“This calls for champagne”, exclaimed Keith. He waved the waiter over. “A bottle of Yellow, please.” There was a little space of quietness while they waited for the waiter to bring the bottle and some champagne flutes.
“To us!” said Keith after the waiter had poured. “We’re the tops.”
“Only some of us,” said Luigi drily.
Keith just smirked at him, unrepentantly.
“So is your name really Jason?” asked Luigi, sipping his champagne, his eyes watchful.
“Yeah. That’s my real name. My surname is Armstrong-Beaufort. And I have an honorary title, Viscount Saint-James. And one day I will inherit my dad’s title and will become the 18th Duke of Coniston. And yeah, I went to Eton and everything they say about it is true. My first sex was with a guy called Stewart, a sixth-former. And he was a toff too. Met him in the City afterwards, a few years later, and he’d joined some investment bank and was oh so proper. Tool.” He added, dispassionately.
“But won’t there be pressure for you to have an heir? Isn’t it like royalty? I mean, are you like a crown prince or something?” Esmé was resting her head on one hand, watching him with interest.
“That would be ghastly! Imagine being royal—you could never do what I’m going to. Or be gay. Nah. There’s my brother Mark. He can inherit the title and the estates. He doesn’t much like the fact that I’m gay. He didn’t like Brent. So fuck him, I say.”
Keith looked at Jason through narrowed eyes. “Is he as good-looking as you?” he asked, with a sly smile.
Jason stared at him coldly. “For that, peasant, it’s the fishnet stockings and the whip when we’re alone later. You can wear the high heels. I’m not going to: they can’t be comfortable.”
“They’re not,” stated Esmé. “Horrid uncomfortable things. But they do make you feel very glamorous.”
“I definitely naid that,” said Keith with a grin.
“For sure,” said Luigi. “You could start by dumping those Target jeans. So daggy.” His sparkling eyes belied his words and his tone.