Page 98 of Going Solo

The crowd laughed. Sandy grabbed me by the elbow and leaned into my ear. “I’ve put the lads out the back in one of the curtained booths. Give you a bit of privacy.”

Nick rolled off ahead of us. Sandy threaded her arm through mine. We walked up the aisle between the tables, the punters watching us as intently as if we were underwear models at a Calvin Klein catwalk show.

“Don’t mind them all staring, Toby darling,” Sandy said, in a stage whisper. “This dress is vintage Schiaparelli, and youknowhow Italian haute couture attracts the gays like flies on shit.”

Two-thirds of the way up the room, I spotted a lad filming us on his phone. I tried to hide my face, but one arm was trapped in Sandy’s and the other was dragging the suitcase. As we walked past him, there was a flash of magenta fingernails as Sandy whipped the phone out of the guy’s hand.

“Naughty, naughty, Derek. If you want this back, come and see me after class.” Then, as we walked by the next table, Sandy dropped it into a jug of water. “Bring a bag of rice.”

The room burst into applause. Sandy pushed me through the velvet curtains into the back room, where all the boys were waiting for me. She pulled the curtains to a dramatic close behind us both, then stuck her head back through it, into the restaurant.

“Have I made myself abundantly clear?”

“Yes, Sandy,” came the chorus from the queers.

I flopped down onto the banquette seat beside Nick, Dav, Sunny, and Ludo, and let my head fall onto the table.

“Drink?” Sunny asked.

* * *

Sandy brought me two Essex Girls, on the house. I knocked both shots straight back. The alcohol burnt through my stomach hot and slow, the way a fire moves through a peat bog. As I put the second glass down, I noticed my hand was shaking.

“You OK, pal?” Nick asked.

“No.”

My phone vibrated. The caller ID said it was Mum. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Bubby, we’re in chaos here,” Mum said. “Are you orright?”

“What’s happening?”

“There’s a heap of reporters out the front of the salon, and they won’t leave. They keep shouting things and harassing customers. Your Aunty Cheryl threw a box of penises over them and told them to piss off, but now they keep goading her to see what else she’ll do. The salon phone’s been ringing hot with reporters all day. We’ve had to unplug it. We close in half an hour, but your sister says they’re camped out the front of the house as well. What should I do?”

I looked at Sunny and Ludo for advice.

“Paps?” Sunny asked. I nodded. He waved for me to give him the phone.

“Hello, Mrs Lyngstad, this is Sunny Miller. Let’s see if we can find a way to get the wolves from your door. What have you told them so far?” Sunny nodded as he listened to my mother. “Are you certain you’ve given them no reason to think Toby’s heading back to Essex any time soon?” A pause. “OK, great.” Sunny’s green eyes flashed back towards me. “Toby, can I check. Do you have any photos from a holiday abroad that you’ve never posted on your socials? Preferably somewhere remote. Lying on a beach somewhere, or better yet on a cruise, or trekking up a mountain.”

Nick laughed. “You won’t get Toby up a mountain unless he’s carried up there in a sedan chair with a Hemsworth on each corner.”

Dav whacked his husband on the arm.

Sunny’s green eyes were still on me. “It’s vital it’s something you’ve not posted anywhere on social media. And nothing that looks like anything else you’ve posted. And you must have the same haircut.”

“Probably,” I said. “I’ve got heaps of pics from Gran Canaria.”

Sunny gave me a thumbs up.

“OK, Mrs Lyngstad, we’re going to try a diversion. It probably won’t last long, but it might buy you some time until things have died down. Tomorrow lunchtime, we’re going to post a picture on Instagram that makes it look like Toby’s skipped the country. Once it has been posted, there’s a chance some reporters will notice it and drift away. Others either won’t see it or will be suspicious and will stick around. Give it a couple of hours, then we need to plant the idea that Toby is genuinely abroad.”

This could not have sounded madder to me if Sunny were sitting there with visible signs of mercury poisoning while pouring tea for an impatient rabbit, but the other boys were smiling like Sunny was a ginger genius.

“It’s absolutely vital you don’t say it like it’s an announcement,” Sunny said. “Don’t throw open the salon door and say ‘Toby’s in Gran Canaria,’ or they’ll be proper suspicious. You need to mention it in passing. In fact, it’s best if it comes from someone else entirely. Is there someone you could get to walk past the salon, ask what all the commotion is about, and then get them to say something like ‘but Toby’s in Gran Canaria.’ Can you do that?”

Sunny smiled. “Mrs Fitz sounds perfect.”

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