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At the start obviously I was sent on those trivial things that local papers have to cover, openings of garden fetes, minor traffic accidents, i.e., no one actually killed but motorway gridlocked, small house fire kills family pet (sad).
Jacob seemed to have cheered up a bit and was pleased that I’d got a job, quite near the bottom. “You’ll soon work your way up,” he said with a smile, which was roughly what I’d said to him.
Now everything new is either frightening or exciting, or both. So I was pleased when I got the frightening bit over and started on the exciting bits. Not that covering an opening of a garden fete by an unknown “celebrity” is particularly breathtaking, but I knew that if I did it well, or at least competently, I’d get better assignments later. Actually, I was lucky—and luck seems to run in my life, but I mustn’t trust on it. After all, hubris is followed by nemesis as we all know. The lucky thing was that the so-called celebrity had fallen ill with the flu or tonsillitis or something, and purely by chance, the organizers had managed to get hold of a real-life celeb, one whose name, if I told you before the paper got published, you’d recognize instantly.
It was my gain, and I only found this out when I got there, and a good thing, too, because had the paper known beforehand, they’d have sent someone more experienced. However, they didn’t and therefore my good fortune.
The lovely creature, star of screen, stage, and internet, gave a brilliant, funny speech, which I recorded verbatim, and then with great kindness agreed to have a few words with humble old me.
She was obviously enchanted by my devastatingly good looks, or perhaps she realized I was gay, and she really opened up, told me of her immediate future, the film she was about to start working on, and what she thought of various directors. This last she asked me not to publish, but I stored it up for possible future use.
When I got back, the editors (bastards) tried to take the scoop off me and give it to someone else, but I had the speech, I had the notes of her interview, and finally, and it merely needed a hint that I wouldn’t give up my info to anyone else, they let me write it up.
Naturally they criticized the result, fiddled around with it, but essentially it was the same and under my byline. My first fucking byline! Shit a brick! Who to tell? Jacob, obviously.
I got out my phone and punched his speed-dial number. It was switched off. Bloody hell, it was fucking switched off. But then I thought, Of course, it’s switched off. He’s at work. Oh well, I’d tell him later.
I decided to tell my parents. They’d be excited, probably go out and buy the newsagent’s whole stock of papers. They don’t have a mobile phone. As my mother said, “Don’t hold with them things; they frazzle your brains.”
Where she got that from, I’ve no idea. Probably off the radio, which tells you on Tuesday that eating celery is good for you and on Friday that celery is responsible for more than one genetic disorder. But they were out. Their landline rang and rang and rang. Bloody hell, they hadn’t even got an answering service.
I casually glanced down the list of my latest entries. The latest one caught my eye: Lex W and then a cell number.
Who the hell was Lex W?
And then I remembered it was the nice guy I’d slept with (slept, huh!) a week or so before. He’d been, between bouts of enthusiastic coitus, interested in my planned choice of career. Would he be interested in my first scoop? Would he be at home in the middle of the day? Would he, in fact, even remember me?
Well, it seemed so, he was, and he did.
“That’s great. I must get a copy.” He hesitated. “I’ve been meaning to ring you, but I wasn’t sure how keen you were on a return match.”
I thought for just a fraction of a second, but it must have been obvious to Lex, for he said, “Sorry, I’m being too forward. You’ve probably got other commitments.”
“No, I was just thinking if I’ve got any, and the answer is I haven’t. Are you free tonight?”
“Sure.”
“And what do you say to going out for a meal first? My shout. I haven’t had a real date for yonks.” I wondered if I’d gone too far, calling it a date, but apparently not.
“Great, and no way will I let you pay. It’s you we’ve got to celebrate, and I know a really swish place to do it. Can we meet up somewhere for a drink and then go on from there?”
When I got home, I told my parents and presented them with a souvenir copy, which they said they’d frame. I was after all on the front page. I told them not to be daft, but I was pleased they were so happy for me.
I decided to spruce myself up for the evening. I even wondered about a tux—you have to have one at some events at uni—dithered, but in the end just a good suit, shirt, and tie. We wouldn’t be clubbing, or at least I assumed we wouldn’t, so I didn’t need my gay gear. You know, a T-shirt that only comes down just below your nipples and shows off your belly button, and tight jeans that rest low upon your hips and might reveal a bit of pubic hair.
I was glad that I’d chosen what I had because when I saw Lex (my big fear was that I wouldn’t recognize him), I saw this really, really attractive young man with gorgeous dark hair and grey eyes you could get lost in. Stop it, you’re getting soppy. The very last impression you want to give.
There he was in a suit not dissimilar to mine but cut rather better, and the smile he gave me when he turned and saw me would have melted a Popsicle. We met with a hug, which lasted rather longer than normal, not that I minded.
And the conversation wasn’t difficult or embarrassing. Lex started it off well by saying, “I thought you might not recognize me,” then laughed.
He was funny, clever, urbane, strikingly handsome with the looks that really turn me on—black hair with a slight wave to it, blue-grey eyes, (not the brilliant blue that are spectacularly striking but somehow too beautiful), high cheekbones over the flat planes of his face, a smiling, smiling mouth, and teeth perfectly white with just one front tooth slightly out of alignment. The tiny imperfection, which to me, at least, adds to rather than detracts from perfection.
We chatted about the scoop (of course) and I admitted I was a new boy at the game. We talked of uni—he’d been to Cambridge, Christ’s College, not quite the oldest to be founded but not far off.
“1505,” he confided, “and the most expensive.”
“Jesus, you must be rich.”
