Limerence (Famous Young Things): Act IV: Coda – Chapter 37

My father’s house in Richmond is the very same one I grew up in. Though if you ask him directly, he’d probably say I never grew up at all. That I’m still the stupid little boy who loves to prance around in tights and who has never learned an ounce of responsibility or sense in all of his twenty-two years on Earth.

Well, he’s about to get a rude awakening. Because I’m guessing this is what taking responsibility looks like.

The taxi dropped me at the gate, which I open with the code before crunching my way up the pebbled driveway like a man on the way to his own execution. Which I’d probably enjoy more than what’s about to happen. Though I grew up here, I still ring the doorbell. Miranda answers in a pair of ankle-grazing jeans, trainers, and a Breton-style top, dark hair pulled back in a chic knot. She looks younger like this, and very pretty, and it makes me wonder what on earth she sees in Adrian Brooke. My dad is not exactly the catch of the century, she could do a thousand times better, honestly. Guess there really is no accounting for taste.

“Felix, sweetheart.” She smiles warmly and pulls the door wide to welcome me in. “I didn’t know you were coming. How lovely to see you.” She wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug before pulling back.

“Um, no, not planned. I just popped over to see Dad. Sorry for not calling first.”

She studies me then. She’s very perceptive, Miranda, so I’m entirely prepared when she says. “Is everything alright? You don’t look well.” She puts her hand to my cheek and frowns a little.

“Rehearsals are absolutely brutal right now.”

“Ah, of course. Your father told me about the show—it sounds utterly divine, darling. I can’t wait to see you in this. You’re going to shine.”

I give her a weak smile. “Is he…?”

“In his office, yes.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s been on calls all morning. All week, in fact. You know they’re trying to get rid of Nish.” She puts her finger to her lips in a hushing motion.

I pretend to look shocked, because only the cabinet and the whip (and the whip’s wife) would know this at this point.

“Shit.”

“Yes, it is rather. Can I get you anything, tea or coffee?”

“No, thanks, Miranda. I’m good.”

She reaches out and smooths my hair, giving me a motherly sort of look. “It’s good to see you, Felix.”

I wonder if she’ll still look at me like that if this gets out and she knows the sort of stuff I’ve been texting to her husband’s—my father’s—esteemed colleague. I feel sick again.

“You too. I’ll try to catch you before I leave.”

She nods, pats my shoulder, and flits off toward the garden by the side of the house.

I head to where my father’s study is. A stuffy, windowless, wood-panelled space sandwiched between the front reception room and the kitchen. I knock once and open the door. He’s on the phone, dressed in his ‘weekend’ uniform of navy sweater over a light blue oxford and beige chinos. His grey hair is styled neatly, though he has an edge of stubble on his jaw that he’d never be caught dead with inside the commons.

A very peculiar look crosses his face at the sight of me, but he doesn’t look wholly surprised that I’m here on a Saturday morning, unannounced.

“Yeah, of course I know that, Nigel, it’s hardly fucking news to me,” he’s saying crossly. “Well, get her to a place where she is… I couldn’t care less, honestly. Absolutely not… good. Alright, I have to go. Fine.” He hangs up without saying goodbye and tosses his mobile down on his desk.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he says as a greeting. “You should have called; you know I don’t like surprises.”

Normally I’d point out that since my being his son has always been something of a surprise to him, he should be used to it, but not today. Today I’m on my best behaviour.

“I needed to talk to you.”

“Well, yes, I didn’t expect you were here to perform Swan fucking Lake for me. Sit down, then.” He points at the chair.

My father has always been a fan of brevity, so I decide to just cut to the chase. “I need a favour,” I say.

He doesn’t react right away, but then, the very corner of his mouth twitches and he says, “‘A favour.’ Do you, now?”

“Yes. And since I never ask you for anything, have never asked you for anything, I’m hoping you’ll be inclined to say yes. If you’re not, then you should know that the consequences could be highly embarrassing. For you,” I clarify.

This amuses him a little; he sits back in his chair and clasps his hands over his stomach as he levels a mean smile at me. “Well, I’m rather used to highly embarrassing consequences: I’ve you for a son.”

I manage a smile of my own at that. “Oh, I think this one will rival even that, Dad.”

His nostrils flare a little. “Let’s hear it then.”

Linking my hands in front, mirroring his own, I look down and take a deep breath. “Until about a month ago, Christian Darling and I were in a sexual relationship. It began shortly after I got back from Russia. Somehow, the press have gotten wind of it, along with text exchanges which they stole from my phone, photos—explicit and non-explicit—of both of us. They called Christian for a statement, but ultimately, they’re going to publish it next week. I was hoping that you could… well, make it go away. I know that you can do that, I don’t know how you do these things, but I know that you do and that you can. Dad, Christian doesn’t deserve this; he’s done nothing wrong. I accept full responsibility because this was my fault, all of it. I pursued him, relentlessly, and yes, I know he’s an adult, but I did make it difficult for him to resist. And I also know that since he’s on the board of LBC, I’ll be disciplined for it, and you’ll think this is actually about that, about saving myself, but it’s not. I’m fully prepared to accept the consequences from the board, but ultimately, I can dance anywhere. My reputation will take a hit but I’m an out, gay dancer and so that’ll be nothing compared to what they’ll do to Christian. They’ll tear him apart and ruin his life and he doesn’t deserve that—not for this. And so, I’m asking for your help to make this go away. For me or for him, or for yourself or your party, which you’ve always cared about more than anything else.” I lift my head up then to find he’s watching me with great interest, a stony expression on his face. He doesn’t look repulsed or shocked or even angry. He’s just… looking at me. I’ve no idea if it means he’s listening or considering it, but I’ve one last card to play. It’ll tear my soul apart, but for Christian, I’ll do it. “Dad, I’m begging you. Please fix this. Please.”

The silence after I stop talking is suffocatingly unbearable. A vacuum. My skin feels like it’s shrinking and any second my bones are going to tear through it, my hands and forehead are leaking with sweat. I’m certain I’m going to vomit. Smoothly, my father gets up from his desk and walks around it to the corner of the room where a drinks cabinet holds an array of whiskeys, brandies and other things in expensive bottles. He pours himself a drink, chucks it back, and then refills it. Then he says, “Does he know you’re here, begging for him?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

He nods and walks back to his desk, glass in hand, and sits down again. “You never fail to surprise me, you know that,” he says, taking a sip from his glass. “Just when I think you can’t be any more embarrassing, you exceed all my expectations.”

“Dad, I’m—”

“For once in your life, keep your fucking mouth shut, Felix,” he orders. He waits for me to answer back, expects that I will, but I don’t. I do as I’m told and keep my mouth shut. “Have you any idea what it takes to run a country?” It’s not at all what I’m expecting him to say, and I can only blink. “Imagine a giant mousetrap, with every single piece positioned just so, moving at exactly the right time in exactly the right place so that the little silver ball can get from one end to the other without impediment.”

Was he the ball? Was the ball the prime minister? I didn’t know and I didn’t particularly care, but I had no doubt he was going somewhere.

“You’re an impediment, Felix. You always have been. To me, to your mother, to Benedict Wells and his great queer fucking ballet if what I’m hearing is right, and now to Christian fucking Darling and this government. How you manage to mess up everything you come into contact with is quite astounding. It is, in and of itself, a talent.” He gives me a look, which under another light might be awe. “Ballet has never been something I’ve enjoyed myself, but people who do tell me you’re extremely gifted at it, so who am I to argue—but I think you might be even more gifted at making everyone’s life exponentially more difficult just by existing. It’s a phenomenal skill; one you share with the prime minister, in fact.”

There’s a weird ticklish sensation on my cheek and I realise it’s because I’m crying. I’m fucking crying in front of my dad. Something I swore I would never do again, no matter what he said to me. I turn my head and brush it away with the back of my hand.

“I don’t make my friends’ lives difficult,” I mutter pathetically.

He scoffs. “Friends? Oh, you mean the little ginger leech who lives ‘rent-free’ at your house? Yes, yes, I’m sure she loves you and your money a great deal. Or are we talking about the other one, the one who loves you so much he put you in this fucking position in the first place. Wake up, Felix! There’s no such thing as friends. I’ve been telling you this for years!”

“What are you talking about? Who put me in this position in the first place?”

“Christ, you really are fucking clueless; pretty as a picture but not a whole lot going on upstairs—just like your mother.”

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about her like that!” My temper finally snaps as I spring forward in my chair and shove my finger at him. “Don’t you dare talk about my fucking mother that way, I’m warning you!”

He looks impressed, or something close to it. When I’m sure I’m not going to shout, I say again, “Who put me in this position? What are you on about?”

“Okay, Felix. Let me tell you a story. About a month ago a young chap by the name Charles Dever—I understand he goes by de Vere, a friend of yours, yes?—got in touch, told me he had some tawdry information regarding a member of the cabinet. I wasn’t interested, you’d be surprised how many times such things cross my desk, but then he revealed that the information also involved my son.”

I am definitely going to vomit. I’m going to vomit all over the floor of my father’s office.

Not Nico.

Charlie.

“I asked for more information and that’s when he said he could provide proof of this illicit relationship in the form of texts, emails, and photos. Little Charles gave me an ultimatum: for no small fee, he’d hand over everything he had pertaining to your relationship with the foreign secretary, or, he’d hand it over to the Mail on Sunday. It’s obviously not in the party’s habit to pay money for scandals, and I told him this. Now in his defence, he did say he had no desire for any of this to come back on you, his friend. He merely wanted this man removed from his position. It was the abuse of power that didn’t sit right with him.” He snorts. “Because this cabinet member is also on the board of directors of the company by which you are employed, and this was the crux of the matter. Very considerate when you think about it, I suppose? I’m sure it was all about looking out for you, and not the money he asked me to transfer to him. Would you like to know how much you were worth to him?”

I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing, try to swallow back the burn of vomit in my throat. Charlie. Charlie did this. Not Nico, of course not Nico.

I wouldn’t ever hurt you like this, Felix. Ever.

But Charlie would. Did.

Charlie, who I’d cared for and supported, Charlie who I’d loved, went to my fucking father and offered my personal life to him for fucking money. There’s a searingly sharp pain in my chest that almost brings me to tears again, but I take a few deep breaths until the pain lessens. When I open my eyes, my father is watching me attentively. “So, then, you knew,” I say. “Before I walked in here, you knew. You let me sit here and tell you all of that when you already knew. Why?”

He sits back, looking pleased with himself. “Because I wanted to see how many lies you’d tell to try and save your own skin. I expected you’d sit there and try to convince me that this was somehow someone else’s fault. I’ll admit, you surprised me.”

“Well, I have a habit of that don’t I?”

“Indeed.”

“So, will you help him?”

He gives me a very contemptuous look. “Are you in love with him?”

“I told you, it’s over.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m not.” I shake my head. “I care about him as a friend, but no, I’m not in love with him.”

“A friend…” he mutters.

“He’s a good man, Dad.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” he remarks, snidely. “That’s why he doesn’t belong in government.”

“What? Dad, no. You can’t let it get out! Dad, please.”

He glares at me, unimpressed with my telling him what to do. “I said nothing about letting it get out. There’s an election in four months; this could lose us it. There was never any intention of it getting out.”

I give my father a confused look. Had I missed something? “Charlie offered it to you and when you wouldn’t pay, he took it to the press.”

He says nothing, watching me and waiting. I get there eventually, too slow for his liking, of course.

“The press never had it, did they? You paid Charlie.”

“Of course I bloody did! You’re my fucking son, and he’s the foreign secretary. It would have made me a laughing stock!”

“So then why does Christian think the press is going to run it next week?” All at once, it all falls into place. Just like the mousetrap, not a single fucking impediment. “You want him out… You’re using this to force him to resign; you don’t want Christian to be PM.”

“Well, look at that. Not just a pretty face after all.” For the first time in my life, my father gives me a look which says he’s proud of me.

“So, what, you force Christian out and appoint who? Someone you choose? Someone you can control? Another piece of shit politician who cares about making the donors and oligarchs happy? Christian is the best person for the job and you bloody know it.”

“Well, Felix, believe it or not, being prime minister is about a hell of a lot more than sodomising twenty-year-old ballet dancers.”

My cheeks burn with indignant rage. “So liking men is what makes him unfit for office, that it?”

“No. Making my son his fucking whore is what makes him unfit for office,” he spits.

I have nothing to say to that, I have nothing left inside me but icy rage and the scorch of betrayal. “Now get out of my office and let me do my job. You’ve taken up enough of my time.”



When I get home, Ava is on the phone, pacing a hole in the rug, when she turns and sees me, her eyes widen with relief. “Oh, he’s here, he’s just walked in. I gotta go. Yeah okay.” She flings her phone and comes toward me. “Babe, what the fuck? I’ve been calling you all morning. Nico came over, the press knows about you and Christian?”

Nico. My chest aches with guilt and shame and something else I don’t even want to think about. “Nico was here?”

“Yeah, he’s been looking for you too. Is your phone off?”

I nod. “I went to see my dad.”

“Fuck,” she says. “Do you need a drink?”

“Maybe.”

As I watch her pour me a large glass of rosé, I debate switching on my phone. Calling Nico. He was looking for me? Even after the shit I said—spat—at him?

“How was Nico?” I ask as she hands me the glass.

“Um, worried.”

She doesn’t seem to find this at all strange, so I carry on.

“I blamed him for it, Aves. I was so fucking sure… fuck, what a mess.” I take two large gulps of wine and explain. “It was Charlie. Charlie went to my dad, I don’t even know how he knew, but he found out. He took shit from my phone.” My fist curls around the glass. How much had my father paid him? Why didn’t I ask?

“Wait, he went to your dad? I thought it was the papers who had it?”

I shake my head. “Dad made Christian think that so he’d resign. Charlie went to my fucking dad, Aves. Why would he do that? Why?”

“You know why, Felix. He’s an idiot and he’s in love with you and he was jealous—”

“No, fuck that, fuck that, Ava!” I shout, anger rising suddenly. “You don’t do that to people you love. You don’t hurt them like that. He doesn’t love me, he doesn’t give a shit about me, and he certainly isn’t my fucking friend.”

I hear Nico’s words again then; words he’d said with so much fucking sincerity. He’d been jealous, too, sick with it. But he’d never done this. I would never do this to you. This hurts you just as much as him and I wouldn’t hurt you like this. I’d never hurt you like this.

Why can’t I see what’s right in front of me? I am such a fucking mess. I’d made such a fucking mess of everything. I always fucking do.

I think you might be even more gifted at making everyone’s life exponentially more difficult just by existing.

He has a point. I hate it, but he really does.

“I just don’t understand how he found out. I mean, he went through my phone, that much is obvious, but like, why? Is he some sort of psycho fucking stalker?” I mutter, lifting my glass to drain the rest. When I look at her, Ava has a very odd look on her face, eyes dancing and avoiding mine.

“What is it?” I ask carefully. “What aren’t you saying right now?”

She gives me a desperate, skittish look.

“Ava.”

“Felix, I’m so fucking sorry. This is all my fault.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“It was me who told Char. The night of the gala, he was a fucking mess. He’d kissed you and he was a mess, and I was drunk and I honestly, stupidly, thought it would make him feel better if he knew it wasn’t because you weren’t into him, but because you were into someone else. I even thought he might finally get over it, if he knew you were with someone else. I forgot that I’d told him, truly I had, and he never mentioned it again. And then today when Nico turned up, it all came crashing back, and Jesus fuck, babe, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You. You… told Charlie about Christian?” I ask slowly. “When I explicitly asked you not to tell another soul. When you promised me you wouldn’t. When you knew the damage it could do if the wrong person found out?”

She nods, looking very, very sorry. She’s saying it too.

“I’m so sorry, so, so sorry. I never thought for a minute he would do this; it’s unforgiveable.”

I can hear the words she’s saying, but I can also hear my dad’s voice. His words.

There’s no such fucking thing as friends. I’ve been telling you this for years.

You know what, maybe he’s right about this too.

I stand up from the sofa and stare down at where she’s sitting on the coffee table, eyes wide and pleading.

“Get out,” I say.

Her face shudders with shock. “Felix. I said I’m sorry, can we just—”

“You’re sorry, yeah, I heard that. Now I want you to get out. I’m going upstairs for a shower but when I come back down, I want you to be out of my fucking house.”

I leave her sitting on the coffee table, staring after me as I pour myself another glass of wine and carry the bottle with me upstairs.