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“Won’t Éti mind?”

“She doesn’t know. And I don’t think she fancies you.”

I laughed. Again. Like I’d laughed through this morning’s shipping forecast for the southwest Atlantic coast. I'd pointed out we didn’t need to hear it because we could fucking see it, given that we’d been snuggled up under a blanket outdoors and facing the bloody ocean. And I’d laughed afterwards too, when he’d pinned me down, tickled me, then rattled off the incubation periods for every single breed of fucking wading bird that had the temerity to land on the shore in front of us.

“I meant the soccer, not the ball fondling.”

He grunted again, levelling his dark gaze with mine and rubbing the beard along my jaw. His expression was the same as during this morning’s early al fresco fucking, and it was amood. If my peniswassentient, it would inform him it was utterlyspent. “I can do the soccer VIP thing anytime. She used to need us all there when she first came out. For support. Not now.”

Even a soccer luddite like me remembered Éti coming out. One of the defining news stories of the last decade. My own brush with the ugly side of the media paled into insignificance by comparison.

“She was incredibly brave.” I regarded him a moment, as the first tendrils of an idea snagged at the edges of my mind. “To do what she did.”

“She beat them at their own game,” Max agreed. He rubbed his hardness against my arse. “Stop talking. We’re having sex again.”

The night before she left, Emma came over to Max’s, and I shooed Max to L’Escale for a couple of hours. He knew our plans—he’d actually planted the seeds with his throwaway comment about Éti.

I poured two glasses of water and passed one to Emma. I was going to miss her. She’d promised to stay in touch, and I promised to stay sane. And then we settled down to the job at hand.

We kept the filming simple: no makeup, no mic, no repeat takes. Just me, a couple of notes jotted on a sheet of paper, and a ring light against one of Max’s blue walls.

“Last time,” she warned. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah.” I shot her a shaky grin and quoted from Jonah’s desk calendar in a cheesy voice. “Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, and today is a gift, right?”

She chuckled and adjusted the light before positioning herself and my phone. Though my complexion was much improved, thanks to my repeat doses of Vitamin Max, spidery fine lines at my eyes and a couple of rogue grey hairs hintedat the troubles I was about to admit. My jiggling knee and trembling hands confirmed them.

“Live, laugh, love, baby.”

She chuckled.“More like languish, lament, lay down. Come on, let’s get it over with.”

I wasn’t doing this purely to spite Jonas, but I was no saint, I recognised I had that emotion in me. And anyhow, if anything, it would increase the show’s popularity. There was no such thing as bad publicity, right? A quick call to a solicitor friend had reassured me I wasn’t in breach of my contract, so we were good to go.

All that remained was total career annihilation.

“I don’t have to post it,” I reminded her. “I’ve got a couple of weeks to delete if I change my mind.”

“You won’t.” She smiled at me as I made myself comfortable. I wasn’t used to wearing a T-shirt, and the air felt fresh against my bare arms. Briefly, I closed my eyes and pictured Max, atop his tractor, his steady hands holding the wheel. When my pulse slowed, I nodded to Emma, faced the camera, and let go of the parachute.

“Hi. I’m Caspian Pumkin-Watts, one of the co-presenters ofMy Big Gay Adventures.And I’m here to talk about the importance of sharing mental health problems.”

My voice was scratchy and dry. Clearing my throat, I paused for a second, wondering what the fuck I was doing. Then Emma gave me the thumbs up sign, and I pushed on.

“Sadly, one in four people will experience some sort of mental illness in a year, and 25 percent of adults are experiencing depression, anxiety, or stress at any one time. I’m one of them, and as you can see from my arms, my own mental health journey has been a torrid one.”

I glanced down at the roadmap of scars criss-crossing my arms, some old and silvery, some purple and still tender. Then I fixed my eyes back on the camera.

“And it’s not over yet; it may never be over. So I’m also here to tell you of the importance of speaking up about it, because the more of us that do that, the less stigma will be attached. And the importance of surrounding yourself with the right people.”

I took a deep breath and a sip of water. “I have my arms on display. I’m still ashamed of them, but I’m learning not to be. Let me take you back to the beginning…”

CHAPTER 27

CASPIAN

The last few days of filming had a giddy, end-of-term feel to them. The weather turned hot and unexpectedly stormy, bursts of thunder heralding quick showers, over as soon as they’d begun. Huddled in billowing, flapping tents, the crew were already chatting about the next project. They were only hanging around to film the handover of the vines to the cooperative and record the beginning of the vendage.

Two days earlier, I’d driven Emma to the airport. It was lonely on set without her. If the camera crew hadn’t realised me and Leigh and Jonas only communicated through one of them, then they must have had their heads in the sand. I had taken to sheltering in the unused gatehouse in between takes, with my viticulture studies.

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