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Fucking marvellous.

Of course, Jonas spoke excellent French too, though it didn’t matter. He would be on the other end of the camera. As miserable as sharing nine months on an island with the pair of them sounded, the location held merit. Two English guys bumbling their way through befriending French locals while patching up a pretty vineyard was decent television.

And, in front of the cameras, Leigh and I were still a good team. Whatever Jonas’s many and varied shortcomings, thrusting a young gay couple in at the deep end of a variety of physical and practical challenges had been a successfulSunday night format. Middle-class thirtysomethings lapped us up. I had the sass, Leigh had the brawn, and we were in love. Moreover, we were sensibly dressed and married, the acceptable face of queer culture—not a drag queen, alternative pronoun, or rainbow unicorn in sight. Just a moderately attractive, witty couple cheerfully making lightweight television programmes. The sort of gays you might safely invite over for supper. We hadn’t so much as exchanged an on-screen kiss.

And, for a while, none off screen either.

“What accommodation have you arranged?” I directed this to Jonas. A crucial detail. Immersing ourselves in the job for nine months was our USP. I hadn’t simply joined that plumbing company and pretended to be one of the lads for a three-week stint of filming, I’d bloody crawled around the back of toilets and hoovered out clogged drains for nine whole months.

“We’ll be dotted about.” His eyes flicked down to the paperwork. “For the camera crew, I’ve negotiated a long-term lease on a couple of static caravans in a nearby holiday park. One of them has a storage shed, ideal for equipment.” Looking shifty, he rubbed his nose. “And in keeping with our… ah… pared-down ethos, the vineyard comes with a small house attached, so the three of us will be accommodated there.”

Even more fucking marvellous.

“There is a little gatehouse too, isn’t there?” interjected Leigh with a note of pleading in his voice.You and me both, mate. Although no prizes for guessing which of us would be slumming.

“Two gatehouses,” Jonas responded. “Both tiny. One hasn’t been inhabited for years—I think it’s in need of some attention. The other did have a long-term tenant; I’m not sure if they are still there. But the main house is plenty big enough for all of us. A little shabby and dusty, but nothing a vacuum cleaner and some elbow grease can’t sort out.”

He smiled brightly. “Bring your flowery pinny, Caspy. We could make it your first job.”

“Great.”

I passed the next few minutes enumerating in my head all the ways to inflict a slow and painful death on Jonas. Now I could add strangling him with a sinewy vine into the mix, or drowning him in a vat of sour grapes. I’d let Leigh live, if only to remind myself what an utter fool I’d been.

If I still owned a functioning watch, I’d have checked it. There was at least another half an hour to go. A woman was supposed to be coming along to join us, an expertviniculturist. Basically, a grape farmer. She was running late. To my right, Jonas distractedly rubbed his nose again. Did Leigh know about his coke habit? My gut told me no. My ex loathed any form of drug use. Perhaps it was only reserved for when Jonas sat across the table from me.

Catching my eye, Leigh threw me a tight smile. It was not reciprocated. I’d preserve my limited quota for when we were on set. He’d keep doing it anyhow, like he was Switzerland, stuck in the middle of a conflict not of his making.

“Listen, Caspy,” he began, in a wheedling tone.

“It’s Caspian to you, from now on? I think I’ve mentioned that a few times now?”

Leigh sighed, that single long exhale somehow conveying all of this was my fault. My blood pressure crept upwards, and a dull thudding started in my temple. It didn’t take much. Under the guise of folding my arms, I viciously pinched the itchy scab.

“Whatever,Caspian.None of us wants to be here, but we’ve got to get through it. Nine months of low-stress filming at a vineyard. Maximum. And then we can walk away from each other for good. Nine months, that’s all.”

Low-stress?That was a fucking joke. “They hand out shorter prison sentences for armed robbery.”

Jonas tutted, like the prissy gay he pretended he wasn’t.

“I really wish you wouldn’t be like that.” Leigh shook his head tiredly as Jonas threw him a despairingwhat can we do?kind of look. And sniffed wetly. Wanker. The biggest wankiest wanker in central London.

“Well, I really wish you two hadn’t committed adultery in my fucking marital bed, but hey, we can’t always get what we want, right?”

Jonas banged on the table. “For heaven’s sake, Caspian. Get over yourself. Try to gain some bloody perspective.”Perspective?Even now, two years later, he still maintained he’d done nothing untoward. “Why are you so obsessed with conforming to standards of moralistic, heterosexual prudery,Caspian? Why shouldn’t we have sex with our friends?”

Because I loved him, and I thought he was mine.

Loved: past tense. Honestly. 100 fucking percent. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though.

“You can,” I drawled. “Have sex with all your friends. Fill your boots.” Next to the odious desk calendar, a framed photo of the happy couple gurned back at me, Jonas’s arm possessively slung around Leigh’s shoulder. I recognised the Parisian restaurant from series three in the background. “Make hay while the sun shines, Jonas. Hump as many of them as will have you. Leigh won’t mind, will you, Leigh? Open relationships are in vogue, apparently.”

Like siblings squashed together in the back seat during a long car journey, the three of us knew better than anyone how to push each other’s buttons. Raising my brows at Jonas, I gave a deliberately loud sniff against the back of my hand. Childish, but satisfying.

He shot out of his chair. “For fuck's sake, Caspian! Do you think I want to work with you on another bloody series?” As he banged again for good effect, his voice soared a few decibels. “Doyou imagine Leigh does? Can’t you move on and at least try to be a teensy bit professional? It’s only for another nine months. We know you hate our fucking guts—message received loud and clear! You don’t have to keep reminding us!”

I shoved back my own chair. “Oh yes I bloody do.”

This meeting could go to fuck. The contract was signed. I’d barely glanced at it. No doubt it was a carbon copy of the ones I’d signed for all the previous series. “I think you lost the right to stake out the moral high ground a long time ago, mate.”

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