Chapter 10
Ludo
If there is anything more distracting than the unexpected exposure of a nipple, it’s the unexpected exposure of a pair of nipples.
I was trying desperately not to leer at the two perfectly formed pink circles staring back at me from behind Sunny Miller’s champagne-soaked shirt.
I had refused to let him replace my spilt champagne, declaring the accident my fault.
But he said he felt guilty, and I had a question I wanted to ask him, so I pressed my advantage—insisting he join me for a drink by way of apology.
We were sitting in the booth in the Maxime’s VIP lounge that had been reserved for my brother, but Jonty was off cavorting with his legion of followers, doing whatever it was that “influencing” entailed.
That left Sunny and me alone with a tremendous amount of champagne that, having been uncorked, was simply screaming for someone to drink it.
Sunny sat opposite me, looking wet, unimpressed, and like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Booze would fix it.
“I shouldn’t really have another drink,” I said, as I poured Sunny a glass of the bubbly. “I’ve got class in the morning.”
“You still at uni or summink?” he said. Was that an accent of some sort?
“I teach,” I said. “I volunteer at a ballet school. Come eight o’clock tomorrow morning I’ll be knee-deep in screaming five-year-olds in tutus and very much regretting every single drop of alcohol I’ve consumed tonight. Think of me while you’re enjoying your sleep-in.”
I raised my glass and said cheers. Sunny clinked his against mine, and we sipped at the nectar.
“I knew you did ballet,” he said. “I didn’t realise you taught it.”
I seized on this.
“How did you know I do ballet?” I knew full well how Miller knew I did ballet.
My GayHoller profile had a photo of me taken backstage at last year’s Christmas show.
This was the same GayHoller profile Miller appeared to have blocked within seconds of me sending him a message.
OK, a few messages. OK, a barrage of messages.
But that was accidental, and besides, I thought I’d been terribly cute.
Sunny visibly tensed in his seat as he realised what he’d let slip.
I would have enjoyed his discomfort, but the tensing made his chest and his arms twitch under the damp fabric of his thin shirt, which was clinging to his body as tight as a kidnapper’s gag.
As he tensed, his nipples bounced. Through his shirt I could see that the sexy rash of freckles on his face and neck continued down over his biceps and across his chest.
“I think someone might have shown me a picture,” he said.
He had the good grace to blush. He was twisting in his seat like one of my ballet kids when they need the loo and have left it almost too late to ask to be excused.
I put him out of his misery and apologised for the spray of messages on GayHoller.
“I didn’t mean for it to come off quite as intensely as it must have.”
He smiled sheepishly, and I waited for him to apologise for blocking me—or at least to explain it. He didn’t. I put the bottle of champagne back in the ice bucket. I lifted my glass.
“To otters,” I said. I’d crack this bugger one way or another. Sunny froze, his glass in mid-air.
“Have you been talking to Vladimir Popov?”
“No. Why?” I took a small sip. Sunny did the same.
“Never mind,” he said.
“You must tell me what happened when you went to see him. You’ve still got all your fingernails, I see. Was it just a bit of light waterboarding? Or is he holding your mother hostage until your glowing coverage of his political achievements gets him the knighthood he so richly deserves.”
“Remarkably close,” Sunny said. I waited for more, but no more information was forthcoming. If that’s the way he wanted to play it, I’d come right out with what I really wanted to know.
“Why did you block me on GayHoller?”
There was a beat while Sunny considered his answer.
“Not to be funny, but you’re the competition, mate,” he said. There was that hint of accent again.
“So, we can’t be friends?”
“We can be friends. We can’t be more than friends.”
That unexpectedly stung. This risked becoming more embarrassing than I’d thought. It was time to slip into self-preservation mode.
“What made you think I wanted to be more than friends?”
“You messaged me on a world-famous gay hook-up app. Forgive me for thinking your motives were clear.”
“My motive was clear. I asked if I could buy you coffee to apologise.”
He shook his head.
“You went looking to see if I had a profile. Why did you do that if you weren’t interested in being more than friends?”
Now I was the one twisting uncomfortably in my seat. How had he done that? Sunny Miller would make an excellent television interviewer. My glasses pinched my nose. I pushed them back up into place. Both Sunny’s intense amber-green eyes and his blush-pink nipples glared at me accusingly.
“Idle curiosity, initially,” I said, hoping I sounded convincingly uninterested. “Are you telling me you don’t check GayHoller sometimes to see if someone has a profile?”
“If I want to shag them, sure.”
This fellow had so many tickets on himself that if he stood outside Wembley Stadium, he’d get arrested for touting.
“You think I want to shag you?” I asked.
Don’t look at his nipples. Don’t look at his nipples. Don’t look at his nipples.
“I don’t care whether you want to shag me or not,” Sunny said, seeming agitated. “It’s not going to happen.”
That was brutal.
“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” I said, trying to rise above the crushing rejection by sounding lofty and indifferent. “Just to satisfy my curiosity, may I ask why there’s such vehemence in your assertion?”
“Not only are we professional competitors, which makes it a total no-go zone anyway, but we clearly have nothing in common as people.”
It felt like an assassination. I could almost understand Sunny’s first point, but the second? I felt unfairly judged, and my back was up.
“You know next to nothing about me,” I said.
“I know enough,” he said.
“Go on, then.” I was holding it together, but there was a lump in my throat that risked triggering my sensitive gag reflex. I felt ill.
“All right, then.” He swigged his champagne.
“You’re a rich kid, so you’re probably used to getting whatever you want.
Like your job, which, chances are, you got because of who your dad is.
That’s great for you, but it will have squeezed out some poor kid who could have earned that opportunity based on merit and had their life changed forever.
” Sunny swept a hand over the table, gesturing at the accoutrements upon it.
“You’re the kind of person who has VIP-lounge access at fancy clubs and drinks expensive champagne, so I’d say you’re probably the kind of person who pushes on doors and they just open for you.
That’s great for you, too, but where I come from most people push on doors their whole lives, and those doors never open.
People like you dream of something, the doors open automatically.
People like me dream of something, we have to go make it happen for ourselves—all while people like you hold the door closed in front of us. ”
This jolly well hurt.
“You really have such a low opinion of me?” I couldn’t control the tears welling in my eyes.
I was upset, but I was also deeply, wildly angry.
I set my teeth, searching for the right words, needing to precisely eviscerate Sunny Miller, but my alcohol-fogged brain was falling hopelessly, desperately short.
Then, above all the background music and chatter, a familiar laugh bellowed across the club.
“Who is that obnoxious bellend?” Sunny said.
Suddenly, I had all the words I needed.
“That’s my brother,” I said. “That obnoxious bellend paid for the expensive champagne you’re drinking.
And for the VIP lounge you’re sitting in.
I’ll grant you, his laugh is a bit grating.
But let me tell you something. Jonty is doing a lot more to make the world a better place to live than most people, rich or poor.
He spends thousands of hours promoting environmental causes for free.
Why? Because he believes in them. He’s a goodwill ambassador for the Hazel Dormouse Protection Trust—an endangered species, by the way, and a charity which could otherwise only dream of getting the kind of publicity he gets for them with a single Instagram post. Last year he raised two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the Great Ormond Street children’s hospital, doing something I don’t quite understand on OnlyFans but which he assures our parents was absolutely not pornography, and I for one believe him because the pictures would have leaked by now.
OK, so maybe a few doors may open for him here and there because of who he is, but he’s using his influence to drive real change—because you know what, you sanctimonious tosspot, whatever you may think of ‘people like us,’ that’s the kind of people we are. ”
To be fair, my little brother is a massive bellend, but it’s like Uncle Ben said: you turn up for family, good or bad. I rather hoped I’d put Sunny in his place, but rather than look sheepish, he was shaking his head.
“A bit of charity work. That’s your defence of yourself? Of the whole corrupt system you belong to, and perpetuate, and benefit from?” He scoffed. “Mate, you’re so privileged you don’t even know you’re privileged.”
I’d had enough of Sunny Miller now. He needed bringing down a peg or two. Fortunately, I found the perfect final flourish.
“Privileged enough to know the difference between an otter and a beaver, at least.”
There was, unaccountably, no audience on hand to give me a round of applause, so silence fell between us. Sunny’s face was now so red it looked like someone had boiled it in a pot.
“I should go,” he said.
“Yes, I think you should.”
Sunny shuffled his way out of the booth.
He stood for a second at the end of the table, tapping a finger against the wood, avoiding eye contact.
His shirt had almost completely dried. The distraction of the slender, tightly muscled body under the fabric was gone.
It had lost its lustre, anyway. Sunny tapped his fingers a couple more times, as if summoning the courage to speak.
He gave me the briefest flash of those peridot eyes.
I raised an eyebrow. His courage failed him.
He turned on his heels and disappeared through the crowd.
I didn’t care if I never saw Sunny Miller ever again.