PROLOGUE
4.42 a.m. April 10, 2016 - Las Vegas, USA
Fried chicken grease stains my wrinkled white shirt, and undone buttons reveal my pale skin. The world spins as I lean on a pillar in the fancy hotel lobby. My date slips a matt black card into the lift, gesturing for another couple to wait.
As we ride to the penthouse level, he pushes me against the mirrored wall and kisses me hard with lips that taste of whisky.
In the penthouse suite, translucent curtains flutter at windows overlooking garish casino signs lining the strip below.
A bartender with piercing blue eyes pours champagne.
My date is handsome in a craggy, daddy-bear way. Not that I buy into the whole gay men as woodland critters thing. Every online hook-up describes themselves as a bear, an otter or a pup, and I’ve yet to find the animal that chimes with what my Spotlight Casting Directory profile calls ‘an average build, Hugh Grant type’.
He lifts his glass in a toast. “Should we hyphenate our last names, or are you taking mine?”
Shit!
I didn’t imagine it. There was a wedding chapel, dingy and worn, with stained beige carpeting and rows of plastic chairs. And some campy older guy dressed as Elvis crooning, ‘Love me tender’. Cheesy organ music played on a loop, and we gave money to a woman who promised our marriage certificate tomorrow. I made jokes about getting it framed to hang in the loo.
“We’re not married, though, right?”
He winks. “I’ll call and explain it was a mistake.”
Stressed whispers carry from the other room. I steady myself against the wall as the floor lurches—time to leave. Stop being so polite and so British. Be direct. Tell him to order you a taxi.
“Do you have company?” I say, in the sort of voice my mother might use when asking if the local branch of Waitrose stocks oven chips.
“Just friends.”
The room spins, and my mouth waters. My head is banging, but his hands are on me.
“Shame to waste our honeymoon.” He kisses my neck. “The bedroom is through there.”
“Yeah, great, but I need the bathroom.”
A door opens at the end of a low-lit hallway, and a guy stands staring. Young. Handsome with a tiny scar below one eye. Bare-chested. Bold. But mostly young. The floor lurches, and I reach for a wall to steady myself.
His fingers brush my cheek. “Stay, baby. I’ll get you home safe.”
I pull back. “Call them. Tell them we made a mistake.”
With a grin, he pulls out his phone and pushes a button.
“Siri, remind me to annul the marriage.”
CHAPTER ONE
10.32 a.m. July 7, 2022 - Birmingham, England
I’ve always believed that winning at life comes down to achieving the holy trinity: a fabulous job, great (and regular) sex, and a Sunday supplement-worthy home. I’m a supply teacher in an inner-city Birmingham school, single again at 28, and sleeping in my childhood bedroom beneath a ‘Hard Candy’ Madonna poster.
In some parallel universe, another version of me lounges in a daytime chat show green room, reaching past Dame Joanna Lumley for freshly baked pastries while trading stories of our respective recent sell-out West End productions. Joanna would call me darling and praise my courage for risking a one-man coming out confessional, and I’d explain how much it mattered to my art that I prove to all young gay men they too can evolve from a shy, acne-ridden ugly duckling into a graceful swan with good hair. A budding national treasure. Tipped to win the Evening Standard Most Promising Newcomer award.
A football hits my head.
It’s my turn for playground duty at Oak Park Juniors, sheltering from the mid-morning drizzle next to a mildewed concrete fountain that Birmingham City Council drained for health and safety reasons.
“Sorry, sir.”
The apology comes from a Year Four boy, Lewis something-or-other. The Head of Year calls him a twat. His rough-as-a-bear’s-arse father texts the school with illiterate complaints about his little prince’s unfair treatment. Last week, his little prince broke a kid’s arm and locked two dinner ladies in the netball cupboard. One of them has claustrophobia. Lewis grabs his ball and backs away, giving me a shit-eating grin. I’m ten years old again, hiding how I’m not like all the other boys, pretending not to mind when they call me poofter.
An uneaten sandwich sits on my lap. Cheese and beetroot. Mum started making the same packed lunch every day after I mentioned liking it. As the early evening weatherman finishes his forecast, she turns off the TV and totters to the kitchen to slice mild cheddar, and fish Sainsbury’s own-label beetroot slices from a jar.
I liberate the sandwich from its cling film shroud. Damp white bread stained pink and curling at the edges, with a cloying note of sweet vinegar. I’ll toss it in a skip near the sports hall extension and buy something from Pret. One more loyalty stamp, and I score a free coffee.
Except tonight, I’m not going straight home. I’m meeting a Grindr date for drinks—a twenty-one-year-old Taiwanese kickboxer who thinks I look 23. I’m wary of anyone who suggests a late afternoon hook-up. They avoid evenings because they have a wife and kids or an electronic tag that puts them under post-sunset house arrest. This guy is cute, though, and mentioned having had a part in a recent action film.
Five years of teaching is enough. My true calling is acting, not sitting in a classroom that may or may not have asbestos in the walls. Last year, I scored a minor role in a period drama and worked as a body double for a soap star. A prosthetic nose fell off during a sex scene, and the intimacy coordinator lost her shit. I’ve played a mysterious monk in a gentle whodunnit and once featured in the audience for a taping of Britain’s Got Talent. The producer zoomed in twice on my appalled face as an octogenarian crooned ‘Danny Boy’.
Today marks three months of being a single man after ending a disastrous relationship with a compulsive liar who cheated on me with our Brazilian cleaner, Joaquim.
July is my month of saying yes. This evening, I’ll lose myself in someone else’s life.
Perhaps he’ll introduce me to his agent.
Walking across the playground, I mutter a pep talk about how dreams are worth chasing and tonight’s hot date could start a new chapter. The school bell signals the end of break time, and kids form reluctant lines to head inside. There are three weeks until the summer holidays, and they’re as sick as me of introductory algebra and hearing about the Irish potato famine.
Tonight, I’ll step out of my comfort zone, embrace the unknown and inch closer to the life I’ve always wanted. I’ll say yes when opportunity knocks.
* * *
A warm bottle of Czech lager sits on a rickety plastic table beside my phone, and I contemplate leaving a third message for my date. But how would that make me sound? Desperate? Needy? Pissed off? The sun beats down, turning my face the colour of boiled ham. Why do I never pack sunblock? Joan Collins swears by that, and a wide-brimmed hat—which I once tried, but a random woman tapped my arm and asked if I’d lost my carer.
The bar opposite is bathed in soothing shade, but I chose The Pink Flamingo for its potential networking opportunities—BBC casting directors loiter here and scout for new faces. One of the ex-barmen now runs a second-hand book stall on Albert Square in EastEnders.
Surrounded by empty chairs and tables, I glance up whenever anybody emerges from inside. A cuter guy clearing tables keeps looking over, judging me, and writing me off as a loser. Rummaging through my backpack, I pull out a dog-eared copy of Stanislavsky’s ‘An Actor Prepares’, my place marked by a folded-in-two prescription for lower back pain tablets.
The Head called me into her office as I was leaving.
“Are you happy here?” She peered over a huge round spectacles like a constipated owl.
“Delirious,” I said, hoping she had an ear for sarcasm.
She fished a folder from a drawer. “This morning, I had a conversation with Suzanne.”
“Right?”
“You’re filling in while she takes stress leave.” She placed air quotes around the last two words. “Suzanne won’t be rejoining our merry band. The doctor recommends a total break, so she’s moving to Telford to keep chickens.”
I held my breath as she slid papers across her desk—application forms for a full-time position.
“We’d love to retain your services, Kyle,” she said. “The kids adore you.”
We both knew it was bull. The kids there see me as just another burnt-out teacher in an Ofsted failing school, but I come with Grade 3 piano skills, which makes me invaluable at morning assembly.
Every sensible bone in my body says to apply for the job, but what if my acting break happens? For one thing, it wouldn’t be fair for the kids to lose a much-loved father figure midway through the term. And any casting director will ask if I’m employed and pick someone more available.
* * *
I consider firing off a third message to my date. He’s well over an hour late. My first was casual, jokey even.
Hey there. At the pub. Ordering lots of beer. See you soon.
Should I add a kiss? After all, he’s a stranger, and I don’t know his real name, though I do suspect it isn’t CumDump64. Grindr dates are like petrol station milk. Usually, they’re fine, but there’s always a risk you might get sick and develop a nasty rash.
I wait another twenty minutes and try again. This time, leaving a voicemail.
We did say five o’clock, didn’t we? Or did I get it wrong? Anyway, I hope you’re OK and didn’t get injured in a fight or something. Call me when you pick up.
I considered adding how horny I was, but my sex voice is more creepy than thirsty. We’ve already traded dick pics, so he gets what kind of evening I have planned.
By the time I’ve drunk one and a half more overpriced bottled beers, the pub is getting busy for happy hour, and topless, tattooed bartenders have replaced the afternoon shift. A DJ takes over, and it’s bottomless jugs of margaritas all round. Office girl gaggles descend, and a random asks to ‘borrow’ chairs from my table. Soon, it’s just me, one empty chair, and two tall, skinny guys in shiny blue suits cut tight on the leg with estate agent hair, giving me stink eye, willing me to move.
I grab my phone.
“Milly,” I say when she answers. “The tosser stood me up, and there’s a half pitcher of watered-down cocktails with your name on it.”
* * *
Milly reaches for the jug, and ice cubes clink. The background music has reached shout-to-be-heard levels, and the after-work crowd is drunk-dancing and singing along with Kylie.
“The man is deformed.” She returns my phone. “You had a lucky escape.”
A part of me wants to believe her. For one thing, she’s right. Something weird is going on with his penis, but it could just be bad lighting. Nobody ever looks their best without an LED halo lamp.
We’ve moved inside and bagged seats at the bar. The Flamingo tries to pass itself off as a Birmingham gay institution, but it’s seen better days. The walls are painted the same garish shade of purple as when I summoned the courage to duck past bouncers and order my first gay pub drink ten years earlier. The place even smells the same. Say what you like about Lynx Oriental body spray. It’s a classic.
Kylie gives way to a four-on-the-floor beat of loud, distorted guitar and pounding bass.
An unread text notification appears on my phone. Most likely CumDump64 rescheduling.
Milly pays for our drinks. She never lets me settle bills because I’m a supply teacher, and she’s a partnership fast-track lawyer with an expense account.
“Let me guess,” she says. “His wife has COVID, and he’s in charge of making sure the kids get their fish fingers and oven chips?”
I stuff the phone back into my pocket, wounded not from Grindr rejection but by a ten-word text from Montgomery Casting. Two days ago, I auditioned for a non-speaking role of ‘man at party’. The brief said: male, 18-30, six-foot-tall, dark hair, not too fat, not too thin, any ethnicity. It should have been a formality.
“They gave some other pretty boy actor the part,” I say, and she reaches to stroke my arm.
“You’ll land the next one.”
“You said that last time and the time before. And when I made the final three to play a headless corpse in Silent Witness.”
“You did that play.”
She means an experimental theatre piece I let myself be talked into by a man with swimming pool eyes and super tight jeans. My character spent an hour on a stage locked in a box, making animal noises while someone dressed as Bo Peep called for lost sheep. On the opening night, we played to an audience of seven. There was no second performance.
My phone rings, but I don’t react.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” Milly says. “What if the casting people sent the wrong message?”
She’s a proper glass-half-full kind of friend. We agreed if we’re both still single at 35, we’ll buy matching fuchsia sweaters and a bungalow. We’ll join a choir and start rumours about the neighbours being swingers.
Tomorrow, she’ll call and say she’s booked us in for La Mer facials, followed by lunch at some fancy place with a two-month waiting list run by a TV chef.
She puts up with my wannabe actor shtick on the whole, but never shies away from suggesting the grass might not be as green as I imagine on the other side of fame.
The phone stops ringing, and she peers at the screen. “That was a US number.”
Seconds later, a ping signals voicemail, and I act like it’s no big deal. “Problem some bloke to ask if I’m happy with my doors and windows.”
“Calling from America?” She lunges for my mobile.
“Fine.”
I play the message on speaker.
“This is Carlton Dupree. I work for Aaron Biedermeier. I must speak to you. Today, if possible.”
Milly wrinkles her nose, and I scratch my head, running through a long list of the men I’ve slept with since discovering my husband-to-be was a lying, cheating bastard. Had there been an American? I half recall an air steward with a New York accent.
“Biedermeier,” I say. “Why do I recognise that name?”
She taps it into a search engine on her phone. “Is this him?”
The face is familiar. Handsome, square-jawed, and rugged with dark brown eyes.
“He’s a director,” she says. “Remember that artsy bollocks film we watched? The one set in the French civil war? Everyone in the village lost their memory after aliens invaded.”
The pair of us sit through so many terrible films. It’s our thing. A perfect Saturday night involves way too much Chinese food while streaming something that scored zero on Rotten Tomatoes, ideally with subtitles.
“Paper Tiger,” she says.
“That was him?” I stare at the picture. “I figured the director would be Italian, with a bulbous wine-drinker nose and a penchant for underage girls.”
“Close.” She takes back her phone. “I read in Popbitch about how this guy trades roles for sexual favours from wannabe movie stars. Male wannabe movie stars.”
I snort. “Perhaps this is my break.”
“Except he prefers younger men.”
I’m at a loss for words. “I’m 28, Milly. That’s hardly old. CumDump thought I was 23.”
“So, you’d sleep with a man for a part in a film?”
I’m about to reply that yes, of course, I would. Who in their right mind wouldn’t, when my phone lights up. It’s Mum. For over a week, I’ve ignored hints the size of a boulder about how her choir group needs someone to fill in since their regular pianist booked a late saver deal to Lloret de Mar.
