Chapter 41
Ludo
In honour of the coronation, the Union flag bunting was up, we’d cracked out the Pimm’s horrifically early in the season, and a “greatest British hits of all time” playlist was cranking out of the speakers at a genteel-neighbourhood-appropriate volume.
It was one of those beautiful May evenings, and Mummy had the folding doors onto the patio wide open.
“Letting the outside in and the inside out” was how the architect had sold the idea to my parents before the big renovation a few years ago.
Unfortunately, it also gave the local mosquitos the kind of free range that domesticated chickens can only dream of, and I was being eaten alive.
“Where are the citronella candles, Mummy?” She was hooking a string of fairy lights along the fence, which I appreciated because it’s always nice to not be the gayest thing at a party.
“Ask your father!”
Father was in the kitchen, his usual weekend haunt, marinating something dead.
I didn’t really want to disturb him, mostly because it meant I’d have to talk to him, which, today of all days, was a danger to my mental health.
Tonight was the first time Sunny would be spending any real amount of time with my family.
It was also the first time he’d be meeting Uncle Ben, who was out of both the wheelchair and the hospital now but still weak. I really wanted it to go well.
I turned to Jonty, who was struggling to light the firepit.
“Bet you’re now regretting all those misspent afternoons skiving off Boy Scouts to go hang out with girls down by the canal,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ludovic. That was a marvellous investment. I got to touch Laura Pettigrew’s breasts.”
“Oh, yes! Heavy Pettigrew,” I recalled. “Didn’t she marry an earl or something?”
“He’s a viscount,” Jonty snapped. I scratched at my arm, irritating a mozzie bite.
“Only a viscount? How the mighty breasts have fallen. Do you know where the citronella candles are?”
“Cupboard under the stairs?”
The doorbell rang, the buzz amplified through the home security system. Our guests had started to arrive.
“Can someone get that?” Father called out. “I’m in the marinade.”
“Need me to hold your head under?” I said, sotto voce. Jonty snorted.
The doorbell rang again. The originally planned dinner party had grown into an actual party, with a horde of guests.
But I thought the likelihood of the person at the door being either Sunny or Uncle Ben was high, so I volunteered to answer it.
I dashed through the house, tripping on the hall runner and falling hard on my hip and elbow.
The doorbell rang again. I picked myself up and inspected the damage in the hall mirror.
There’d at least be a bruised elbow in the morning.
I straightened my glasses and my hair, tucked my shirt back in to make sure I looked presentable, and opened the door.
It was King George VII. Well, it was Sunny, his freckled visage hidden behind a King George mask.
“Hello, lowly subject,” he said.
“My liege.” I bowed.
Sunny removed the ridiculous mask to reveal a cheeky grin.
His coppery hair was either still wet from the shower or freshly gelled.
Weekend Sunny was way more scally boy than workaday Sunny, and golly, it was unbearably sexy.
He was wearing essentially the same outfit as he’d worn to the fundraiser—a white shirt, black skinny jeans, and trainers—but he had added a light-blue hoodie, which was unzipped to the waist. He was holding a four-pack of ciders.
He looked like an ASOS model. He looked as hot as hell. He opened his mouth to speak.
“You look—”
I grabbed him by his shirt, pulled him inside, slammed the front door shut behind us, and kissed him against it. Father’s voice echoed down the hallway.
“You’re on camera, Ludo!”
I rolled my eyes and extricated myself from Sunny. He looked startled. Until a week ago, my parents had never even met a boy I was interested in. Now, they must have thought I was some weird exhibitionist whose fetish was making out with boys in front of his family.
“Better security system in here than a Hatton Garden jewellers,” I said. I grabbed Sunny’s free hand and pulled him, his ciders, and his exquisite sexiness into the cupboard under the stairs, shutting the door behind us. I yanked the cord to switch on the light, ignoring the throb in my elbow.
“Sex dungeon?” he asked.
“We’re looking for citronella.”
“Is she the housekeeper?”
“She’s a candle. But first, you’re going to kiss me without my parents watching for once.”
Sunny saluted. “Can do, captain.” He put his drinks on a shelf, popped King George into the umbrella stand, and slid his arms around my waist. I let my body sink into his and inhaled the smell of him. Our eyes met, our lips touched, and I tasted the warmth of his mouth. Suddenly, he pulled away.
“You know what? I can’t do this,” he said.
My heart dropped.
“What’s the matter?”
Sunny leant behind me, grabbed hold of King George in the umbrella stand, and turned him around to face the wall.
“That’s better. Now, where were we?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’d installed at least twenty citronella candles around the garden.
Sunny, meanwhile, had replaced Jonty on firepit duty, and the flames were roaring in furious swirls and eddies, sending sparks high up into the sky above.
Sunny stood, sipping at his cider, looking satisfied with his work.
“Good show! What’s the secret?” I asked.
“Honestly? Lighter fluid.”
“Did they teach you that in the Boy Scouts?”
Sunny laughed. “I was never a Boy Scout. Just a communist garden hoodie.” He threw his hood up to cover his head, and I laughed.
“You know the expression is common or garden, right?”
“Not according to my nanna,” Sunny said, pulling his hood back down and adjusting his hair. He’d definitely gelled it.
Welcoming noises erupted from my parents in the kitchen. I turned to check what the fuss was about. Uncle Ben had arrived. My heart leapt. I slid my hand into Sunny’s.
“Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
In the kitchen, Uncle Ben was lapping up his moment in the spotlight, enjoying everyone making a fuss of him by protesting that everyone should stop making a fuss of him.
If they did, he’d be deflated. He was standing with a stick in his right hand, which was new and confronting but better than a wheelchair.
The wheelchair, he’d told me, had simply been an abundance of caution on the part of the doctors, but I rather had the impression he just liked being wheeled around by Theodore.
“Dear boy,” he said, his free arm spread wide.
I slipped inside and hugged him, the sweet, earthy scent of tobacco filling my lungs, the familiar aroma enveloping me like a comfortable cloak.
I felt his arm around my back, the squeeze noticeably not as strong as it used to be.
My heart broke a little, and I held him too long.
“Are you going to introduce me to your handsome prince?” he asked. He was still mumbling slightly.
“Of course,” I said, unravelling myself from Uncle Ben, hoping that if he saw the tears in my eyes, he assumed they were tears of happiness. Which, mostly, they were. “Uncle Ben, this is Sunny Miller. Sunny, this is Ben Diamond.”
Uncle Ben went in for the hug. Sunny didn’t hesitate; he dived right in.
“Now, let me look at you,” Uncle Ben said, pulling away but holding on to one of Sunny’s hands.
Sunny stood back, allowing Uncle Ben to appraise him like he was visiting a stable to buy a thoroughbred.
I thought I noticed Sunny stand taller and puff his chest out a little, but he was taking it all in his stride.
“He’s even better looking than his picture in the paper, wouldn’t you say?
A face like this should be on television.
Beverley, shouldn’t a face like this be on the television? He’s like a young Robert Redford.”
I might have blushed, but Sunny went the colour of a radish.
“That makes two of us, then, sir,” Sunny said, a cheeky grin lighting his whole face. Uncle Ben roared into a full-throated laugh, which descended into a cough. He dropped Sunny’s hand to cover his mouth. Mummy passed Uncle Ben a glass of champagne. He sipped, swallowing down his cough.
“Can we keep him, Hugo?” Uncle Ben asked, when his coughing fit had subsided. “I like him. His eyes need testing, but I like him.”
“That’s because you’re a terrible old flirt who’s easily flattered,” my father said.
“At my age, Hugo, when a young man compliments you on your appearance, it’s neither flirting nor flattery. It’s generosity of spirit. And, believe me, you embrace it with both hands,” Uncle Ben said, winking at Sunny and me conspiratorially. He lifted his glass of champagne. “Na zdrowie!”