letterbox before eventually being told by her beefy husband to “bugger off,” and then flag down a taxi.

Three hours later, and I’m rather regretting hotfooting it out of Vincent’s without at least putting on a coat first. I’m not sure I even packed one in my small suitcase. Thank heavens Lucien’s clothes will fit me because if I have to wear these trousers for a single hour longer, I’ll be auditioning for the soprano section of the Rossingley church choir. And if I do find myself twiddling my thumbs in the godforsaken countryside for a few days, he’s going to have to ferret out a whole new wardrobe for me because my London togs will be extremely ill-suited to the terrain.

After paying off the taxi driver, I make my way around to the back of Rossingley house, the gorgeous, flimsy shirt soaked within seconds. As I alighted from the cab, I stepped straight into a puddle, so water is seeping through my Gucci loafers. I squelch noisily as I peer into the house. A dim glow emanates from the kitchen window, and through the material of the blinds, I make out a tall, slim figure pottering about. Thank God. I send a short text, and five seconds later, the figure is stationary for a moment before moving towards me in a more purposeful fashion. Several bolts are unfastened, and the heavy back door opens.

“Gosh, Freddie darling! Oh my goodness, how marvellous to see you! I was only saying yesterday how I hadn’t heard from you and was missing you dreadfully! Oh, darling, you look to be freezing, and so wet, like a drowned rat! Come in, come in; stand by the warm Aga, and let me give you a hug!”

And that is the point at which I burst out crying because my wonderful cousin Lucien, who never tells me I’m a disappointment, who never claims I bring shame on the family name, who never judges my lifestyle, and who makes me feel as if I’m one of the most important people orbiting his universe, strips me of my wet clothes, wraps my shivery body in his fluffy pink dressing gown, manoeuvres me so my bottom is warming against the Aga, and allows me to bury my face into his neck. All the fear, all the shame, all the uncertainty, all the jetlag, and all the exhausting bravado of the last forty-eight hours comes pouring out in the form of hot, salty tears.

“Darling, darling Freddie, tell me what’s wrong? Why didn’t you call me? Look at you! Oh, don’t cry darling; please don’t cry. Let me make you a cup of Earl Grey, and you can tell me what’s happened, so I can make it right for you.”

Cue more tears and more cuddles. Eventually, he calms me down sufficiently so that, between ugly sobs, I give him the bones of it. It’s not a particularly edifying tale. I finish by showing him my father’s caustic email.

“Gosh, delete that rubbish at once, and don’t think about it again! I shall be having some strong words when I call him later. How dare he use your mother’s name against you like that? Especially when he didn’t care much for what she thought when she was alive.”

I have no idea what I’ve ever done to deserve Lucien’s unconditional love and support, but if there was ever a time I needed it, it’s now. He’s a wonderful person to have on your side, and I don’t envy my father being the recipient of that particular dressing-down.

I’d thought a lot about my father’s email and treatment of me as the taxi drove through the night down the M4 towards Rossingley. Granted, he has a right to be angry. I’ve fucked up. He’s been waiting for an excuse to tear me apart, and I’ve gone and thrown one in his lap. I’m an eternal disappointment to him. After Eton and Cambridge, my father entered politics at an extremely young age and rose to his current elevated seat swiftly. I was expected, nay, groomed to follow. And what did I do? Eton, Cambridge, and a swerve into modelling. And partying. Not to mention other men—that’s a whole box of disappointment right there on its own. A degree from Cambridge and a lucrative career isn’t enough to satisfy him; I should be heterosexual (oops), clean living (oops again), and mostly invisible.

Several times over the last few years, I’ve contemplated severing all ties with him. Thanks to my own income and my mother’s legacy, I have financial independence, but apart from Lucien, he’s all the family I have. We’ve never been close—his new trophy wife and all those years spent at boarding school saw to that, but I haven’t ever given up hope that one day we could maybe have something between us. Because for some stupid fucking reason I can’t bloody fathom, I really care what he thinks. I crave his approval, which in a grown man is frankly pathetic.

“I don’t know what to do or where to go, Lucien,” I get out between fresh outbreaks of hideous crying. “I think my father is about to disown me, which the bitch wife is, as we speak, no doubt strongly encouraging. Malcolm, my agent, says I have to dry out or get out, and Vincent… Well, I’ve called time on Vincent. I’ve asked him to box up my stuff and send it here—I couldn’t think of any other address to give him. I don’t think he will, though. He’ll make me go back and get it myself, knowing him.”

“Good riddance, too, Freddie, darling. Vincent, I mean, not your stuff. Leave the sorting out of that to me; we’ll have it sent down within the week. That man had his heart in the right place, but gosh, he was so controlling. And in cahoots with your father. I hated seeing how he treated you.”

“No more Excalibur, though,” I giggle through my tears.

Lucien laughs with delight. “No, no more Excalibur, thank goodness. Last time you invited me for dinner, I could scarcely keep a straight face when he showed me his first edition of The Sword in the Stone. All I could think about was him attempting to get his floppy sword in your arse after I left!”

He hugs me close. For the first time this week, the tension in my shoulders drops and my heart rate steadies. Lucien senses it.

“My home is always your home, Freddie darling, you know that. And the New York thingy will blow over. We’ll decide what to do about your father when you’re rested and more settled. Now, dry your eyes, and don’t you worry about another thing.”

Cue another flood of tears.

My agent, Malcolm, had scouted me at a private party at Annabel’s nightclub while in my final term at Cambridge, and instead of going on to complete my planned doctorate, I began modelling. It’s mostly fun; I’m good at it, and I love, love, love dressing up. Which, according to my father, makes me a super-shallow underachiever.

I have a desirable, unusual look: pale, aristocratic, slender, and slightly androgynous. I also have two small symmetrical moles situated exactly 4.5 cm on either side of my upper lip, which the agency bookers go wild for. That naughty sailor straddling a giant Jean Paul Gautier aftershave bottle in this month’s Tatler? That’s me. The troubled young man on the inside cover of Vogue, moodily staring into the sunset, swathed in Ralph Lauren cashmere? Me too. Prada sunglasses in the broadsheet Sunday supplements? Check. The Oscar-winning performance, five days ago, of an incontinent, dying junkie slumped outside Macy’s on West 34th Street? That was me too. A fondness for cocaine and too many lunchtime Negroni’s had me waking up in a hospital bed, handcuffed to one of New York’s finest. And not handcuffed in a kinky, fun way. Arrested for possession of an illegal substance and public vagrancy, I was released on bail and hotfooted it into the nearest first-class flight cabin back to Blighty. Those free Prada shades came in very handy.

I’m not the first model or minor member of the aristocracy to excessively embrace the sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll lifestyle, and I won’t be the last. But when your father is the current Home Secretary, tipped to be a future prime minister, and renowned for his traditional conservative stance of being tough on crime and drugs, then my behaviour is no longer viewed as merely decadent and brattish, but cannon fodder for a ravenous British tabloid press. They haven’t got hold of the story yet, thank God, but it’s only a matter of time before it breaks.

My father and Lucien’s father were brothers, and while this is undoubtedly a genetically accurate description, the filial similarity ends there. Lucien’s father was one of the nicest men you could ever hope to meet, whereas mine is a complete dickhead. And while I didn’t spend my school holidays confined to a broom cupboard under the stairs, sometimes it would have been preferable to constantly failing to live up to my father’s expectations. Yes, so I’ve been an utter tit on this occasion, but I have to do something to get his attention once in a while. Sometimes, he makes it quite clear his life would be so much simpler if I didn’t exist.

At this point, it would be easy to conclude I’m a fairly spoilt, unpleasant, shallow, and superficial young man, and I deserve everything coming to me. And that would be absolutely right. But Lucien doesn’t think so. He looks at me the way I always imagined a kindly older brother might if I’d had one, or perhaps how my mother had before she became too ill. As if he’s spotted a grain of goodness inside me, even if no one else can see it. As if I’m a really important piece of his world jigsaw, and he doesn’t want to lose me. And for that alone, I utterly adore him. At the moment, he feels like the only person in the world who cares.