I take a deep breath. I hope Nate’s folks aren’t on the rocks, relationship-wise. I don’t think Nate could take that. “Sure,” I say. “I just have something I need to—”
I freeze as I see smoke billowing out of the toaster, which is clearly malfunctioning for reasons completely unconnected with me. And before I can do anything else, there’s this ear-shattering siren, all the breakfast guests start panicking, and even though it seems like the “fire” is controllable, everyone starts being herded out into the car park because of “policy” and “procedures which have to be followed” after the (unspecified) “incident at Basildon East”.
As I’m shepherded out through a fire exit, I hear one of the staff members say to another, “Another prat who ignored the sign saying ‘only put bread in the toaster’.”
I want to make it very clear that this is the first I’ve heard of the existence of such a sign, and maybe they need to think about a bigger sign, or a highlighter pen, I don’t know, but this is not my fault and if anyone asks, I’m going to deny all knowledge because it feels like everyone is very angry right now and I really can’t be dealing with any more haters.
Let me tell you, though, you have not experienced true joy until you’ve seen Nate blunder, confused and half-asleep, out through a fire exit, wearing just his boxers and a pair of trainers, with a duvet wrapped around his shoulders. It’s a sight so messy, chaotic and hopeless, it can’t fail to warm your cynical heart.
“What the hell?” he says, as he stumbles over to me.
“Apparently some fool put some pancakes through the toaster.” I shrug. “Why is everyone such an idiot?” I look him up and down. “Nice outfit. Daring. I like how you’re pushing boundaries.”
Nate’s parents and Rose walk over to us. “Nate Harrison!” his mum says. “Why are you standing here in your underpants?”
“Fire,” Nate mutters, rubbing his hand through his bed-head hair. “You’re not meant to stop to collect belongings.”
“So if you’d been in the shower, you’d just be out here naked, would you? Have it all out for the world to see?”
Nate’s eyes widen.
“I think he did the right thing,” Nate’s dad says.
“Would you rather have me naked in a car park or dead?” Nate asks.
His mum seriously thinks about it. “Why aren’t you up yet anyway? It’s nine a.m.!”
“Mu-um,” Nate growls. He slumps down to sit on the edge of the kerb, still sleepy.
“Right, well,” his mum continues, “get yourself up because, change of plan, we’re heading over to Stoke-on-Trent to see Jack’s cousin Elliot perform in a talent show.”
Nate looks up sharply. Oh, now he’s awake! I knew this Elliot thing was a good idea.
“Since when?” Nate says.
His mum cocks her head slightly. “Since Jack discussed the idea with me at breakfast, because that’s what people do at breakfast, they discuss things. And people who just stay in bed, don’t.” She turns to Mr Nate. “I assume you’re ‘cool’ with this spontaneous and freewheeling idea?”
Mr Nate shrugs and smiles. “Yeah? S’what it’s all about, man!”
“OK, can you absolutely not use words like ‘man’, Mick? It’s humiliating for you.” She turns back to Nate. “So, chip chop, as soon as we’re allowed back in you need to get ready.”
I smile at Nate and he smiles back in this fixed, fake-looking way.
“OK?” I say.
“OK!” Nate replies.
And I know immediately there’s something going on, I just don’t know what.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NATE
It was six years ago, so chances are he won’t remember, or will be as embarrassed about it as I am and won’t say anything, but no sooner have we pulled up and got out of the van outside this grim working men’s club where the talent show is being held than Elliot, in all his overexcited glory, bounds up like a puppy. He’s grown – of course he has – but he’s still the shortest out of the three of us. His hair is blond, which I assume runs in Jack’s family, but his is more choppy, chaotic, slightly haphazard, like he’s just tumbled out of bed, which is a look I can totally get on board with. He’s wearing a super-adorable NASA sweatshirt with jeans, and he’s such a bundle of unmitigated joy that I can’t keep a stupid grin from spreading over my face. And he clearly does remember and isn’t embarrassed because he grins, points at me in this tableau of joy and excitement and shouts, “TREE HOUSE!”
So, ahhh, here’s the thing, and the thing is there was a thing between me and Elliot in Jack’s tree house. I mean, we were ten, so as things go…
We kissed. We kissed each other in Jack’s tree house. It wasn’t… We were ten. It was super innocent, the end of a long summer when me and Elliot had become excellent friends, and I don’t know exactly how it happened, but it did. It was very quick. And neither of us knew what to do about it afterwards. I remember feeling like something BIG had happened. And then I quickly buried the feeling for another six years.
“That’s a weird way to greet Nate,” Jack says, eyes narrow with suspicion.
Elliot grins. “Nate knows what it’s about!” I laugh loudly and confidently, like Elliot’s just pissing about and his comment is only a bit of banter. Truth is, if Jack knows I was experimenting with kissing boys at the age of ten, he’ll put two and two together and realize he wasn’t the only kid questioning his sexuality at school, and that, actually, if I hadn’t backed away from him, we could have faced it together. And honestly, I’m just not ready for that conversation with Jack, because honestly, I’m not ready to have it with myself. Elliot goes to hug me, and then Jack, and then shakes hands with my parents. “Thanks for coming, guys!” Elliot continues. “It’s really good of you. Mum says you’re on some sort of wild road trip for the summer? Sounds cool. Me, I’m just doing my thing – this is my third contest actually, came third in the last one, so I’m on the up.” He nods and smiles. “Did you have prom?”
“We don’t talk about prom,” Jack says.
Elliot nods manically, then turns to me. “How’s things, Nate? It’s been AGES!”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Must be weird,” Dad pipes up, “when you’ve not seen each other since becoming men.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. “Dad, can you please just not?”
“Ha ha, puberty!” Elliot laughs.
I’m glad he finds the whole sorry fiasco amusing.
“So, I’ve put some free tickets for you at the door,” Elliot continues, “and there’s a table reserved for you at the front. I’ve got to go and get ready now, do my warm-ups and things, but I’ll see you after, and if I win, drinks on me, I guess! Well, Mum can buy them, but I’ll pay. Yabba dabba doo, right?”
“Sounds good, mate,” Dad says.
“OK, so…” He grins at me again, then pretends to make a couple of little boxing jabs at my stomach. “Boom, boom! See you later!” And he scampers off.
“Someone’s very excited,” Mum says.
Jack nods. “Yeah, they were thinking about having him medicated for a while, but I don’t think they ever did.”
Dad rubs his hands together. “I fancy a pre-show beer!”
“OK,” Mum says. “So I’m driving later, then?”
“Is that OK?” Dad says.
Mum doesn’t reply, just turns to us. “What do you want to drink, boys?”
“Just a Coke, please,” I say.
“Aperol spritz, if they do them,” Jack says. “Thank you.”
Mum takes a breath, clearly about to tell Jack he can’t have actual alcohol, but then sighs and says, “Oh, what the hell?”
I make to follow my parents and Rose in, but Jack tugs on my T-shirt to pull me back. “So,” he says, all sly and hushed. “Tree house.”
I shrug. “Yeah?”
“I wonder what the significance of the tree house is? I wonder why that’s the first thing Elliot would say to you?”
&n
bsp; “I guess we spent a lot of time in your tree house that summer.”
I meet his eyes, unblinking.
“Lies,” Jack says. “I can’t wait to get to the bottom of this mystery!” He grins. “I’m going to visit the restroom. I’ll see you at our VIP table in the cabaret space.”
“Jack? I’m not sure it’s a—”
Jack holds his hand up as he flounces off. “I know! I’m very well aware this is a shithole, thank you!”
I watch as Jack disappears into the entrance, wondering if he’s guessed, or whether he somehow knows, or if I should just tell him, except, no, it’s all too … everything’s all too complicated. I sigh and saunter inside, and, god, yes, it is grim. There’s a ramshackle bar area over to the left-hand side, a crappy stage at the front, with a glitter curtain that’s seen better days and a collection of mismatched plastic chairs around random-sized tables. There is, however, quite a sizeable crowd. Not being mean to Elliot, but maybe entertainment is thin on the ground in this neck of the woods.
“Love places like this!” Dad says, suddenly by my side with a bottle of beer.
“Really?”
He takes a swig. “This is real, no-frills entertainment, this sort of stuff. None of your autotuned fakers here.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Watch and learn!” he says, like maybe there’s any danger I want to go into show business, and this will somehow be an education.
He ambles over to a table near the front, just as Jack reappears.
“What’s the worst thing in the world?” Jack says.
“Orange juice with bits.”
He blinks at me. “Worse than that.”
“Polio?”
“What?” Jack screws his face up. “Can’t you just avoid the extremes, Nate? Go for something in the middle?”
I shrug. “Well, I don’t know, what’s the worst thing in the world then?”
“OK, well, I was about to make a little light-hearted remark, but now you’ve mentioned ‘polio’ you’ve kind of ruined it, so.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I was going to say urinals in men’s toilets.”
“I think there are worse things in the world, Jack. You know, that’s a very privileged thing to say.”
“Right. It was just a little observation about how awkward it is peeing next to other guys. What’s got into you anyway?”
I look away from him. “Nothing.”
“Are you pleased to see Elliot?”
“Buzzing,” I say.
“Well, try telling your face that, Nate!” Jack hisses.
I snap my eyes back to him. Is there anything more annoying than someone telling you to cheer up all the time? It’s like, get over it, this is me, I’m quite happy wallowing! I open my mouth to tell Jack precisely this, but—
“Don’t you dare, Nate!” Jack says. “Don’t you dare have a go at me! Elliot’s fun, you like Elliot, I arranged for us to see Elliot. I let you have all the duvet you desired, to keep the malicious ‘exposed limb spirits’ at bay.”
“It’s not a ‘spirit’, it’s a…” I stop myself.
“‘Monster’, whatever it is, Nate, whatever illogical nonsense is in your messed-up head, I acquiesced to your demands. Potentially putting my own limbs in danger, in the unlikely event the monster is real.”
I clamp my mouth firmly shut. He’s right. Annoying, but true.
“So I’m not the bad guy here, Nate,” Jack continues. “The bad guys are our exes, and, in the last twenty minutes, they have posted a pic of themselves wearing ‘his and his’ hoodies with hashtag ‘gifted’ in the caption. ‘Hashtag gifted’, Nate! Who has gifted them this? What company is giving these morally bankrupt liars free stuff?”
I think it over for a moment. “Has it occurred to you the liars might be lying? You know, like we are too?” I actually hope they are. If they feel they have something to prove, that might mean things aren’t going well for them – like, well … like me and Jack.
Jack breathes out through his nose. “Of course that’s occurred to me, they’re nothing if not sly! But that doesn’t matter. It’s what other people think that matters, and what they will think is that they’re popular and successful and being courted by fashion companies!”
I shrug. “Well, we’ll do it too, then.”
“Uh-huh?” Jack nods. “And what shall we say has been ‘hashtag gifted’ to us, Nate?”
He stares at me, wide-eyed, waiting for an answer. “My trainers?” I eventually suggest.
His eyes widen further. “I’m sorry?”
“My—”
“Your trainers? Your skanky, muddy, battered trainers? Who would have ‘hashtag gifted’ them to you? A tramp?!” He shakes his head. “Where’s your mum? I really need that Aperol spritz.”
And off he heads, towards the bar. When he’s out of sight, I allow myself to smile, because I’d forgotten how a genuinely vexed Jack is probably one of my favourite Jacks of all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JACK
They’ve put Elliot on last, which means they either think he’s brilliant and fit to end the show, or he’s the joke act that everyone will have a good laugh at. I really hope it’s the former. Elliot has lost none of his wide-eyed enthusiasm, and I can’t stand the thought of people laughing at him. But my fear is real, because there have been a number of very good acts so far, some of which could definitely take the top prize, if only because of the power of the sympathy vote. Clara Jenkins and Doris the Dancing Dog are obviously hot contenders, being as everyone (inexplicably) loves a dancing dog, although I don’t see the appeal myself. Clara and Doris even have panto in Worthing this year, so things are really looking exciting for them right now (in the words of the compère). Meanwhile, a group of fifteen children have just performed a street dance act which looks like every other street dance act you’ve ever seen, so they also stand a chance, especially since they dedicated their performance to someone’s dead aunt. Clever tactic.
And now it’s Elliot. He comes onstage wearing a duffel coat and scarf, even though it’s summer and really hot in here, and gets an instant laugh. When he gets his ukulele out, he gets another laugh, I guess because those things are automatically funny.
“This is dedicated to Carolyn,” he says into the microphone. “I loved Carolyn very much, but sadly, she is no longer with us.”
There’s an “ahhh” of sympathy from the crowd.
“Me and Carolyn shared many good times, and everyone at school would wonder why I loved Carolyn so much, and I would tell them, ‘She’s the air that I breathe, she gives me life, my everything.’” He nods at the audience. “Which is true, because Carolyn was my Ventolin inhaler for my asthma, when I was ten. And this is a song I wrote, just for her…”
At which point, no word of a lie, he starts this song about his Ventolin inhaler, which includes the immortal chorus:
“Ohhhh, when my chest is tight,
And breathing is a fight,
I grab my trusty puffer,
So I no longer suffer!
Oh, Carolyn, Oh, Carolyn,
My sweet supply of Ventolin,
Generically salbutamol,
Expand my airways,
Make me well!”
The audience does not know how to take him at first, and in fairness, it’s weird and it’s somewhat “out there” – I mean, he’s in a duffel coat, singing about asthma, but from gradual nervous titters and odd chuckles at first, they actually start really enjoying it, and I have to admit, you get swept away in Elliot’s sweet enthusiasm for his inhaler and the geekiness of the whole song. Plus, he wrote it himself, and while some of the scansion is an exercise in linguistic contortion, it is hilariously enjoyable.
Nate actually whoops.
And that is the biggest expression of delight I’ve seen out of him since we started this sorry trip.
I get my phone out and take a few pics. It’s reasonably dark in here, and the stage lights reflect and refract nicely in the lens, and with some careful positioning,
you can’t really see Elliot clearly; you just get a sense of a person on a stage singing, in a dark room, with some other people in the audience watching. Perfect for my caption:
VIP tickets to a top-secret gig. Nate and I are #blessed to get to see this guy sing at such an intimate venue – definitely something ticked off the bucket list! Feels totally different live, up close and personal. Such a great day.
I smile because no sooner have I posted it than the like notifications start flashing up. Dylan and Tariq might have got Wembley, but who got the authentic, real, unplugged experience? Well, not us. But they don’t know that.
Elliot gets a standing ovation when he finishes, which he looks genuinely surprised by as he takes a little bow and does a cub scout salute at the audience.
I glance at Nate, who’s now actually smiling at Elliot.
So.
I’m piecing this together, but my money is on Nate liking Elliot. I can’t be entirely sure what shenanigans went on in my tree house six years ago, but it’s quite clear to me that Nate finds Elliot adorable.
So.
But that’s fine, right? That’s cool. Because happy Nate equals Instagrammable Nate equals higher engagement equals revenge on Dylan plus success for me as I gain followers and become some sort of influencer. So it’s all good. We’re all winners here. It’s all … good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NATE
Elliot wins! Of course he does, because he’s awesome! He bounds up to our table afterwards like he’s won the lottery, which he kind of has, because the prize money is a whole five hundred pounds.
“Yabba dabba doo!” he howls, as he high-fives us all.
Elliot’s mum, Jane, who is also at our table, makes a concerned face. “Have you had sugar, Elliot?”
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