“Exactly,” said his mother, staring away from her paper for a split second and more than likely storing away that little remark for later. In Peony, she had a new ally.
“Anything newsworthy in the papers?” he asked, heading to the coffee machine.
“Looks like another national lockdown on the horizon. Probably the end of next week. Not that we’ll be affected much, with us both retired and Garrett able to work from the living room table. Will they let you work from home?”
“Even if they do, I can’t. I don’t have internet, do I?”
“How will you manage to work, then?” she asked absently, still scanning the paper.
“They’ll still allow minimal staffing. If I’ve got a lot to do I’ll mask up and brave a Tube train or splash out on an Uber into the office. Otherwise I’ll work from the coffee shop downstairs as long as they’re open. I’ll figure something out.”
Unaided, he had made himself a mug of cappuccino—pretty straightforward, as he’d found out—and a slice of toast. He perched the other side of the counter, where a more substantialpile of newspapers sat, and pulled out a colourful magazine poking out from one of the papers.
While tucking into dry toast, he scanned the entertainment section, one of his favourite parts, impressed to see a few plays continuing to run in the West End. A review caught his attention, of a new play calledThe Right Side of the Family, adapted from a well-known author’s acclaimed novel.
The story centred on the family of a prestigious Conservative politician in the sixties coming to terms with the tragic death of their much-loved eldest son in a boating accident while at Cambridge university. With a celebrated cast of actors performing in a time of difficulty, Spencer felt sure the reviewer would be generous. But even though some of the performances received a lukewarm mention, the review was nothing short of vitriolic. Somewhere around London, he mused, people who had sweated over the production would be waking to this nasty review, one that barely touched on the premise of the play and had only a passing mention to the author’s original work.
He sat back for a moment, drained his coffee, and considered the kind of treatment he would have given the review. Of course, he would have insisted on seeing the play first off—at least once—but in his favour, he already knew the book intimately.
Just as he returned from the coffee machine with a refill, his mother turned over the newspaper she had been reading, slapped her hand down on top and let out a loud cry.
“Oh no, not him,” she exclaimed. Looking like a wise old owl with her huge glasses perched on her nose, she picked up and tossed one of the Sunday tabloids across the counter to him. “Will you look at that? Marshall Highlander is gay. Which is perfectly fine, of course, and not completely unexpected. I mean, with those eyes and bone structure he must have had dozens of women queuing up to date him in his time. And now here he is, splashed all over the Sundays, caught making a complete fool ofhimself on the French Riviera with some boy young enough to be his grandson.”
Shock followed by dismay washed through Spencer as he stared down at the paper.
“I wouldn’t believe everything you read, Mum.”
“I don’t. But those pictures provide pretty damning evidence.”
With the mug cradled to his chest, Spencer picked up the paper, went over to the dining room table and fell into one of the chairs. After taking a deep gulp, he faltered momentarily before turning to the front page of theTribute.
Jumping out at him, the scandalous headline sat above a photograph of two men sunbathing by a swimming pool—a private pool in a villa with high walls—with the younger man naked and lying on his front with his backside on full display, his face smiling up into the sun and the camera lens. Next to him, the unmistakably delicious figure of Marshall Highlander lounged on a sunbed, his body bronzed and decked out in tight white swimwear.
MARSHALL HIGHLANDER IN GAY SEX SCANDAL WITH JOE HOLLINGBROKE
by TOBY WENTWORTH
Journalist and political television host of the talk showSay What You MeanMarshall Highlander is at the centre of a sex scandal today after photographs surfaced of him and a former gay lover, the once popular celebrity Joe Hollingbroke, better known for his role of Donkey in the long-running soap operaWaterloo Lane.
Highlander, the son of film producer Leyton Highlander and socialite Gloria Ann Shelley, is said to have begun the affair while Hollingbroke had been a minor.
Shot at a holiday villa in St Cezaire sur Siagne on the French Rivera, the photographs show the tan and naked couple cavorting around a swimming pool.
Highlander, 41, a bachelor, has repeatedly avoided the subject of his sexuality. He is a close friend of actor and gay activist Charles Pollard and a champion of many causes including AIDS foundations and gay support groups.
See centre pages for more on this breaking story.
Spencer hated himself for reading the story, which took up the centre pages of the tawdry rag, but he wanted to understand the extent of the damage. Surely in this day and age someone being outed by a newspaper was no longer a headline, but the insinuation that his love interest had been under the age of consent would have definitely sold papers. Although nowhere did they imply that the police were involved. By the end of the badly written, poorly edited—FrenchRivera, for goodness’ sake?—and highly speculative article, what was patently obvious to Spencer was that Marshall’s ex-boyfriend, Joseph ‘Joey’ Hollingbroke, had royally fucked him over. Spencer wondered how much money he would be getting from the exclusive, and whether he was using the media attention to resurrect his flagging popularity.
After finishing the story and gulping down his coffee, he excused himself to go to his bedroom. He pulled out his phone and sat there for a full five minutes, staring at Marshall’s text number, not knowing what words to write. In the end, he texted the simple line—If you need to talk, I’m here for you.
* * * *
By the time he’d readied to leave for the station, he had still not heard back from Marshall. Naturally, the poor man would be keeping a low profile somewhere, probably at his manager’splace. Spencer would still have liked to know how Marshall was coping. He also wondered—a little selfishly—whether their planned dinner out the next week would be affected, then chastised himself because he knew, beyond any doubt, that it would. Marshall would have far more pressing concerns.
“Are you okay?” said his mother, fussing with the collar of his jacket the way she used to when he was a boy about to head off to school. “You’ve been very quiet today. Is this about your brother’s announcement?”
Garrett had escaped to Peony’s bedsit in the afternoon, after their light lunch together, probably for some private time or to discuss the future. Or maybe Spencer had scared him away. He had, after all, ribbed Garrett relentlessly about the responsibilities of fatherhood.
