Romancing the Wrong Twin

by Clare London

  Chapter Four

  WHEN the buzzer announced another visitor to his flat, Aidan nearly ignored it. But maybe one of the troupe had forgotten their belongings. Titus’s phone frequently fell out of his pocket and got stuck down between the sofa cushions. Aidan hauled himself from where he’d been lying morosely on the sofa, ran a hand through his hair to smooth it down, and dragged himself to unlock the door.

  A young man burst into the flat with an unusually aggressive flourish. The door slammed behind him, and Aidan’s huge collection of theatrical programs tumbled off the hall table with a thud as the visitor swept past toward the living room. The man spun around in the doorway; Aidan was close on his heels.

  “Hi, sexy!” He wrapped two strong, lean, masculine arms around Aidan’s waist and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “I had a meeting at the Hammersmith studio, so I thought I’d drop in on my favorite twin.”

  “You mean your only twin? Hi, Zeb.” Aidan struggled to take enough breath, but he didn’t begrudge the hug and the kiss. That was just his brother’s boisterous, effusive way. Aidan really appreciated the affection at this moment, but he admitted to himself this was one of the reasons he no longer shared a place with his twin. The dramatic turmoil was exhausting. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Excellent. All I’ve had to drink is vitamin water and a very indifferent bubbly.” After another hug, Zeb darted away from him and peered at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. “Do you think the blond tips are really suitable for my coloring? And Harper’s said they really need me with green contacts for the Iceland shoot.”

  From the kitchen, Aidan could hear Zeb but didn’t bother answering. Zeb chattered on like this all the time, with no need for response. It was actually quite restful. And, as always, Aidan felt the lift of his heart that came with seeing his twin. It was as if they clicked perfectly back into place, however long they’d been apart.

  “How did the meeting go? Was it an audition?” Aidan carefully walked back into the living room with two steaming mugs of tea.

  “Sweetheart, you’re the playwright. You’re the one who holds auditions. Mine was just a chat with an agent and a marketing executive, you know?” Zeb waved a hand airily and plopped down onto the sofa; Aidan managed to move his mug of tea out of range just in time to prevent spillage. “An air kiss or two, a twirl of the portfolio, and then it’s Zeb, get your kit off to show your abs.”

  “Zeb! Not really?”

  Zeb laughed, a loud, uninhibited, totally entrancing sound, though the effect was largely wasted on Aidan, who’d seen Zeb practice it in front of the mirror more than once. “Maybe I didn’t have to strip off totally. It’s not always that kind of shoot. But there’s no point being coy about your assets in my business, is there?”

  “I suppose not. I just don’t like to think you have to compromise yourself all the time.” Aidan settled more cautiously on the other armchair.

  Zeb was one of London’s most successful and famous male models, but Aidan didn’t feel totally comfortable about his career, even though he knew Zeb’s success was as much due to his hard work as his amazing flexibility of style. Zeb could play a sophisticated businessman to advertise suits, then a casual surfboarder in a wetsuit, with bleached locks. He could model men’s and women’s wear, blessed as he was with a fashionably androgynous look, and he could expose or hide his “assets,” as he called them, without any shred of embarrassment. Happiness or misery appeared at the snap of a photographer’s fingers; he could cry at will, smolder at a bowl of fruit as if it were his naked soul mate, and look any age between sixteen and sixty.

  Zeb narrowed his kohl-rimmed eyes. “Compromise? Now who’s being coy? That’s what business is, honey. One big, sexy, cash-laden compromise from beginning to end. What about you and your plays? As I remember, you had to suck up to that London Lane crew to get your latest place, didn’t you? Including that theater manager you said was leering at you.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You did, honey, when we worked through a couple of bottles of cheap prosecco to toast your success. And that opening date’s in my diary, I promise.”

  “Don’t bother.” Aidan felt very weary. “Whatever compromises I’ve had to make didn’t work.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no booking for my play. The London Lane turned me down. They don’t want to work with me after all. An Aidan Vincent production won’t be taking London by storm this year.”

  Zeb frowned. “But that’s ridiculous. It was all set. You said they loved your work.”

  “It was. They did.” Rehashing all the feelings of disappointment, Aidan began to wonder if Zeb’s company was giving him more anguish than support. He really only got to see his twin every couple of months, depending on Zeb’s traveling schedule, although they spoke often on Skype. “They’d seen a couple of the scenes we did two years ago in Vauxhall, when another of Wendy’s nephews got us that open-mike evening at one of the clubs.”

  Aidan’s work had been a great success there, maybe because of his inclusive range of characters, but it had been a free show, so they couldn’t do that too often. And maybe it had made him overconfident.

  “But you’ve worked so hard on it already.”

  Aidan was touched that Zeb had noticed. “Never mind.” He forced out a cheerful tone. “I’ll find another theater. Put on my own production.” What possessed him to say that? That really was a pipe dream.

  “Ade, honey, you don’t have enough money for decent prosecco, let alone your own production. So when are you going to fight for these things?”

  “Zeb, I don’t need this.” But it was true. What had Wendy said? She’d also accused him of giving up. “It just seems such a bloody struggle. Every year begging for audiences who really just want to have a quiet pint, scraping by on homemade costumes and charity-shop crockery. Reviews relegated to the corner of page ten in the local press.”

  Zeb frowned at him from the sofa. “What’s up with you? You’re really down. I thought you loved writing.”

  “So did I.” Aidan had never really enjoyed acting, but writing plays? It had always given him a huge burst of excitement and pleasure. “I’m just tired. Ignore my whining.” He knew he didn’t need to put on a brave face in front of Zeb, but he couldn’t seem to drop it. How sad was that?

  With ridiculous grace, Zeb unfolded himself from his lounge-lizard position and dropped to his knees in front of Aidan. “Bro, your work’s really good. It’s just a matter of getting seen by the right people.”

  “I’d hoped this would be my chance.”

  “Then fuck ’em! I know plenty of people in the business. Let me put in a word for another venue. Get some celebrity support. Find sponsors for equipment. Pay for it myself, for that matter.”

  The wash of love and gratitude was almost more than Aidan could stand. “No! I mean, no thanks.”

  “Why the hell not? We’re a pair, Ade, none closer. What’s mine is yours, always.”

  Aidan had never admitted to his connection with the infamous Zeb Z, and amazingly no one ever tied them together in the media world. Aidan had his own theory of why that was. He reckoned Zeb was so bold and familiar from every major magazine that no one ever needed to know about his family, whereas Aidan was so low-key no one ever bothered to ask. They dressed and acted very differently, and had simply slipped into separate lives, at least as far as the public was concerned. Maybe they both had the dramatic gene in them, but whereas Zeb made the world his stage, Aidan was more than happy to be behind the scenes.

  This had worked for them for many years, allowing them to follow their own dreams with little or no impact on each other’s. Aidan had long ago learned to call his brother by his modeling name, Zeb Z. So much more exotic than Sean, wasn’t it? And when Zeb managed to make it to any of Aidan’s plays, he always came incognito. Yes, not only could he act any part a photographer needed, he could—just about, and only for a limited time, of course—play a nondescript f
ace in a crowd.

  And his support had always been unconditional. For Aidan, tears were ominously close. “I know you don’t understand, Zeb, but I want to make it on my own. I want people to come to the play because it’s me, not because I’m the brother of Zeb Z, the famous supermodel.”

  Zeb sighed. “What about grants? Bursaries?”

  “There’s nothing currently available for an amateur group with such a small reach. I write regularly to people and businesses for sponsorship or introductions, but no luck so far.” Basically he’d used up all his stock of goodwill, and money was tight for everyone nowadays. Well, apart from Zeb.

  “So tell me about the play.” Zeb returned to his seat on the sofa, though not before patting Aidan’s thigh in an avuncular way, an act he knew always made Aidan laugh.

  “It’s a comedy, actually, though not a laugh-out-loud kind of thing.”

  “I understand satire, bro,” Zeb said wryly.

  “Of course you do.” Aidan smiled. “For His Eyes Only is a pastiche on the James Bond theme. The sexy guy saves the world and gets the other sexy guy.”

  “Hell of an elevator pitch, honey.”

  Aidan laughed again. “I just want to celebrate the changes in society toward LGBT people, you know? Not just the more somber side of diversity, although of course there’s still the legacy of HIV, abuse, and sadness. I want to look at some of the more astonishing, good things that have happened, and in a gentle, tongue-in-cheek way.”

  “I know, bro. You’ve always managed to blend social issues with romcom, entertaining without boring the knickers off the audience. That’s your big talent, and you deserve to be recognized for it.”

  Aidan was startled at the praise and knew he flushed. “Thanks, Zeb.”

  “How did the Dreamweavers take to it?”

  “They’ve been really supportive. But most of them have bills to pay too. They need the company to find more success or they’ll have less and less free time to give it.”

  Zeb sniffed. “I know you don’t want me in your business, and astoundingly enough I haven’t taken offense.” He paused only to stick his tongue out at Aidan’s similar gesture. He and Aidan often reverted to schoolkid behavior when they were together. “But there was a guy on my last shoot who was coaching us on acting like silent-movie stars. He organizes self-productions, you know? Both theater and—one day you’ll be there, bro, one day!—the movies.”

  Aidan shook his head. “Thanks, but I can’t afford all the upfront costs. There’s hire of the venue, costumes, and staging to pay for. I need somewhere that’ll work on a share of the takings, and even then it’s a huge risk. I’ll just have to forget it, for this year at least.”

  “Is your money situation that bad?” Zeb had an odd, pained look on his face.

  Aidan was saved from having to confess, and—God forbid!—having to tap his twin for a short-term loan, by Zeb’s phone ringing with a loud rendition of Madonna’s “Vogue.” Zeb grabbed it off the coffee table with surprising haste. “Sorry, I must take this.”

  Aidan nodded, glad for the distraction. He had to pull himself together, think up new plans.

  “Zee!” Zeb answered with his calling-card response whenever anyone contacted him or asked his name.

  Aidan winced at the volume, but fondly. Zeb was his twin, the other half of Aidan’s own life. They lived separate lives, but they were by no means separate people. Theirs was a bond that would never break.

  To Aidan’s surprise, Zeb glanced his way, then leapt up off the sofa and wandered over to the window. He turned his back to Aidan and lowered his voice. That just wasn’t Zeb’s usual behavior, and Aidan was intrigued and a little worried. He stood as well, not sure whether to approach him. He couldn’t hear the phone conversation, but he recognized the tightening of the muscles across Zeb’s shoulders. Tension, worry. Why wouldn’t Zeb share that with him?

  When Zeb finished the call and turned back to Aidan, he looked studiedly neutral. “Honey, I have a favor to ask.”

  Chapter Five

  OH hell.

  Aidan knew what that look and phrase meant together.

  It had been the same all through their lives. It meant he was expected to give Zeb his whole collection of fossils; it meant he had to take the blame for the three windows Zeb had broken playing slingshot; it meant he’d have to phone the school, pretending to be Zeb, to explain why he couldn’t come in for science today when Zeb was actually sneaking into the latest movie with his older friends. Yet hadn’t Aidan just been thinking about their indivisible bond, Zeb’s support of his career? Zeb deserved his help in return.

  “That depends,” he said slowly.

  “Thanks!”

  “Now wait a minute.” As Aidan anticipated, Zeb was taking it as a given. God, he loved his brother, and God, Zeb drove him insane! “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Zeb’s gaze slid away to his tea mug. “Oh, it’s hardly anything serious. Have you… um… heard of Dominic Hartington-George?”

  “The mountaineer? Of course I have.”

  Zeb looked startled. “I hadn’t.”

  “Well, he doesn’t exactly move in your circles, does he? And when was the last time you watched anything on TV apart from Project Runway or X Factor? There was a documentary only last month about the last polar expedition. Hartington-George wasn’t one of the team, but they interviewed him about the training that would’ve been required. He’s very articulate. Very experienced.” Aidan wished the explorer had been given more screen time, but his input had only been for a matter of minutes.

  “Jesus, Ade, you’ve got a really weird look on your face. Like you might enjoy doing a lunatic thing like that yourself.”

  “A polar expedition?” Aidan laughed. “I wish I had the courage.”

  “You climbed that mountain in Wales—”

  “Snowdon, you mean. One of the mountains in the Five Peaks challenge. Lots of climbers do it.” The look on Zeb’s face said he believed it, but they’d all be certified lunatics as well. “So, what have you got to do with Hartington-George?”

  “H-G? Hairy Guy?” Zeb’s eyelashes fluttered exaggeratedly so that Aidan had to laugh.

  “You can’t call him that.”

  “Of course I can. Have you seen pictures of him? Great bear of a man. Usually got a beard, and not one of those cute goatee ones.”

  Personally Aidan thought the man was very handsome. Under his fierce-looking brows, he had lovely eyes that Aidan reckoned could look kind if H-G ever stopped scowling. He’d interviewed well on TV, his confidence quite obvious when talking about his favorite subject—mountains. But as soon as the interviewer had touched on H-G’s own plans for the future, the scowl had returned and he’d shut her down almost rudely. They’d cut away from the interview shortly afterward.

  “He’s arrogant,” Zeb said, obviously blissfully unaware of his own failings in that direction. “Obsessed with his bloody expeditions. Driven, with never a moment for anyone else. Or anything else. It’s no wonder he’s run out of funds.”

  Aidan blinked. “I didn’t know. I thought he was planning a trip to the Eiger or somewhere like that. I seem to remember an article in the Guardian….”

  “Good grief, honey, you sound like a real fan! Do mountaineers have fans?” Zeb was chatting on blithely, ignoring the fact that his twin had flushed deep red. “Last I heard, he was found roaring drunk in a pub in Kentish Town, standing on a table with a pint of Guinness on his head, trying to sing every single verse of ‘American Pie’ to a karaoke machine.”

  Something about that vision made Aidan smile. “Sounds like fun.”

  “For God’s sake, Aidan. It’s the behavior of a pop star, not a mature outdoorsman. Even I’d have chosen Celine Dion. And apparently it lost him a sponsorship deal with a high-street clothing chain. I mean, would you buy high-spec climbing gear from such a man?”

  Aidan thought privately he probably would, and he was amused that the outrageous Zeb Z, not known for modest behavior
, found H-G so shocking. Was it because H-G was presumably older than Aidan and Zeb? Or considered part of the establishment because of his double-barreled pedigree? Aidan remembered reading that H-G could trace his ancestors back to Tudor royalty, but he couldn’t shake the vision of Dominic Hartington-George singing at the top of his voice while balancing a pint on his head.

  From Aidan’s own experience of pubs in that part of London, he would bet H-G had been a huge hit. “He probably just wanted to relax. It’s a dangerous life, and if he wants to let his hair down between trips—”

  Zeb’s expression grew mischievous. “What the papers don’t know is that he was found shortly after that in the gents, in a clinch with one of the barmen.”

  “He’s gay?”

  Zeb shrugged. “Apparently so. Not my type, I must say, but others find him fascinating. I’m just amazed he’s kept his private life out of the gossip papers up until now…”

  “Because you’d know nothing about that,” Aidan murmured.

  “…but I suppose he’s one of those men who love all and any, but behind closed doors, and then moves on.”

  Aidan winced. “And you’re not?” Zeb’s love life was openly chronicled and had been for years. He hadn’t dated anyone for more than three months in all the time he’d been in the public eye.

  Zeb stuck out his tongue again. “Honey, I’ve never closed a door in my life, not if I can get publicity out of it.”

  Aidan bit back a sharp reply. Zeb had climbed to the top of his profession with a combination of good looks, business savvy, and the ability to grab attention whatever he was doing. And he craved it too, unlike Aidan. So what was that uncertain thread underlying Zeb’s banter tonight? “It sounds like H-G is okay with his life as it is,” Aidan said.

  “But without funds,” Zeb said smartly, “there’ll be no money to climb the Elgar, or whatever it’s called, unless he can muster up some good publicity.”

  “So, where do you come into this?” Even as he said it, Aidan could feel a cold chill clutch at his gut. “No,” he said quickly. He didn’t know what the favor was that Zeb was about to ask—or why, or how—but he had a horrible feeling he wouldn’t like it. “Whatever it is, no.”