Chapter Two

Freddie

PRESENT

From: charles.d-avery@parliament.uk

To: aloysius@d-avery.com

Freddie,

Words fail me. If your mother were alive today, she would be so utterly ashamed of you that it’s almost better she’s dead. You don’t need me to tell you, but you have let yourself down, the Duchamps-Avery family name down, and more importantly, you’ve let me down. I could lose my job and everything I’ve worked for when word about this idiocy gets out! God knows what the PM is going to make of it, in an election year too. The shame that my only son has brought on me. The shame, Freddie! It truly beggars belief.

Poor Vincent was on the phone earlier. He was such a good influence on you, and you couldn’t even manage to hold on to him. For some reason, he still wants to help. I’ve told him that you are not worth the bother, but the man must be a saint. Probably best if you stay away from the chap for now—we don’t need his name dragged through the mud as well. I have a lot of money invested in his company—he’s a jolly good sort.

I trust you are making arrangements to disappear for three months, until the hoo-ha dies down. Seek professional help. I do not expect to hear a whisper of your activities. Laetitia and I certainly don’t need to see you for a while. Spend the time wisely, reflecting on your foolish lifestyle choices. I’ll be in touch.

Your disappointed father, Charles.

 

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 spend 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 endure 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, 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 swiftly rose to his current elevated seat. 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, 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 Gaultier 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 still a work in progress. 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 spoiled, 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.

“You look terribly thin, darling,” he says, casting an expert eye over me. (It takes one to know one.) “Have you been eating properly?”

“No, probably not,” I answer miserably. Lucien seems to be winning on the dietary front. We’ve both had food issues over the years, but he looks great, slim not thin, and his complexion is amazing. Life is evidently treating him well.

“God, I’ve got myself into a bit of a pickle, I’m afraid,” I wail, clutching my mug of tea. “Can I crash here for a few days? And then I suppose I’ll check myself into some rehab place somewhere. When the press get hold of the story, I don’t know, I’ll sit it out.”

He has managed to detach me from his body, and I’m now nestled on the big comfy kitchen sofa, still cosseted in the cosy dressing gown, while he’s propped against the Aga, those shrewd, pale blue eyes assessing me carefully.

“I know it’s a pickle, darling, and I’m going to do my very best to sort you out. But you don’t need to go to rehab and be surrounded by a pile of strangers for three months. No, no, no, absolutely not. Why don’t you stay here with me? I can look after you as well as anyone. Fresh Rossingley air is what you need, my sweet. We’ll have you better and back at it in no time. A new, improved, and dare I say it, darling, a more sensible version of you?”

And that’s about the extent of my telling off. Most people are fooled by that fey, whispery voice, but not me, not anymore. Lucien doesn’t make suggestions, he commands, but in such a quiet, fluttery way that you believe you are being asked very nicely, and don’t have the heart to disappoint him. Staying at Rossingley is a fait accompli; he’s already reaching for the phone.

“I’ll contact your father immediately, and inform him you will be rehabilitating here. To keep him happy, I’m sure we can pay lip service to finding a drug and alcohol dependency centre in Allenmouth or Bristol that will suit your needs, instead of trekking up to London or being an inpatient in some ghastly private clinic masquerading as a smart hotel. So that we can reassure him you’ve taken his concerns seriously. Even if we only visit once. Surely, he won’t complain if there are two doctors keeping an eye on you here, and of course, it will be much less of an imposition financially, which we both know will ultimately swing the argument for him.”

He briefly flashes me one of his pointy, mischievous smiles, and all my woes become a little bit easier to navigate. He’s right; I don’t need inpatient care in a fancy celebrity spa, pretending I’m suffering from ‘exhaustion’. I’m not even sure if I’m an addict at all. If I’m addicted to anything, it’s to not feeling so alone. Even when I was with Vincent, deep down I still felt alone.

But I do need to lay low for a few months. I’ll consider it a holiday, get my shit together, and have a few strong words with myself. The idea of resting here at Rossingley, with Lucien, is hugely appealing. Maybe I’ll read some of the history books in his vast library, take long afternoon naps, go on a few strolls through the grounds, perhaps try out new recipes to boost my appetite. A few months and a few miles distance from temptation and I’ll be good as new. Lots and lots of rest, exactly as Dr Avery ordered. Granted, I hate the countryside, but with half a cup of tea inside me, and Lucien’s soothing reassurance, I’m almost beginning to look forwards to it. Of course, when I’m feeling a bit more like myself, I’ll need to find out what Lucien does for entertainment around here.

Hang on; did I hear Lucien say two doctors? Who’s the other one?

While he’s been schmoozing my father on the phone, lulling him into a false sense of security before tearing a strip off him for sending that vile email, I’ve been mulling stuff over and feeling extremely sorry for myself. Lucien has put some slices of bread in the toaster and made a fresh pot of tea. This peaceful domestic scene is interrupted by a sudden thumping noise from the staircase, accompanied by a rather coarse holler.

“Luce! Luce! Where the fuck are you? I only sent you down for the butter!”

Luce? Luce? Who on God’s earth calls the sixteenth Earl of Rossingley ‘Luce’ and gets to keep his balls intact? And what on earth is that appalling accent? Certainly not the received pronunciation practiced by ‘Luce’ and me, that’s for sure. Moreover, what’s with the butter? Was Lucien’s mysterious house guest planning breakfast in bed? I glance over at my cousin, who is serenely reaching for the crockery and smiling to himself, completely unperturbed. More heavy footsteps come closer before the doorway is filled by around six feet four of toned, tanned, prime masculinity, his modesty only protected by a pair of well-filled dazzling-white briefs. A vaguely familiar pink feather boa hangs around his thick neck.

Bloody hell, my morning has improved immeasurably. No need to ask Lucien what he does for entertainment around here because the entertainment is striding over to my favourite cousin and grabbing him possessively around the waist. From the mesmerising flex of his upper back as he presses his nether regions against Lucien’s arse, the entertainment has muscles growing on muscles. I’m about to announce my presence with a variation on the ‘is that a canoe in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?’ theme, when the entertainment nuzzles into Lucien’s neck and speaks in a low growl.

“I’m not sure I can wait until I get you and the Lurpak back upstairs, Luce,” he says, pushing up against my cousin. “I think I’m going to have to fuck you here, right now, over this table.”

“Gosh, as lovely as that sounds, Jay, darling,” replies Lucien, not missing a beat, not even when a huge hand begins snaking up the inside of his nightie, “we have company.”

He gracefully nods his head in my direction, and the man turns, rewarding me with a much better view of the veritable python stuffed into his underwear. Dear lord, I’m lost for words. My jaw drops open. Taking one look at me, the guy blinks a couple of times, as if clearing his head, and then dramatically sinks into the nearest kitchen chair, his head in his hands.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. “There are two of you.”

Evidently not in the market for a threesome, then, which is disappointing.

Lucien and I are frequently mistaken for brothers. Even twins, on a few occasions, which is slightly irritating for me as he’s nearly ten years older. Lucien tends to play up the feminine side of our androgyny, with makeup and clothing, whereas, unless I’m working, I tend to go for the more masculine version. Two sides of a pale, blond, genetically blessed coin.

“It’s all becoming clear, Lucien.” I point a finger at the hunk, who is still regarding me with total dismay. “Now I know what’s been keeping you away from the bright lights of London town. And why you always seem so darned cheerful when you phone me. Tell me, how do I get myself one of those while I’m confined to the country?”

Chortling with delight, Lucien glides over to the man, settles himself on that delectable broad lap, and kisses him. “This, Freddie, is my darlingest, dearest Dr Jay Sorrentino. You can’t have one of these, I’m afraid, because he’s totally unique. And he’s totally mine.”

★

As for those vague plans for rest and recuperation, for maybe reading a few novels, and so forth? Well, Lucien has other ideas. His brain moves far too quickly.

Introductions out of the way, he remains in his very comfy seat on Jay’s lap, while the man mountain munches his way steadily through a kilo of marmite on toast. He’s evidently the strong, silent type. Every so often, he persuades Lucien to nibble on a corner of his breakfast. For some disturbing reason, this simple act of sharing—which from their obvious familiarity with each other probably happens most mornings—brings tears to my eyes. No one deserves happiness any more than my dearest cousin, and if Lucien looked at me as though I were the centre of his world, then this Jay chap looks at Lucien as if he’s the centre of his entire galaxy. I’m an emotional wreck these days, and I hide the wetness on my face by busying myself at the sink with my empty mug. My hands shake. Somebody much smarter than me once said that he didn’t merely have a nervous system, that he was a nervous system, and that is exactly how I feel.

“Freddie, darling, I have had the most marvellous idea for your rest and recuperation.”

I turn to look at Lucien with a feeling of trepidation. It’s that commanding tone again, dressed up as a lighthearted, fluttery suggestion. And the eyes, the pale assessing eyes, a much lighter shade of blue than mine. Jay senses the whirring of the brain too. He looks expectantly at the beautiful man perched in his lap, waiting for whatever wonderful suggestion/command he’s about to deliver.

Maybe I’ve come here to Rossingley because, subliminally, my heart knows this is what I need: Lucien’s firmness wrapped up in his kindness, his wisdom, his never-ending, patient love. My nerves are so stretched to the wire that I’m totally in his hands. I’ll say yes to anything, as long as he remains my guardian angel, even though he is regarding me in a worryingly naughty fashion.

“You’re going to find rattling around this big old place terribly boring, darling, especially when Jay and I are at work. So, it will be best if you find something to occupy yourself, and do you know, I have exactly the thing. Steve, the head gardener, has recently fired one of his boys for pilfering from the estate stores, and so they are a bit short on labour.”

Yep, those eyes definitely have a naughty gleam.

“And the grounds require so much maintenance at this time of year. I’ll phone Will, my estate manager, right now, and let him know I have a willing, young body to take his place. He’ll be so pleased, and the exercise and fresh air will do you the power of good, darling. You will be a perfect fit for that gardening team. You know I’m right. Now, go and have a nice hot shower, and I’ll find you some comfy clothes. Then have a gorgeous rest and you can start work after the weekend.”

And that is a masterclass in how to persuade a spoiled young man to perform forty hours a week of manual labour, outside, in the depths of winter, and still be his favourite person in the entire world. Bloody hell.