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“It’s true what I said this morning. I’ve never been with anyone. Never been kissed. Never been intimate with anyone for real. I mean, I know how to do it. I know how to make all kinds of things look amazing on camera. I know what expression to wear to look like I’m having the best orgasm of my life. I’ve just never…done it for real.”
“Not even masturbating?”
Wrong question, Matt. He faceplanted my chest and groaned. I nudged him, but he wouldn’t look up.
“Yes. But that’s different from actually being with someone.”
“Would you like to, though?”
“Of course I would. But not with just anyone. I…I’m…let me explain from the start. Because I’m not…fuck.”
“It’s OK. Just talk to me.”
Those words seemed to make him relax. Moving off my lap, he sat beside me on the sofa, leaning back, legs stretched out in front of him. He took a deep breath.
“I left school at fifteen and finished my education with a tutor on set. I missed out on all those years when kids experience things. When they figure shit out and experiment and do stupid stuff. I never went to uni or went backpacking or even had a summer holiday. I’ve never had another job. I don’t know anything about how to live a normal life. Going to a supermarket gives me palpitations. I live in a hotel, and I’m shit-scared half the time because people know who I am and recognise me and want things. I mean, it’s not like I have stalkers waiting for me every day, but things creep up on you. Like today. I’m on every fucking website, falling drunk out of some event, doing some imaginary walk of shame, when I was here, in your bed, just before midnight, for crying out loud! It’s not a big secret that I live in a hotel, and it’s not the first time I’ve panicked and asked Lucia to move me somewhere else.”
“Where are you moving? Who is Lucia?”
“My agent. Manager slash publicist slash everything kind of thing. She gets me my gigs, sets up appearances and meetings and auditions and all that, has a whole team dedicated to me being me. Books my tickets. Pays my bills. Organises my clothes. Like that suit over there. It’s not mine. It’s borrowed from some designer. There’s a courier collecting it…from the hotel. Shit.”
I hadn’t noticed the posh suit hanging on the door, and I recognised the leopard-print shirt from the pictures on social media. I was glad it was going back. I never wanted to see it again. “You have more important things to worry about than some rental suit.”
“Designer collaboration.” He smirked. “Such bullshit.”
“Whatever.” I smiled, stroked his cheek. We needed to get into our normal groove. It made things easier.
“What other worries do I have?” he asked, rubbing his nose. His eyes were red and swollen, and he was still tearful. Fuck. I hated seeing him upset.
“Firstly, we need to find space for your stuff somewhere. Secondly, I’m starving.”
“You said boyfriends earlier.” He spoke slowly like he was tasting the word. “I’m not actually gay. I don’t think.”
I laughed. Tactless, I know, but it was a ridiculous thing to say.
“I was chatting to some of my students today. We’re doing a project on ethics for Pride. Afterschool club. I run it. We were talking about queer actors playing straight roles and straight actors playing queer roles, and your name came up in that conversation.”
Oh Matt, shut up. He looked mortified.
“Yeah, I’m the ultimate queer-baiting bastard in the business—despite everyone thinking I’m gay.”
“You know it doesn’t matter.” I was trying so hard here, but Con Telford wasnotstraight. No straight man kissed the way he’d kissed me this morning. And if that made me the arsehole?
“Itdoesmatter when people hurl abuse at you,” he said. “When directors are afraid to touch you because you might bring bad vibes. And what the hell does the public know? If you count the number of people I’ve supposedly dated, shagged, got engaged to and no doubt married in the press… Lucia keeps pushing the uncertain bi narrative, because it works for my brand, and look where that gets me. Crying on the sofa because I can’t handle all the bullshit.”
“Ehhhr, you’re not just crying on any sofa, baby, you’re crying onmysofa. Big difference.”
“But we’re not boyfriends. Baby.”
God, he was hard work. But yes, I got it.
“I’m not going to push it, but listen. You don’t have to be anything, you hear me? But I know one thing. You like me. And God knows I like you. We sleep together. Note.Sleep. We adore…well…Iadore you. I think you kind of like me too. Your bags are in my hallway. You’ve got your toothbrush in my bathroom, and your bloody flowers are still in my kitchen!”
I paused to catch my breath and look at him. He seemed a little taken back with my little outburst.
“So we are boyfriends?”
“Conny, this whole set up screams boyfriends! Even the bag of coffee in my bag that I bought for you agrees with me.”
