Page 51 of From LA to London, With Love

“For some of us in this room, especially people like me who are white, able-bodied, cis, straight, and male, it may be hard to imagine what it’s like to feel you don’t belong, to feel you can’t be yourself, on a daily basis. However, most people have had at least one moment in our lives when we’ve felt like that, whether it was walking into a fancy shop where the shop assistant looks down on you”—Chris caught my eye and winked—“walking into the wrong room by accident, or being somewhere where you are the only person of a particular age, race, or gender. Hopefully for most of you, like me, these experiences are fleeting, trivial, and quickly forgotten. But imagine if they weren’t. Imagine those experiences of not belonging, or not being able to be yourself, were the norm. And then imagine if one of the few safe spaces where you could be yourself was at risk of closing.”

Chris looked around the room and cleared his throat. Did he look nervous, or was it just my imagination?

“The teens also told me how important the support network of friends and mentors they’ve made through Pride House is. As many of you know, earlier this year, some very intimate photos of me were leaked online and seen by millions of people. I haven’t spoken publicly about this before, but I was humiliated, and the experience took a huge toll on my mental health. If it wasn’t for my strong support network of my family, my childhood friends, and a new friend I made shortly after moving over here”—Chris glanced at me and smiled—“I’d probably still be holed up in my house, struggling with my thoughts. Now, I don’t want to suggest my experience was in any way comparable to what these young people have been through. But the fact that even someone like me, with a huge amount of privilege and resources at my fingertips, can struggle and need support to keep going, just shows how important that support is. And just how much more critical it is for these teens, who don’t share my privilege.”

Chris paused for a moment. The room was silent, and a lump formed in my throat.

“I urge you all to support Pride House and, if you’re not a member of the LGBTQ+ community, to be an ally in your everyday life. Calling out intolerance, educating yourself, respecting peoples’ names and pronouns, and not making assumptions about peoples’ gender identity or sexuality. We may sometimes screw up—I recently did and felt like a complete idiot. But we need to keep trying. Anyway, that’s enough from me. Now, for the true stars of tonight, the Pride House teens, who’ll be showcasing their skills in a talent show. I’ll hand it back to Alex to introduce the first performance.”

The room ruptured into applause. Tears welled in my eyes. I hadn’t seen this side of Chris before. His speech was thoughtful, heartfelt, and vulnerable. And I hadn’t realized my friendship with him had helped him through a difficult time.

Within minutes, five teens in drag had the audience in stitches with their enthusiastic performance of the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.” A rather chaotic dance routine by Erin and two of her friends garnered a vigorous round of applause, as did an earnest if slightly pitchy song by a fourteen-year-old teen. Seeing Erin up there, performing her heart out, in front of so many of the Pride House teens’ families but not her own, was like daggers in my chest. Josh and I clapped and cheered extra loud for her. Before we knew it, the talent show was over, and it was time for Josh and me to take the stage. I swallowed, squeezing the handle of my ridiculous foam hammer a few times as if it was a stress ball.

The auction got off to a flying start with a bidding war between three audience members for a romantic dinner for two at a local restaurant. My nerves dissipated as I focused on following the bids, finally slamming down the hammer and announcing the winner.

“Next up, this gorgeous pink lamp, decked in sparkling crystals. This lamp would add a touch of class to anyone’s home. Do we have a bidder?” Josh looked around the room.

I was glad Josh introduced the lamp. I couldn’t have said that with a straight face.

Cynthia raised her hand. “Fifty pounds.”

I stifled a laugh. I’d imagined the lamp being at home in Cynthia’s house, and apparently, I’d been spot on.

Bec, Daphne’s mother, must have shared Cynthia’s questionable taste. She raised her hand. “Sixty pounds.”

Cynthia glared at her and counterbid. They bounced back and forth, increasing their bids in ten-pound increments, exchanging dirty looks. Two minutes later, Cynthia was the proud new owner of the hideous lamp.

“This impressive male nude, sculpted in exquisite detail, would be a welcome addition to your home, bringing the timeless elegance of ancient Rome to your living room, or even…your bedroom.” Josh winked at me.

I worked hard to suppress a giggle.

To my surprise, Khanh started the bidding, but an older man sitting at the back quickly outbid him.

My dress was next. I cleared my throat. “This stunning McKinnon dress has only been worn once, at the London premiere of Muscle Man 4. Fresh off the red carpet—although I can assure you, it has been dry cleaned. Do we have any starting bids?”

My eyes darted around the silent room. My heart sank. I’d hoped it would attract some interest.

Bec raised her hand. “200 pounds.”

Cynthia jumped in. “500 pounds,” she said, looking at Bec as if daring her to go higher.

Before I knew it, my head was jerking from side to side, like I was a spectator at Wimbledon watching a match between tennis greats. They reached four digits, and the rallying continued. My heart raced as the numbers skyrocketed.

Bidding was at 2000 pounds when Cynthia, fed up with Bec’s 100-pound increments, yelled, “3000 pounds.”

Bec, clearly intent on getting the dress after losing out on the lamp, shot her a glowering look. “5000 pounds.’’

Cynthia’s eyes widened, and she leaned back in the chair, defeated. Bec gave her a victorious smile.

Thrilled at the result—the dress had raised a quarter of the money Pride House needed to stay afloat—I had to resist the urge to run over and hug Bec and Cynthia, an urge I’d never thought I’d experience. Instead, I smashed the hammer down, declaring Bec the winner. Hopefully, the heated bidding wouldn’t irretrievably damage their relationship.

Rose won the next item, a massage voucher, and my dad successfully bid on tickets to a West End show. Sharon looked pleased, and Tina less than thrilled, when Sharon won a metal bust of a dog, looking regal and very human-like in a shirt and fancy jacket. Scouring the room for bidders, I’d seen Chris start to raise his hand for that item, before sitting back in his chair, hands in his lap.

Before long, it was time for the last auction item of the night—Chris. I’d insisted Josh run it, citing a conflict of interest. The butterflies that had been fluttering gently in my stomach picked up pace again.

Josh dramatically cleared his throat. “Now everyone, the moment you have all been waiting for. The last auction item of the night. A dinner date—a platonic dinner date, just to be clear—with none other than Chris Trent himself! Would anyone like to start the bidding?”

Mouths gaped, and an excited murmur filled the room.