Chapter 4 London
LONDON
ALEXANDER
My early upbringing was a battle between my mum and dad, and I’d be lying to claim that didn’t have an impact.
Nefeli and Konstantin Laskaris had very different views on parenting.
Thus, I—sole progeny of two fantastically wealthy and stubborn people—lived before the age of thirteen in a tug-of-war between two child-rearing styles.
My father was stern and demanding. He installed tutors in our huge Lake District manor, like a Bronte sisters novel.
I was practically a young prince in our village, where our palatial home on a hill loomed over the surrounding cottages.
There was something feudal about it, which suited my father down to the ground.
Mother came from a fishing village a half hour from Athens. She’d been allowed to run wild and credits that freedom with having made her into the thinker and celebrated writer she became. She wanted me to have a similar childhood and encouraged my wandering and mischief.
So, from my father’s camp: rigid lessons, endless piano practice, and dining so formal as to be a misery. From my mother’s: tearing all over the village unsupervised, feral and scabby-kneed.
The end to my idyllic youth came when I was shipped off to a grand old school in London at thirteen. It’s fair to say every one of my peers was better suited to that environment than my culture-shocked self.
On my second day, we were drafted into teams to play rugby.
I’d done plenty of roughhousing, lake swimming, falling out of trees and such, but wasn’t particularly good with team sports.
I’d got tall early but had no weight behind it.
I was a freckled, lanky kid with huge gray eyes, big feet, and a mockable air of superiority.
When we were being partitioned off for rugby, I made the mistake of protesting that I couldn’t participate because if I injured my hands, I wouldn’t be able to play piano.
I was promptly labeled “Piano Twat.” Booted into the game, I soon found myself under a heap of smelly, jeering boys, furious and sore.
I turned my wrenched neck to find a hand extended to help me up.
Above me stood the biggest, blackest kid I’d ever seen in my sheltered life.
He smiled a little wryly. “Piano Twat, meet Drum Twat. I’m Badrick Jones.”
And that’s how I met my best mate.
Badrick was born in Jamaica, though he moved to Birmingham when he was two. His family owns a Jamaican bank and a few other financial firms. He and I bonded over music, a mutual loathing for sports and school food, and our shared outsider status.
It took a few weeks for the whispers to catch up to me about Badrick being gay. But I saw no reason that should be relevant; he didn’t want to date me. We listened to Thelonious Monk LPs, gorged on Monster Munch, and played Xbox. Two sides of the same coin.
He’s the only friend who really knows me, having seen me through every stage of trying on identities over the past eighteen years. I suppose I needed to play the parts of many characters as a child—expectations of me were so disparate.
Badrick and I usually go for drinks at Swift, but tonight we’re meeting at Satan’s Whiskers. It’s mid-March and rainy as hell. When I walk in, Bad waves an arm from where he’s sat at the bar.
I sidle through the crowd and make my way to him. “You’re early.”
“Bruv. You’re late.” He signals the barman for a refill on his scotch and another for me. “I know why you said not Swift tonight. Figured it out.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
He gives me a side-eye, taking the final sip of his first scotch and shoving the glass aside. “Avoiding Emma. And don’t give me ‘Which Emma?’”
I point at the basket of chips near Bad’s elbow. “Did you put vinegar on these?”
“Too feckin’ cheap to order your own,” he jokes, pushing the basket toward me.
Ah, Emma—a gorgeous bartender at Swift. It was months of hard graft to land her, but I don’t mind playing a long game.
I assumed her impenetrable aloofness was a guarantee we were on the same page about keeping it casual.
But the very-much-penetrable Emma surprised me by bringing me pancakes and coffee in bed the morning after our first night together, then suggesting a trip to Tate Modern, followed by—I kid you not—lunch with her parents.
Something about her reaction to my lavish Chelsea flat indicated she was angling to upgrade immediately from “good time” to girlfriend.
Over the two weeks that followed, she went from sweet to pouty to vicious, and…
well, I had to let one of my favorite cocktail bars go, or risk getting shanked by a lemon zester the next time I went in.
“I thought a new venue might be invigorating,” I tell Badrick.
“You couldn’t keep it in your trousers and now our best bar is cashed.”
“Rubbish. We always go to Swift. Time for a change.” I give a nod of thanks to the bartender as he sets down our drinks, then lift my glass toward Badrick. “Chin-chin.”
“Rattlesnakes and condoms,” he toasts, hoisting his own glass.
I pluck a chip from the basket. “You know what my problem is?”
He snorts. “Where do I start?”
“I’m miserably attracted to unstable women. It’s why I have a three-shag limit: I need them gone before they go off like an IED and make my life a hellscape.”
Badrick laughs, choking on his swig of scotch. “Hellscape? You secretly live for the headache, mate.”
“Says the man with a boyfriend who threw a rare six-thousand-dollar bonsai at him during an argument, the moody French git.”
“Laurent’s got a temper, but he’s dead fit. You take the good with the bad.” He picks up a chip glistening with vinegar and folds it into his mouth. “Speaking of powder kegs, when do you put your neck into the yoke with the sadistic little racing bird?”
“Oh, right.” I lift one shoulder as if I’ve only just remembered Sage’s existence. “I fly to Bahrain in… three, four days?”
“As if you ain’t counting down the hours,” Badrick says. “I wonder if she’s figured out yet that you only took the piss on your blog to get her attention.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
He makes another pass over the chips with a flick of the vinegar bottle. “Did you consider just being a nice bloke? Like, ‘Oi, Sage! Fancy grabbing a pint with me?’ That sort of thing.”
“Everyone wants to know Sage Sikora. Her anger gave me a guaranteed ‘in.’ I stand by my strategy in this game.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Game? Feckin’ bellend, that’s exactly your problem—always playing games. Good luck to you, then, if you’re not ready to grow up yet. But you might end up with a healthy dose of humility—I have a feeling that woman gives as good as she gets.”