Romancing the Wrong Twin

by Clare London

  “Gotta catch me first, old-timer,” Eric said airily and turned back to Tanya.

  When Ellie also turned to Tanya and started gabbling away about Zeb Z’s schedule, Dom tried to tune out all the nonsense.

  No such luck. Polly’s voice broke into his reverie. “Dom? May I remind you”—Dom bit back the “hell no” that sprang to his lips—“that you still need that makeover? Maybe we can arrange a personal shopper? A stylist?”

  Eric snorted. Again. “Good luck with that.”

  “Whatever.” Dom didn’t even have the energy to bite their heads off. “Sort it out with Tanya. I’ll wait outside.” He wanted out of there, and fast. He knew he came across as a grumpy old beast, but to be honest, he felt more weary than angry.

  All he’d ever wanted to do was travel, and ever since he was in his teens, his wanderlust had nagged at him. The reputation of his explorer ancestors was in his blood. To his mother’s eternal disappointment, he’d barely scraped through college, but he earned enough exams to get him onto the staff of an Outward Bound center. He then spent every spare moment training and studying his true passion—climbing. Finally he’d been accepted on some overseas events. Then slowly he worked his way onto more ambitious teams, and eventually he ran his own expeditions.

  That was what he loved, where he really felt comfortable and as if he belonged. Out on the mountains, unencumbered by what others called civilized life, at the mercy—and the glory—of the elements. Pushing across challenging terrain, finding his way without the benefit of GPS, calling his own schedule, and concentrating fully on the rewards of surviving with nature. He wanted to be there, not here in a plush office with diamond-cut glasses of artificially sparkling water and fruit sliced into exactly the same-shaped pieces.

  He pushed his chair back again, and this time he got as far as the door before Polly called to him.

  “Thanks for your honesty and cooperation, Dom. I really think this is going to be a wonderfully high-profile opportunity for us all.”

  “Oh Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. To him, it had sounded more like a death knell.

  “DOM?” Tanya inched her way along the corridor toward the foyer. She had the kind of look on her face that wouldn’t have looked amiss on a lion tamer, approaching the wildest beast without a chair or whip in her hand.

  Dom had perched himself on one of the ludicrously uncomfortable plastic benches, designed by someone who obviously had a much smaller frame—and a less padded arse—than Dom’s. He sipped at another cup of generic liquid from the vending machine. It might be green tea this time. Like he cared.

  Tanya sat beside him. “It’ll be all right.”

  Dom bit back the sarcastic response to that. He had nothing but sympathy and respect for Tanya, putting up with him for the last couple of years. His mother had persuaded him he needed a personal assistant for the promotional aspects of his career, even while he protested he needed no such thing. But his mother, who would have preferred a chief of industry or, at the very least, a barrister for a son, had gone ahead and employed a PA for him.

  Tanya had coped with booking his trips, liaising with embassies and officials throughout the world, and handling newspaper stories and interviews on both radio and TV. Dom loved sharing news and photographs of his trips, and he considered himself a pretty decent photographer, with several illustrated expedition accounts already published. But he abhorred the idea of being a media personality. And that came across pretty obviously with anyone he met. Tanya had become his first line of defense and the person who soothed all those he offended. Insult was his natural talent—he’d told her so on her first day. And ever since then, she’d made it her personal mission to prevent him getting away with it.

  “Sorry for the impromptu announcement about my shockingly minority love life,” he said with a scowl. “But it’s better they know what they’re taking on, right?”

  “Right.” She smiled. “You’re a whole package, Dom.”

  Dom had known he was gay since he first became aware of his sexuality. It had never been anything to make a fuss about. It wasn’t until he was well into his teens and heard the horror stories from some of his gay friends that he realized how twistedly certain sections of the human race viewed it. From then on, Dom had learned to keep that side of his life to himself.

  Not that there was much to be discreet about. Eric’s snide comment had been right: Dom’s love life had been barren for a long time now. When did he have the time to date? Or the appetite? Apart from the occasional one-night stand, the men he met were either singularly uninterested in him, or uninteresting to him. The whole bloody thing was a lottery, and the odds were stacked against him now he’d passed thirty-five.

  “Anyone around at the moment?” Tanya asked quietly. “If you’re already involved with someone, I’ll alert the agency at once. You have every right to your private life.”

  “No. No one right now.”

  There weren’t any social obstacles; his parents had never had any problem with him dating men. There was a precedent in the family, though his mother rarely talked about Great-Uncle Godfrey, except to bemoan that he’d been the one to tempt Great-Grandad into gambling in the first place. But God only knew, even if he found a man he could bear for more than an hour socially, Dom didn’t want all that sappy stuff: the hearts and flowers, the rings, the stable home life. Why the hell did they think he climbed mountains and dug his way through mud-sodden valleys? It was to escape all that boring domesticity. Dom craved excitement, but it had never been through his love life. He’d never found a man who gave him that zest.

  “I’m just acting like a spoiled child,” he admitted ruefully. “But I don’t want to have to spend time with some….”

  “Some?” Tanya nudged.

  “Some tabloid twink,” he muttered. “Some effete airhead without a scrap of interesting conversation, who’s never been adventuring farther than Hampstead Heath, and who’s more interested in their shoes than—”

  “Than you?”

  He had the grace to laugh at himself. “Dreadful arrogance, isn’t it?”

  “No.” Tanya’s voice was gentle. “You just know what you like and don’t like. And you’re not very good at hiding it.”

  “I don’t see the point. It’s not my scene, Tanya. Clubbing and flirting and… whatever modern men do.” Surely the expectations of his twenties and early thirties were all behind him now: the hope of finding a suitable partner, but then the increasingly depressing progression of meet, touch, repel. He could cope with the occasional ache of loneliness. That was what a set of new maps was for.

  “I know, sweetie. But sometimes we have to make compromises.”

  He caught an undertone in her voice that surprised him. “And I guess that’s what you do with me all the time, right?”

  She chuckled. “Yes, you grumpy old git, it is. Good thing I like you, isn’t it? And I want you to be able to do what you love, which is travel, and explore, and discover new experiences.”

  “Bought a lottery ticket, did you?”

  She thumped him on the arm. “You think I’d give you my winnings if I won? Let’s give the agency their head on this.”

  “You really think it’s necessary?”

  “Yes, I do.” She bit her lip. “Dom, you’re a really great guy. You just hide it too well.”

  He shifted uncomfortably on the wrecked ship’s hull. “You think this’ll work?”

  “For God’s sake, who knows? You’re a commitmentphobe, without a shred of visible romance in that snowcapped heart of yours. I know being seen on the town with a sexy young thing in skintight designer jeans is the last thing you’d choose to do with your Saturday night—” She sighed and nudged her head against his shoulder. “—but if it’ll get you the attention, and therefore the funds you need, it’s worth a try.”

  Dom decided to let the insults pass. After all, they were all true. “How long do you think I’ll have to put up with it? Him?”

  She laug
hed. “It’s just for a few social events while you’re in London. It’s not as if they’re asking you to go out with a rabid llama.”

  There was that llama again: the one Tanya was so fond of mentioning. He’d opened his mouth to protest his preference for the simpleminded animal when Tanya slapped a hand over his mouth.

  “And you never know,” she said firmly. “You may enjoy it!”

  Chapter Three

  AIDAN Vincent stared at the letter in astonished horror.

  We regret to inform you that despite our earlier preliminary discussions, the London Lane Theatre will not be available to host your production of For His Eyes Only. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. We were initially very interested in the concept. However, we had already booked August for a crossover comedy-drama starring two popular actors from television.

  They recently featured in the reality show I’m a D-list Celebrity on a Desert Island with a ballroom-dancing quiz-show presenter who bakes in his spare time.

  Okay, so that final sentence wasn’t a direct quote from the letter, but Aidan knew it would be the real reason behind the cancellation of his pitch. Apparently it was TV celebrities who sold theater seats, not the content of the show. The London Lane had been the last hope on his list of theaters that would consider his new play. They had a reputation for hosting new playwrights and bringing fringe theater to the capital. As his part of the deal, Aidan had a new play all ready to go, including a small company of players who’d joined him in a local amateur group and were already half-rehearsed in their parts. It had seemed a great match.

  Please keep in touch, the theater finished their letter. We always welcome approaches from new local talent.

  But not this year, apparently. His heart sank with the last hopeful bubble of his dreams.

  “What do you think, Aidan, love?” Wendy Rackham’s soft, breathy voice broke into his tortured thoughts. “This head cold makes my voice too low to get a real sense of Erica’s part.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Aidan?” She put a hand on his arm, her delicate perfume wafting lily of the valley under his nose. “Are you all right?”

  The actors from the Dreamweavers theater group were all crammed into his small flat in Twickenham for another read-through of the play. There were only three of them, but all were a mainstay of Aidan’s work and loyal to his direction. And after all, new plays were put on with smaller and smaller casts these days. Ben-Hur was unlikely to be shown in a London theater anymore; patrons were lucky if they got a full Twelve Angry Men. For each of Aidan’s productions—and there’d been an impressive dozen of them since he left drama school six years ago—the company did the initial readings and editing over casual evenings at Aidan’s flat, then followed up with rehearsals at the local pub, the Plough, or a nearby school where one of Wendy’s many nephews taught. When the play was finally ready to be performed, they hired the tiny function room upstairs at the pub. It wasn’t the ideal venue, with raucous laughter echoing from the bar below and the frequent groaning of the toilet block’s plumbing, but Aidan and his troupe had done their apprenticeship with pride, with plans to break into off–West End one day.

  But now what?

  He felt nauseous. Now they’d be back to square one, begging the use of the school hall and pub function room, performing on carpets ingrained with beer or against a backdrop of an atlas of the world and the latest GCSE results.

  “What’s up, Shakespeare?” Titus Regis bellowed from over on the sofa, where he was squashed up against the youngest member of the troupe, Simon Scot. Titus looked as if he was enjoying both the proximity to young blood and Simon’s nervous hero worship, even if the latter had never been acknowledged publicly.

  Titus was Aidan’s leading man: tall, dark, and striking, in his midforties, with a small horse-breeding farm in Surrey. Aidan could totally imagine him roaring out commands across the paddock, because Titus’s voice rarely needed amplification. Whatever its effect on stage, it was really useful for getting served in a crowded pub.

  “Nothing’s up,” Aidan said. He shoved the letter into his jeans pocket.

  “Crap,” Titus boomed.

  Beside him, Simon winced and clutched his copy of the script all the more tightly, his adoring gaze fixed on Titus.

  “Darling….” Wendy fluttered with concern at Aidan’s side. She was a gorgeous, middle-aged woman who struggled with playing maternal parts instead of her previous career performing pretty ingenues, however much Aidan praised her on her natural beauty. If they were out and about together in town, he had to steer her away from salons offering Botox injections. Though he was a bloody sight more tactful than Titus, who was fond of saying, “At least it’s not the ugly sister for you yet!”

  “I mean it. Everything’s fine,” he reassured her.

  But it wasn’t. He felt completely shaken. He had relied totally on the London gig to be his first step toward the West End. It wasn’t as if he had aspirations for the London Palladium. His plays were gentle, witty comedies based on domestic life rather than overblown, glamorous musicals, but he’d have been thrilled to get a pitch in a real commercial theater. And his work was just starting to get a name for quality and wit after some complimentary reviews in the London suburban press.

  Hard on the heels of his disappointment was the secondary, financial shock. The pub performances were fun but rarely covered costs. He’d needed the London booking, which would have been offered on a share of the box office takings. They’d have had access to a city location, established advertising, and use of professional props and costumes—and hopefully much better audience receipts. During school semesters he taught acting skills to kids at a Saturday-morning club, but he always struggled to stretch that income over the holiday periods. He could see working as a waiter in his imminent future, or maybe a temp job at sale time in the local department store.

  Oh God.

  Aidan wasn’t the world’s best at dealing with the retail public, but what else could he do? Without some support, there wouldn’t be enough money for basics, let alone luxuries like props and promotion. He was living virtually hand to mouth at the moment anyway, since he’d had to pay for a new clutch on his ancient car and get the persistent damp patch in the kitchen fixed. Panic started to rise like a physical lump in his throat. His life and ambitions seemed to have derailed over the last few years. Where had it all gone wrong? No money for light and heat. Food—

  “Sit down!” came Wendy’s best schoolmarm voice. She could project as well as Titus if the need arose. “Aidan, do you hear me?”

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  That was Simon, ever curious.

  “Must be a panic attack,” Titus announced. “Haven’t seen him go that color since I dropped the skull into a pint of bitter during his Hamlet, Questioning at the Plough in 2013.”

  Aidan was half pulled, half guided onto the sofa beside Titus, who promptly shoved Simon off with barked instructions to go and fetch a glass of water. Then he busied himself plumping the cushions behind Aidan’s back. Wendy waved her hands around Aidan’s neck as if to loosen his tie even though he was wearing his usual T-shirt. She gave a huff of confused frustration, and her perfume wafted all over him again.

  “Move it, Florence Nightingale.” Titus held the glass of water under Aidan’s nose and jiggled it.

  “It’s not a panic attack. I was just taken aback.” Aidan bit back a sigh. “Please. I’m not one of your horses, Titus. I can manage a glass of water on my own.” He sipped at it, aware of the three pairs of eyes peering at him. Worry from Wendy, fascination from Simon—was he studying Aidan for ways to play a fainting character, for God’s sake?—and Titus with a “there you are, all better now” bluff assurance. Aidan’s heart sank farther. He had to tell his friends the bad news.

  Here goes.

  “We don’t have the London Lane Theatre gig. They just confirmed it’s already booked for August.”

  There was a moment of confuse
d silence, and then a snort of disgust from Titus.

  “But they promised that booking!” Wendy said.

  “I know. But I suppose they have a better offer. I mean, a show that’ll do better.” He pulled the letter from his pocket and it did the rounds of the group, eliciting gasps and growls of disappointment and anger.

  “You’ll challenge this, of course,” Titus said. “We had a verbal contract.”

  “Aidan.” Wendy’s look was surprisingly shrewd. “You can’t just give up.”

  “Of course I won’t,” Aidan protested, but he could see she wasn’t convinced. The trouble was, he was crap at selling himself under the best circumstances, and this was far from that. “I’ll get us another venue.”

  “The pub?” Titus snorted. “We only had twenty people last performance, and two of them never looked up from necking the whole time.”

  “And what about costumes?” Simon was the unofficial wardrobe and general stage manager and also played supporting roles. “Ours are on their last legs. And the scenery we could have used? Lights? And—”

  “I’ll sort it all, okay? We’ll have to do the rounds of charity shops again. We’re no worse off than before.” But no better either. The London Lane had been extremely supportive of him when they first discussed his plans, though Titus joked it was because the manager had developed a bloody huge crush on Aidan. So it looked like his personal charm had failed too. That shouldn’t have been a surprise, judging by his previous, hapless love life.

  “Do you want to continue the read-through?” Simon’s question was as breezy as if nothing had happened.

  “No.” Even Aidan could hear his voice was wobbly.

  Wendy smiled sympathetically at Aidan. “We’ve had enough drama for the night, I think. We’ll see ourselves out. Call us when you want to schedule the next rehearsal.” She stooped to kiss him on the cheek on her way out and murmured, “Don’t be afraid to ask for help, darling. You can’t always be the rock for everyone else to rely on.”