“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.
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