Chapter Text
“Thank you so much for taking the time to chat with us today about your upcoming film, Mr Davies! I know it’s very early in—”
“—Oh, fuck! Please, Tim, for a hundred and one reasons, call me Greg. I left Mr. Davies back in the classroom!” Greg had laughed; self effacing and disarming, and it landed exactly how he’d wanted it.
Tim had laughed, running his hand through his hair and looking up at Greg through long eyelashes. Greg had smiled back and the eye contact had sparkled for just an instant before Greg broke it and gestured – allowing Tim to continue.
“Right you are. Greg. Will do.” Tim shifted on his stool, glancing down at his notepad of questions. He and Greg had a fireplace – gas, of course – as their backdrop flanked on either side with aesthetically arranged bookshelves and tastefully low-key seasonal decorations. The rest of the studio was bare, and the lights and reflectors wielded by a small army of crew ensured the camera operator got the best out of their interview. “I do want to ask you about this film though!”
Greg chuckles. “Of course! And I want to tell you all about it, Tim!” Greg leant over and left his hand on Tim’s knee. Just for a second. Just a touch. “What can I do for you?” Greg had asked, sitting back up.
Tim had cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, based on a series of novels, right? New York Times bestseller, blah blah blah. Real bodice-ripper stuff. ‘Racy and transgressive’, one reviewer called it.”
Greg had raised his eyebrows, seeing where it was going. “Well, Tim, I’m not unfamiliar with work as a… romantic lead. I’ve been very fortunate to find myself working with great writers, directors and, I might add, costume and makeup departments, that have meant that I’ve been lucky enough to attract quite the fan base of—”
“—Right. Racy. But it’s the transgressive part I wanted to ask you about, Mr. Davies.”
“It’s Gre—”
“—The first book in the series, ‘Masked Fall’, introduces your character, Damon – the long-lost twin brother of the crown prince who seduces his way back into power.”
“Well, he doesn’t just—” Greg had felt the interview slipping from his fingers. He’d kept smiling, of course, but Greg's eyes had flicked past Tim – searching for his agent.
“—Women and men, Mr. Davies. A canonically bisexual romantic protagonist in a major motion picture at last!” Tim had sat up on his stool – pinning Greg with his stare. Tim clutched at his notebook, whitening at the knuckles.
Greg waited. Tim hadn’t finished. None of that had been a question yet, and interrupting wasn’t working.
Tim’s eyes glinted as he finally got to the point. “So, what do you say to those people who accuse you of stealing this role from a marginalised, bisexual actor, Mr. Davies? Of abusing your privilege and putting on ‘bi-face’?”
Greg had been stunned. Horrified. None of his agent’s preparations had prepared Greg for this. Of all the things to be asked – this was not on the list. The interviewer’s jaw had clenched in triumph when he saw how poleaxed Greg was.
“I… I don’t…” From the corner of his eye, Greg should have seen his agent – Rhod – rushing up to the side of the shot. He should have stopped his mouth working. He should have shut up. “But I’m bisexual.”
The set went quiet. Of course sets are quiet anyway – but this was different. The interviewer – Tim Key – gasped, eyes wide and burning with excitement. A scoop like this would make his YouTube channel.
Greg actually, physically and very audibly, had slapped his hand over his mouth. Too late. Far too late.
Rhod was there in a second. Bolting in from the side, dressed head to toe in black, his salt-and-pepper bearded face scowling and growling all up in the camera at point blank range. “Right! That’s enough of this shit!” he had blustered. “None of this is on the fucking record, you hackneyed cunts.”
You can’t actually storm off from an interview – there are too many wires and microphones and battery packs attached and woven in between and under clothes and belts and skin. What you can do – what Greg did – was stand there like a scarecrow, face stony and expressionless, while members of the crew hastily extract all their hardware.
Rhod had roared and threatened, cajoled and cursed, but both of them had known this wasn’t going away. Greg had been bundled into a car and driven to the hotel, both of them fearing the storm that was about to come down on Greg.
Which left Greg here, alone, in the giant silver bauble and snowflake bedecked lobby of the hotel, pacing up and down in front of the concierge desk.
“Is there anything, perhaps, I could assist you with, sir? You seem… unsettled.” The man behind the counter was older than Greg, with white hair and an air of immaculate dignity. He raised his eyebrow by a fraction of a degree, as Greg paused to read his name badge.
“Julian. Thank you. But unless you can magic me away from that shit…” Greg gestured to the crowd of bloggers, insta-flueners, and good old fashioned paparazzi clustered just outside the guarded doors at the other end of the lengthy, festively decorated, hotel lobby. “...Then no, I’m afraid a bedtime story or a trip to the spa isn’t going to do it.”
The concierge bristles, pursing his lips ever so slightly, and Greg gets the distinct feeling that he just insulted a Bond villain. He is, however, saved by the bell… boy. A younger gentleman, all in grey, ambles up with a folded piece of bone-white paper in his hand. He nods upwards at Greg, without the slightest deference for his position as ‘guest’, and hands it to Julian.
“Alright?” he asks Greg with a bit of an Aussie drawl.
“Hush, Sam,” Julian whispers. Julian snaps open the message and reads it quickly. Then he turns back to the uniformed, scruffy, bellboy, Sam. “Well – where’s the rest of it?” Julian asks, his tone withering.
“Ah. Yeah. I’ve got it right here. Hold your horses.” Sam rifles in his pockets for a moment, eyes not leaving the giant that is Greg who stands stationary – momentarily distracted by the mild oddness unfolding before him. Triumphantly, Sam pulls out a small, black box and slams it on the desk – loud in the muted, echoing, hall. “Told ya.”
“Hmm.” Julian picks up the box – elegant hands plucking it from its place as he smoothes the paper on the wood surface in front of him. Then he looks up at Greg. “Mr. Davies, I believe it may be my pleasure to be of assistance to you this afternoon after all.” He tilts his head, and Greg gets that feeling again – like Julian is letting Greg get away with his life because it amuses him and for no other reason. “Though, tragically, that won’t involve you and I spending time in the spa.” Julian lets the last syllable go for a while, enjoying it. “No, I’m afraid it’s come to me to deliver a message, and an item of some importance.”
“What’s the message?” Greg asks.
“It’s simply from a lady friend of yours – a ‘Miss Sally Phillips’ who I believe is well known as a dear close friend of yours – who writes…” Julian delicately clears his throat. “‘Greg, you bastard. This wasn’t what we discussed. I’m ending it now.’ The young lady has seen fit to accompany her message with this ring box.”
Oh. Right. Sally must have heard.
Greg’s ears ring, muffling any words that Julian might be saying, or that Sam might be trying to inject much to Julian’s dismay, as Julian places the small black jewellery box in Greg’s outstretched hand. He opens it, in a daze, and sees the small, perfect, diamond-studded engagement ring inside twinkling back at him.
It looks tiny in his hands.
“...and I rather think we may be able to help you with your other problem. Of making, shall we say, a surreptitious exit from our establishment. I am not unacquainted with easing the passage of private guests, after all, though a man of your… distinctive proportions does pose a delightful challenge.”
“What?” Greg mumbles, trying to keep up.
“Sam, dear, do you have your simply dreadful little car with you today? The brown ‘Ford Fiesta’?”
“The diarrhoea wagon? Sure do! Why, what are ya thinking?”
Both Sam and Julian turn to regard Greg – eyeing him up, measuring him with their eyes.
“Naaaah – you think he’ll fit?” Sam says, doubtful.
“Oh, I’ve shoved bigger things into smaller holes, I’d wager. Mr. Davies looks flexible enough, and his need is great.”
Sam sniffs. “I’ll give it to ‘im for ₤400.”
“Samuel George Campbell!” Julian turns, shocked. “You’ll take no less than ₤600 and that’s the last I’ll hear of it.”
Greg snaps the ring box shut with a loud noise and shoves it into the pocket of his hoodie. “Will someone tell me what you two are on about?”
“Of course, Mr. Davies. Young Sam here is offering to loan you his vehicle, which is currently parked in the employee car park at the back of this building, away from prying eyes, so that you might make a clean getaway, for the entirely reasonable sum of ₤600 added to your bill. The vehicle to be returned at your earliest convenience.”
“With a full tank of petrol,” Sam adds.
“Quite right, Sam,” Julian agrees out the side of his mouth. “Now. shush. Well, Mr. Davies?”
“What about my car?”
“I should think Sam here can bring it around front to idle for an hour or two. That ought to draw the vultures’ attention for a little while, wouldn’t you say? We’ll put it back in the guest parking until you, or someone on your behalf, retrieves it.”
“Well… I guess…” Greg glances back at the crowd trying to squeeze past the doorman and into the revolving door – phones extended and arms almost broken in their frenzy for clicks and likes.
“Oh marvellous. Sam, my boy, go up and grab Mr Davies’ luggage, won’t you? It’s never good to outstay ones’ welcome, I always say. I’ll just make that adjustment to your bill.”
And before he knows it, Greg is being led down entirely too low hallways, having to duck through doors and under pipes in the backrooms of the hotel, being stared at by likely underpaid staff skiving-off sat on a heaps of clean linens scrolling through their phones, following an endlessly chatty Sam-the-bellboy dragging his luggage ahead of them.
“She’s got a bit of a pull to the left, has the old diarrhoea wagon. So, yeah – watch out for that. Oh! And the glove-box falls open when you stop too hard.”
“How hard is too hard?”
“Good one, yeah!” Sam chuckles, apparently unclear that Greg was genuinely asking. “And there’s a blinking light – I think the engine check light or something – but I have checked and it's still there, so whatever, man.”
Greg wipes a massive hand down his face, wondering if this was, in fact, the worst idea ever. He opens his eyes again just quick enough to see a line of washing whip back at his face – pants and socks and bras pegged on a line across the uncomfortably hot hallway. He barely manages to duck and swipe them out of his face, making weird noises as he does.
Seconds later, Sam shoves the back door open with a screech, and a blast of cool winter’s air hits a grateful Greg as they emerge into a poorly lit car park. Greg’s luggage skitters and wobbles as Sam turns and walks backwards, apparently remembering more things to watch for.
“The back passenger door doesn’t lock right, and I think there’s a hole under the accelerator, but it still drives fine.”
“Why…” And Greg immediately gets a sense that he really shouldn’t be asking. “Is it called the diarrhoea wagon because of the colour?”
“Oh! Oh yeah – that would make sense.”
Sam stops at a grime-coated, brown hatchback, and hip-bumps the boot open, hauling Greg’s luggage in with very little care and consideration on top of empty crisp packets and mysterious bundles of fabric that might be blankets.
Then Sam stands in front of Greg, hand extended, holding out the keys. They hang from a fluffy, well-worn, pink bunny keyring. Greg sighs, and brings out the keys to his much nicer, much newer, and significantly less-brown, red, two-seater sports car. Before he can even hold them out, Sam grabs them with a grin, folds Greg’s hand over the bunny, and immediately hops – literally hops – back to the door into the hotel.
“Alright! I’ll go get the wolves off your trail, Mr. Bunny!”
Greg’s phone pings – it’s a text from Rhod. “Where the duck are you???” it reads. “Duck” he tries again. “I mean ducking duck” The phone keeps beeping as Rhod gets increasingly belligerent through the medium of texting.
“Getting out now. Find me somewhere to stay. Quiet” Greg replies with his thumb, before shoving the phone in his pocket.
With a long suffering sigh, Greg unlocks the door, hauls it open with an awful creaking sound, and awkwardly folds himself into the driver’s seat. Even pushed all the way back, he feels cramped, and he lets his head fall forward to thud gently on the steering wheel.
The glove box falls open.
Greg doesn’t even check his madly pinging phone, as he hunches his shoulders, prepares for the crick in his neck, and reverses out of the space without even looking behind him – desperate to get out of London before someone makes their career out of a photo of him at his lowest.
This… wasn’t how he’d wanted this to go.