Chapter 15
Sunny
When Ludo Boche laughs, his face lights up. He has fat, chipmunky cheeks, and they make his eyes squint and his nose crinkle, which makes his glasses lift off his nose. That seems to trigger his nervous twitch, and he pushes his glasses back up onto his face and fixes his hair.
“Can we talk?” I said.
We were standing in the doorways to our respective rooms. I had the sense Ludo had been avoiding me all day—which had at least given me time to build up the courage to ask him to chat.
But if I didn’t seize the opportunity now, it would drag into another day—which might make things uncomfortable over our eggs and fucking orange juice in the morning.
The smile fell from Ludo’s face. He stiffened.
“Sure,” he said. “You better come in.”
I followed him the few short steps into his room.
The stone walls had been plastered and whitewashed.
It was decorated with the kind of tat you find in seaside gift shops.
There were little wooden seagulls, hand-painted pictures of fishing boats, and, inexplicably, a movie poster for The Dukes of Hazzard (rated an optimistic fourteen per cent on Rotten Tomatoes).
Ludo sat down on the edge of the bedspread.
I perched myself beside him. For all I had rehearsed this moment throughout the day, now that the time had come, my body was going into full fight-or-flight mode.
My veins were more adrenaline than blood.
I put my hands between my knees to stop them shivering and looked up to meet Ludo’s stormy blue eyes.
“I was a bit out of line the other night,” I said.
Ludo’s face didn’t move. He was waiting for more.
Which was fine. I could go further. “I was rude to you. I was rude about your family. I made a lot of sweeping generalisations, and I was a judgemental prick. If you’re able to forgive me, I’d like to put this behind us. ” (You horse-faced trollop.)
It was the most complete apology I could muster without a court order and lawyers on standby to hold me to account for every microaggression I’d thrown Ludo’s way at Maxime’s. Short of uttering the word sorry, that is.
“Is that your apology?” he said. “Because it doesn’t sound like you’re sorry. I see no evidence of a Damascene conversion. I doubt you’ve changed your opinion about ‘people like me’ in the course of a weekend. You meant what you said—and, what’s more, you still believe it.”
I was not off the hook yet.
“I recycled some old class war clichés and stereotypes and packaged them up as targeted insults,” I said. “They really weren’t targeted at all. I don’t know anything about you and your family beyond who your parents are. It was unfair, and I’m sorry.”
There. I’d said it. With any luck, I’d saved my career. Ludo took a deep breath and set his jaw. Apparently, we weren’t done. I could tell he’d also been rehearsing what he wanted to say and he was determined to say it.
“I want you to know that I wasn’t just handed my job.
I graduated with a first from the LSE. I was the top student in my class.
I aced the Sentinel’s cadetship exam, but I also had job offers from the BBC, the Telegraph, and the Spectator.
I chose the Sentinel because it meant, every day, I got to work alongside the person I admire, respect, and love more than anyone in the world—to see up close how he does what he does.
Yes, my father is the paper’s editor, but I earned my place there on merit. ”
I nodded. But I couldn’t let him get away with that. I swallowed, summoning a little courage as I risked ringing the bell on the start of round two.
“I understand that.” My nerves were making my accent slide back, which acted like a flashing neon sign pointing out our class difference.
“But as much as you like to believe you got all those offers on merit, having the name Boche on top of all the applications won’t have hurt your chances. You must see that, surely?”
I waited for him to get angry, to strike back.
Instead, silence fell between us. I looked into Ludo’s eyes and realised that what I’d just said had never occurred to him.
He seemed, well, a bit crushed. Despite myself, I felt compelled to smooth things over.
I only wanted the guy to acknowledge his privilege, not descend into depression.
“To be fair, you are talented,” I said. “Last week made that painfully clear.”
It hurt to say, but Ludo brightened a little.
“Thank you,” he said. He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. “I owe you an apology too. I’m afraid I felt so jolly embarrassed after you called me out for messaging you on GayHoller that I basically goaded you into that fight. It was petty.”
That was a surprise.
“You stuck up for your family,” I said. “I would have done the same, mate.”
By this point I was feeling magnanimous. I’d somehow gotten away with it. Career saved.
“Why did you unblock me on GayHoller?” Ludo asked.
Blindsiding your opponent with a left-field question is a hardcore interview technique, and I’d walked into it.
But what to say? I wanted to trawl through your photographs because I’m obsessed with the colour of your eyes?
I had a Saturday afternoon chub on and wanted to wank off to pictures of your extraordinary arse?
I was unsettled after fighting with the Boche family dauphin and was petrified I’d ruined my career? I opted for the truth. Mostly.
“I was correcting a wrong,” I said.
“Unblocking someone on GayHoller is not an apology.”
“No, the wrong was blocking you in the first place. I only did it because VladPop kept suggesting we’d be great together. He saw your messages to me, and—”
“Oh my God. All the stuff about Posh Spice?” Ludo put his head in his hands.
“Also, I guess I wanted—”
Ludo wasn’t finished.
“Holy mother of God, the chief whip has seen my profile pictures. The chief whip has seen my butt. Jesus, Bungo, and Great-Uncle Bulgaria, Sunny. What have you done to me?”
I put a hand on Ludo’s shoulder. The heat of his body was warm against my skin. He smelt of ironed linen and worn cashmere. Proper cosy.
“I’m in the dirt file,” he said. “We’re in the dirt file.”
“There isn’t any dirt.”
“There’s an awful lot of ballet butt.”
Indeed, there was. That took my mind somewhere else entirely.
Ludo sat staring at the wall, his face in his hands.
He sighed heavily but, I noticed, didn’t shake my hand off his shoulder.
I imagined sliding it around him and pulling him into a hug, as if that might help him feel better.
I shook the idea off. Where did that come from?
I removed my hand. This was still a Tesco-versus-Asda situation. Ludo sat bolt upright, suddenly perky.
“Is that… Jessica Simpson?” he said, pointing at the poster on the wall.
“Wait, have you never seen The Dukes of Hazzard?”
I jumped up and reached for the door, knowing exactly what the evening needed.
“Where are you going?”
“To get my laptop. We’re going to watch a film.”
* * *
It had been a long day, and we were both tired, but watching a truly terrible movie together seemed like an excellent way to put everything behind us and make a fresh start.
Ludo had come alive at the suggestion, immediately calling it a pyjama party and opening the packet of crisps Mrs Gallacher had helpfully supplied alongside a few individually wrapped biscuits on the tea-and-coffee tray.
Before long we were hunkered down on Ludo’s bed, computer in front of us, watching the General Lee get airborne and Boss Hogg get his knickers in a twist, laughing our tits off at the Christmas cracker–quality jokes.
“Can you believe the critics panned this film?” I said.
“Clearly they didn’t appreciate the subtlety of the performances. Which are so subtle, I’m not even sure they meet the dictionary definition of the word performance.”
“Who gets the best-actor gong?”
“What’s the car called again?”
“The General Lee.”
“The Oscar goes to General Lee.”
On-screen, Jessica Simpson was flirting with two police officers like someone who had learned how to flirt by watching bottom-shelf offerings on Pornhub.
Ludo was in fits of laughter. It shook the bed and made the empty crisp packet crinkle loudly in its hidey-hole between our legs on the duvet.
When we got too cold, we had jumped under the covers, propping ourselves up against the headboard with pillows.
Ludo’s sleepwear was, predictably, actual button-up pyjamas.
I normally just wore pants to bed—of the boxer-brief variety, rather than American-style boxers—which seemed a little too revealing for the occasion.
So I had pulled on a pair of grey joggers and a sweater, which I’d brought in case the evenings got cold or I felt like walking along a beach giving free dick print to the local lads.
(Hey, a girl’s got to eat—and I’d be fresh meat up here.)
Ludo roared with laughter. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.
We were sitting apart, but I could feel the warmth of him.
He might have been a posh knobber with absolutely no idea how the world worked, and we might have had absolutely nothing in common except our jobs, but it felt nice being this physically close to another boy.
How long had it been? Three months? Six?
The sound of engines revving and wheels spinning filled the room.
I felt Ludo move, and I turned to find him looking at me.
His face was just inches from mine, his eyes sparkling pools of indigo.
“Do we have any more crisps?” he asked, breaking the spell.
“No, we’ve eaten all Mrs Gallacher’s fucking crisps.”
“Right. Onto Mrs Gallacher’s fucking biscuits, then,” he said, pausing the film and launching himself out of bed and over to the dresser, where the kettle stood. “Cup of tea?”
An hour later, the film was finished and Ludo was fast asleep.
I climbed out of bed. He looked cute in his rumpled grampa pyjamas.
I gently removed his glasses and put them on the bedside table.
Then I grabbed my laptop and slipped out the door, reasonably confident I’d fixed the mess I’d got myself into by making an enemy of Ludo Boche.