Page 36 of Vine

One of those questions to which I already knew the answer.

“No. We don’t know if we can pull it off yet, anyhow. We hardly need to tell him until the thing is finalised, wouldn't you say?”

“Up to you, mate. He’s your boyfriend.” There was a conversation I’d make myself scarce for. “Knowing Libby, she’ll ensure it happens.”

Our agent had much bigger names on her books than ours, but the woman was the best in the business; if suitable work was out there, she’d secure it. “I’m sure Jonas will be thoroughly understanding.”

Leigh’s expression soured, and he angled his head to the window. I used to automatically offer him the aisle seat, more room for his long legs. “One of the current duo on the breakfast show has a target on his back, apparently. Rumour has it all is not rosy on the pink velour sofas. Libby reckons they’ve got eighteen months tops before they’re out on their ear. There’s a toxic culture of bullying and discrimination, according to her sources.”

I’d be pretty toxic, too, if I had to get up at four every morning. Was I really considering signing up for that?

Making her way down the narrow aisle, the air steward smiled in that familiar way people did when they recognised us. Don’t get me wrong, not many people did—when I saw minor TV personalities in real life, I struggled to place them too, even celebs much more famous than us.

Spotting her, Leigh gurned back, then rested a proprietorial hand on my knee until she passed. I tried not to recoil. “Listen, Caspy. I’ve been thinking. If we get the breakfast show gig, we can settle into it, then gradually introduce the idea that, by mutual agreement and with a lot of soul-searching, blah blah, we’re having a ‘conscious uncoupling’. Even make it a slot on the programme, perhaps, show how we’re determined to work alongside each other. Best friends that married very young and have grown apart, etc, etc. Do a sympathetic interview together. It would be great for viewing figures, don’t you think?”

Like vomit, an unwanted pulse of anxiety rose through my chest at the same time a judder of turbulence shook the plane. I let out an involuntary gasp, and Leigh gave a short laugh. “God, Casp, don’t be such a wuss. It’s stopped already!”

Screwing my eyes shut, I gripped the armrest, trying to imagine Max’s big firm hand. It helped a bit.

“But going back to the separation thing. If you let Jonas drop hints beforeMy Big Gay Adventuresairs, if you let him film us looking a bit tense, it will tie in nicely. And I think he’s right about the viewing figures. People will tune in just to see how you—we’re— coping.”

“It’s a shame he’s not here now,” I said through gritted teeth, “if he wants me looking tense.”

Leigh whipped out his phone, but I batted him off. “Don’t even fucking think it.”

Sniggering, he sat back as the plane soared away from France and towards the next segment of my fucking miserable existence. “Give it some thought, Caspy, and let me know soon. We’ll land the job, then publicly separate in a planned fashion. It will work in our favour, you’ll see.”

Taking a cab directly to the TV studios, we recorded a couple of promo segments for our current show, along with a selection of stills for social media teasers. Leigh and I goofed around with bunches of grapes, bought from Tesco and not suitable for winemaking, although no one else seemed bothered. Max would have immediately pointed it out. Then we huddled under tricolour-striped umbrellas, sharing hunks of bread and cheese, while pretend rain fell around us. Ridiculous, seeing as it was pissing down outside, but that was television for you. I drew the line at a blue beret and a string of onions.

“Feel free to look as if you’re having fun,” murmured Leigh on the fourth attempt at the biting-into-a-baguette-from-opposite-ends shot. “You used to love getting your lips around a big knob.”

I still did. Picturing Max’s flushed face as I took him in my mouth was the most productive thing I’d done since arriving at the television studios. “This is idiotic, Leigh. No one shares food like this.”

Later, during a break, I played the promo back on my phone screen. My complexion was pale and insipid, my skin the colour of sour milk. Why would anyone even choose to lie next to me, let alone embrace me? I had less musculature than a starved rabbit, rarely ejaculated, and my arms were a patchwork of hieroglyphs. And all that before we plumbed the depths of my fucked-up psyche. Chronic anxiety had drained my adrenaline glands to the very pit, leaving behind nothing but a thin shattered husk. Every bit of the road I’d travelled over the last few years was etched deep in my skin.

Next to me, chatting to the media woman like his best pal, Leigh glowed with fake tan and the indefinable allure of a man on the cusp of believing he could have everything. Already convinced the show was a dud, I deleted the pics immediately. Who wanted to tune into a show with two blokes pretending tolike each other while simultaneously trying to be enthusiastic about watching plants grow?

Our agent, Libby, was next on the agenda of this never-ending day, another journey with Leigh’s thigh against mine, in the back of an Uber this time, across town.

“You’re quiet.”

“Yep.”

“Talking of quiet, that French bloke living in the other gatehouse is a bit odd, isn’t he? He always seems to be prowling around.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” I gazed out of the window at dreary London, wondering what Max would make of it and whether he’d ever visited. I tried to picture him standing in line at a Costa coffee, waiting to order a hot chocolate or, fingers twitching madly, being jostled on a packed Tube. He’d hate it, all of it: the incessant traffic, tall buildings blocking out the sky, the throngs of people crowding the narrow pavements. The tarmac pavements themselves, probably. He didn’t belong in a city like London, or any city. He didn’t belong in Leigh’s head either.

“From what I’ve seen of him, he prefers to keep himself to himself,” I said without turning to face him. “He’s grumpy—best stay away.”

Libby wore her expression I’d grown to associate with triumph, guaranteed to cause my anxiety to ratchet skywards. She’d changed the venue of our rendezvous at the last minute to a different television studio, confirming my worst fears. “Good news, boys!” she proclaimed. “Wake Up Britaincan fit you in for a screen test now.”

At least I didn’t have to change my outfit. In fact, not much was required of me at all. Almost as though the job was ours to lose. From Libby’s enthusiastic chatting up of the producer as Leigh and I conducted a mock interview about a new cookery book with an enthusiastic runner pretending to be a celebritychef, I suspected it was. The velour sofas were comfy enough—like everything else on the telly, they were smaller than they appeared, as was the nauseatingly jolly entertainment news presenter, who popped in to say hello.

All in all, I managed to convey an illusion of normality, tolerated Leigh’s public overfamiliarity with my person and everyone’s assumption they were making my dreams come true, and survived.

My tiny flat in Chelsea was steeped in the same stagnant, floral smell I’d forever associate with visiting my dad in hospital aged fourteen, when he was dying of throat cancer. It was only the scent of the wooden floor polish used by the cleaning service, but the knowledge didn’t help. Dropping to the sofa, I let my eyes drift over all I owned, all I’d worked for, all thethingsI’d purchased. Chic furniture, good china, arty sepia prints, the flat itself. Outward symbols of a full life, purchased after the split from Leigh to cover up what was broken. Did owning any of them make my existence better? Had they mended me? Would anyone stand up at my funeral and say I had great taste in home furnishings and a widescreen Samsung TV?

My arms itched, and my viticulture manual failed to hold my attention, so I got up from the sofa and paced around for a while, stopping to peruse the meagre contents of the freezer and to flick through some junk mail. Then, unable to resist the pull any longer, in the privacy of the flat’s cramped, soulless bathroom, I sat on the closed toilet lid and cut myself.

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