Chapter 10 Christopher #2
“Hold on, let me just consult the manual of how to be a gay man,” I say, reaching into my pocket to pull out an imaginary book.
I lick my finger and start flicking through imaginary pages.
“Oh God, I skipped that chapter!” I pretend to put the imaginary book down.
“What would us gays do without straight guys like you out here to remind us how to be?” I mock bow down to Daniel.
“Come on guys,” Kelly says, trying to mediate our escalating stand-off. She reaches for her coke, taking a gulp.
“My bad,” Daniel says, holding his hand out for a truce.
“It’s okay. Us gay guys are used to straight guys and their correctile dysfunction,” I fire back, batting his hand away with a smirk. Kelly laughs, spraying the coke she’s drinking out of her nostrils.
“What does this Alexander guy look like anyway?” Kelly asks, putting down her glass. She grabs a napkin and wipes her face with it before retrieving her phone and firing up her internet browser. She stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to reveal Alexander’s full name.
There’s no point in fighting Kelly on this. She’s like a dog with a bone and will only do this later without me if I don’t give in now.
“Morgan,” I say, grabbing my glass and downing the rest of my pint in one.
“As in THE Alexander Morgan?” Her eyes widen, like I know of more than the one. She immediately types his name into the search bar, bringing up a handful of images of him.
Daniel leans over to get a better look before looking at me.
“Go on, my boy,” he says, grabbing his napkin and throwing it at me. His raised eyebrows quickly drop back down as Kelly scrolls and clicks on a link.
“Ohhhhh…” he says. They share a concerned look before looking over at me. Kelly slowly hands her phone to me, almost apologetically, as if hating to be the bearer of bad news. And as I look down, I can see why Daniel’s eyebrows dropped. My heart falls to my feet as I read the headline:
Rita Watson Caught Leaving London Club with Alexander Morgan.
I’ve been berating myself for the last half hour.
I’d tortured myself on the forty-minute tube ride back from Hampstead by looking at videos and posts of the incident on social media.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, I’d opened my laptop as soon as I got back to the hotel, opening tab after tab.
Now, I’m pacing up and down in my hotel room, looking across the room at the multitude of tabs on my web browser.
Of course he’s fucking straight!
Why must I always go for the unavailable ones?
Or the straight ones.
Or both.
My thoughts continue to spin as I throw off Daniel’s top and remove my jeans, socks, and boxers, leaving them spread across the floor. I grab my pajamas from my suitcase and head into the bathroom.
“It’d be so much easier if I were straight,” I say out loud, looking at my worn-out face in the bathroom mirror. I reach for my electric toothbrush and toothpaste and start scrubbing my teeth viciously.
If I were straight, I wouldn’t have had to come out. Dad would still be alive. And Mum wouldn’t resent me for Dad no longer being here. I’d be able to date without having to hide it from my extended family, and I wouldn’t be in this position right now.
A knock on the door startles me. I switch the toothbrush off, placing it next to the handwash, and grab the towel to wipe the toothpaste from my mouth before looking at my watch.
It can’t be.
He’s got a show tonight, and he won’t be back for at least another couple of hours.
Another knock sounds as I make my way toward the door.
Peering through the peephole reveals a bald man with glasses, wearing a smart buttoned-down shirt and chinos, standing on the other side. A folder is clutched in his right hand.
He looks like one of the guys I saw in the lift the night Alexander arrived, which must mean he’s someone important on Alexander’s team.
I take one quick look in the mirror—my pajamas aren’t the best outfit to greet him in—and slowly open the door.
“Christopher Foster, right?”
I’m immediately taken back by his forthrightness. How does he know my full name?
“Can I help you?” I ask. My shoulders tighten as he looks me up and down.
“Yes. I’m Paul, Alexander’s manager. I was hoping you might have a moment.”
I grip the door more tightly, keeping it slightly ajar.
“What’s this regarding?” My confusion and irritation merge into one.
“Would you mind if I come in?” he asks, stepping forward. “It’s a rather personal matter and I’d rather not discuss it out here.” He looks both ways down the hallway before turning back to me with a harried look on his face.
I’m guessing that look is quite common for managers, based on my limited exposure dealing with talent through the creative campaigns I oversee at work, but I don’t relish seeing it directed at me.
I debate for three beats whether to let him in, but curiosity about the folder he holds firmly in his hand gets the better of me. I pull the door open and wave him through to the room. I flinch as he walks past me, and I close the door a little harder the necessary.
Paul steps over my clothes, which are strewn across the floor, making himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, and I quickly pick them up and throw them in the suitcase before I join him, sitting down in the other.
“What is it you want to discuss?” I ask, trying to regulate my breathing. Suddenly it feels as if I’m in some sort of trouble.
Paul places the folder down on the table between us.
“It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve had some, erm, how do I put it, interactions with Alexander since we’ve been here in the hotel.”
The way he says interactions has me shifting in my seat.
His gaze is locked on me. He’s clearly waiting for me to respond, but I don’t know what to say, so I sit in silence, waiting for the discomfort to pass. After an awkward silence, he continues.
“As I’m sure you can imagine, someone with Alexander’s level of visibility brings a lot of attention and speculation with it.”
Shit. My body tenses and my gaze immediately darts to my laptop screen, prompting Paul to stop and follow the direction I’m looking. I let out a slight sigh when I see my screensaver staring back at me.
I don’t need Paul to think I’m adding to the problem.
I readjust myself in the chair and look down at the folder and back up at him.
“It’s my job, as his manager, to ensure that I protect him,” Paul says. He reaches for the folder as his eyes stay locked on mine. His stare is magnified by the lenses in his glasses.
“I see,” I say, nodding my head as he opens the folder.
My body relaxes slightly as I get a sense of where this is heading.
“If these interactions are to continue, we need some assurances that you will not disclose the details of those interactions to anyone.” He retrieves some of the papers inside, placing them down on the table.
Ah! I knew it. They’re trying to keep me silent.
I sit up in the chair and the power shifts in the room as I pull my shoulders backward and lift my head higher.
“And if the interactions were to stop?”
I have no intention of being Alexander’s plaything, either to appease his sexual curiosity or his urges whenever he’s horny and Rita Watson isn’t around.
“Then I will need you to agree to the terms set out in this document.” Paul reaches for a second document and neatly lines it up next to the other one.
I pause for a beat. My stomach lets out a gurgling sound, making me wince as I pick up the papers.
MNDA is spelled out at the top of both of them.
Mutual Non-Disclosure Agreement.
I’ve heard about these things before. I even signed one once at work, promising not to reveal company secrets for one of our clients. But I’ve never had to sign one to cover a relationship that, frankly, doesn’t even exist.
As I make my way through the first document, Paul taps his fingers impatiently, as if that’s going to speed up the process. I try to make sense of each clause in the agreement and what is being asked of me.
I’m not sure they can even hold me accountable for half of the things in there. Certain points, like using a pseudonym to communicate, I’ve already broken.
My eyes widen as I get toward the end and see a statement that if I disclose the nature of our relationship to anyone, I’ll be held liable and will have to pay damages of ten million dollars.
My stomach knots up at the mere thought.
Thank God, I’ve already sworn Kelly and Daniel to secrecy.
The second agreement is a much shorter one-page document. Basically, it buys my silence if I immediately cease all communication with Alexander. The price? Twenty thousand dollars.
Once I’ve finally finished reading both, I look up and am greeted by an impatient look across Paul’s face.
“So….” he says, not beating around the bush.
“When do you need a decision by?” I place the papers back down on the table.
“Before I leave the room,” he says, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a pen. He sets it down, strategically, on the contract that buys my silence.
Like it’s a test.
Like he’s encouraging me to end all interactions immediately, rather than continue getting to know Alexander.
There’s no expression on his face as he studies me, like a poker player trying to read my hand, but I hold all the power here. So, I throw caution to the wind and ask the question that’s been on my mind all evening.
“And this Rita woman. Has she signed one of these?” I rest my hand atop the documents.
Paul shifts in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“Well, if you want me to sign one of these before you leave the room, then I need to know.” I can feel my forehead wrinkling.
He pauses momentarily, as if weighing up whether to share something or not. Opens his mouth, then closes it. He adjusts himself in his seat and inhales deeply.
“If you’re trying to ask me if Rita is his type, then I think you already know by virtue of the fact that I’m in here asking you to sign one of these documents.”
My gaze goes to the laptop again.
So, all of that isn’t true. Everything I read was fabricated?
I can’t believe I just wasted the last couple of hours spiraling. Thinking that Alexander and Rita were hooking up and that everything that’s happened in the past seventy-two hours was all a figment of my imagination.
I look back at both documents one more time.
The easy way out is on the left. The road less traveled is on the right.
I take two deep breaths, close my eyes as I reach for the pen, and grab the stack of papers, filling out my details at the top and signing the bottom of each page before handing it over to Paul.
I catch a brief look of ire on his face, gone in the blink of an eye, before his poker face returns.
Did he not want me to sign that document?
Did he expect me to take the money and run?
“Right.” Paul slaps his knees, slides the paperwork back into the folder, and stands up, signaling the end of this meeting. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Will I be getting a copy of that?” I force myself up from the armchair and point to the document, now tucked away in the folder again.
“No need,” he says, making the short journey to the door and letting himself out without another word. The door closes quickly behind him.
A pang in my stomach instantly appears, and a wave of regret washes over me. I rush to the door, opening it, but a quick look in both directions reveals that Paul has already disappeared.
I close the door and put my back up against it, sliding down to the ground. I drop my head into my hands.
Did I just sign the wrong document?