Chapter 13
Hunter
What is it about being in the shower that makes it so easy for your mind to drift?
I used to stay in the shower for hours when I was a teenager.
I kept expecting my mom to flip and demand that I get out of there, but she never did.
She’s never been that bothered about what I’m doing.
We talked on Sunday for the first time in weeks, and I could swear she was glad to hear I would be staying in London.
No need to explain the details. Now she doesn’t have to worry about me randomly showing up and judging whatever awful guy she’s dating.
At least we spoke. My dad is still drifting around Thailand, both of us using time zones as an excuse for why we never get around to catching up.
You can’t blame me for wanting to stay in this country.
I really don’t have any reason to go home.
Still, there have been plenty of times these past few days when I’ve had to pinch myself.
I’m really doing this, huh? Getting married to a virtual stranger for a visa.
If I’m caught, I’ll be deported. I’ll have a criminal record.
I’ll be seriously restricted from traveling in the future, let alone living and working where I want. It’s no joke.
Just then, Max says something from outside the bathroom door.
‘What?’ I shout.
He replies, but I can’t make it out. I turn off the shower, throw a towel around my waist and open the door. Max is standing there.
‘What did you say?’ I ask.
Max shuffles and averts his gaze. ‘I said are you going to be much longer?’
‘Not that long, no.’
‘It’s just . . . our guests will be here soon.’
Max and I decided that to create as realistic a wedding experience as possible, we should have a bachelor party.
We settled on Ancient Greece as the theme.
Since it’s going to be stressful enough putting on a show at the wedding, we agreed that tonight, we would only invite the people who know the truth, namely Zosia, Thiago and Doily.
‘I need the mirror to do my make-up,’ I say to Max.
‘That’s fine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can use the mirror.’
‘What, while you’re in here?’
Max shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’
I’m immediately returned to that moment in the fitting room when we locked eyes in the mirror.
The thought of doing my make-up while Max is in the shower is so thrilling to me that I can barely breathe.
How is he acting like it’s normal? But maybe it is for him.
I can’t drag Max down to my level. He doesn’t deserve that.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘There’s a mirror in the hallway. I’m done. The bathroom’s yours.’
I shut myself in my bedroom, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.
What’s wrong with me? I didn’t think living together would be this hard.
With Rafferty it lost its spark so quickly.
But that’s the problem with this arrangement.
We’re not a real couple. We’re not sleeping together.
Which means that situations like sharing a bathroom are charged with curiosity and possibility. For me at least.
I try to put it out of my mind and focus on my costume.
I’ve decided to keep it simple and dress as Hercules – a toga and sandals, a baseball bat as my club, and a bit of gold eyeshadow for fun.
But as I knot my toga, I picture the scene that might have unfolded if I’d stayed in the bathroom like Max suggested.
I’d be looking in the mirror, trying not to steal glances through the steam on the shower door.
It doesn’t help that I can hear Max humming as he lathers himself as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Before I know it, I’ve dropped my toga to the ground and I’m lying naked on my bed, jerking off. I close my eyes and continue the scene in my mind with Max – how he would step out of the shower, butt naked and dripping wet. I’d let my towel fall to the floor.
We’d stand there for a moment, look each other up and down, then hold our gaze.
I’d stroke Max’s cheek, noticing a freckle I hadn’t before.
Then, as he looked at me with those innocent eyes, I wouldn’t be able to resist any longer.
Our lips would meet, Max’s mouth damp with steam, his hair scented with shampoo.
I’d reach down to grab hold of his dick and let him do the same to me, getting rock hard the moment his hand closed around me.
We’d want to take it slowly, but we wouldn’t be able to.
Instead, we’d stand right there, kissing with ever more urgency as we worked ourselves to a climax.
That’s all it takes for my fantasy to catch up with reality. I bite down to muffle my gasps and jet all over my chest.
Around 6 p.m., the bell rings and I answer the door to Zosia and Thiago dressed as Hades and Persephone.
Zosia makes an imperious Hades, dressed in a black toga and clutching a skull as a prop, while Thiago has brought Persephone to life with a crown of flowers and a white toga that flows around him as he bounds up and embraces me.
‘I cannot believe this!’ squeals Thiago.
‘I cannot believe this,’ drolls Zosia.
Usually when Zosia and Thiago visit, we stick to my part of the house, but tonight, Doily has offered to host. Her living room is a jungle of clashing botanical prints, vintage velvet cushions, and antique armchairs.
On the sideboard, she has left out the champagne glasses that were gifted to her grandfather by the Duke of Rutland.
The bookshelves spill with ivy and ferns, and there’s a tall rubber plant in one corner.
Piles of scripts and Nancy Mitford novels are spread across her reading desk, and fairy lights hang over a Tiffany-style lamp.
On the mantelpiece, for some reason, is Jacques Cousteau’s honorary BAFTA.
‘I can’t wait to meet this woman,’ says Thiago.
‘You’ve met her before,’ I say. ‘At the Oliviers.’
‘For like two seconds. We were both drunk. I cried. Can’t remember why.’
‘I’m more interested in meeting the husband,’ says Zosia.
Thiago shrieks in excitement. Zosia reclines on the chaise longue.
‘Come on then,’ she says. ‘Tell us everything.’
I pour us each a glass of champagne and fill them in.
The three of us have a WhatsApp group that is more or less a triple stream of consciousness, so they’re already up to date on the basics.
I tell them I’ve discovered there’s no way I can pretend to be even a trainee orthodontist without fully faking degree certificates and so on.
An assistant orthodontist, however, is a viable alternative, and we’ll just have to gaslight anyone who heard the original story.
I’ve already signed up for an online course for dental assistants.
That’s the type of character research I genuinely enjoy, and I’m already confident enough to show off my knowledge of radiography equipment and dental dams. But what I really want to talk about is Max.
Thiago shares so many details of his sex life with us that it’s like we have front row seats, but I don’t feel like telling my friends I just jerked off to the thought of Max.
Instead, I talk about the weirdness of domesticity with someone I’m not sleeping with.
‘Yet,’ says Thiago.
I roll my eyes and laugh.
‘It’s not against the rules,’ Thiago says.
‘He’s not exactly my type.’
Zosia laughs out loud.
‘What?’ I say.
‘You love them.’
‘Who?’
‘Posh little English boys.’
‘He’s not posh.’
‘Fine, but you know the kind. Rabbit in the headlights, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Am I right or am I right?’
She knows me too well. There have been more than a few like Max since I moved to London, but none who I’ve dated seriously, let alone moved in with.
‘Touché,’ I say. ‘But that’s fine for a bit of fun. This is different. I’m scared I’m going to ruin him.’
Zosia laughs again. ‘Hunter, I love you. Do you think actual fuck boys go around worrying they’re going to ruin the guys they sleep with? Did Rafferty ever worry about that?’
It’s a fair point.
‘I get it,’ says Zosia. ‘But I really don’t think you have to worry. Anyway, he agreed to this marriage. How innocent can he be?’
Not long afterwards, the door is nudged open.
I’m expecting it to be Max, but it’s Mr Peanut who greets us.
He has been transformed into Cerberus, the three-headed dog, courtesy of a DIY collar and some Furbies, making him the cutest guardian of the underworld I’ve ever seen.
Mr Peanut is swiftly followed by Max, who has dressed as Hermes, wearing a toga, a streak of silver paint along each cheekbone, and a pair of wings that Doily rescued from an all-male production of Peter Pan.
‘You must be Max,’ says Thiago.
‘How do I look?’ Max asks nervously.
As Thiago leaps up to compliment his outfit, Zosia turns to me.
‘I get it now,’ she says with a grin. ‘You keep your hands off this angel.’
Soon after that, we are joined by Doily, who has dressed as Helen of Troy, her usual eccentric ensembles replaced by the simplest white dress and a single gold cuff.
Zosia and Thiago swarm around her, as Doily cracks open a bottle of Pol Roger and starts telling them how much James Corden is getting paid for the Humpty Dumpty miniseries.
Max throws himself into the conversation, but I can’t relax, not with Zosia’s comment ringing in my ears.
I know she was only joking, but I’m worried I’ve dragged Max into a scheme that he’s not prepared for.
Tonight is a night off, but whenever we’re out in public, we’re going to have to pretend.
We’re going to have to lie to everyone we know.
I’m really not sure Max is ready. I’m an actor.
I don’t have many friends or any family in the country.
I’m lost in these thoughts when I look up and see Max approaching me.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
I smile at him. ‘Just processing everything.’
‘Fair,’ says Max. ‘But come on. Your friends are here.’