Lavender & Gold - 5. The Secret in a Photograph

CHAPTER FIVE

The Secret in a Photograph

‘Talk to me, Ben.’ Harry’s voice sounded tired and haggard. ‘What’s going on?’

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair a little, gripping the receiver perhaps a bit tighter than necessary. ‘How much did Alice tell you?’ he asked.

‘Not much,’ said Harry. ‘I need you to tell me everything.’

‘I don’t even know where to start . . .’ Ben let out a puff of air.

‘Start at the beginning,’ Harry prompted.

So Ben did. He told him about Catherine’s party, about the note with the phone number, about spending all that time thinking about Mark when he was in America. About coming home and finding his number on his desk and calling on a whim. About going to his flat. Being kissed. Attending rehearsals for The Crucible and wanting to see Mark again. He held back on the details, but other than that, he told Harry everything. When he was finished, Harry was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was soft and without judgment.

‘You should have told me from the start,’ he said. ‘This is exactly the sort of thing I’m here for.’

‘I know,’ said Ben. ‘God, I know, I don’t know what I was thinking . . . I just . . . I never thought he would go to the press.’

‘Are you certain that’s what happened?’

‘. . . No.’

‘I’m looking into it,’ Harry continued. ‘It’s hard to be sure where a rumour like this comes from, but I’ve got people on it, searching the fan sites and blogs and twitter. There are rumours of a photograph, but if there is one we haven’t found it yet.’

There was another brief silence.

‘What do you want to tell the press?’ asked Harry.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘Feels like if we lie to them when they already know it’ll just fan the flames.’

‘It’ll get the LGBTQ on your back, as well, in case you ever do want to come out,’ Harry reminded him. ‘Withholding is one thing. Actively lying is quite another. On the other hand, you risk harming your career if you admit to it. The King’s Man is such a huge opportunity for you. That kind of romantic lead in a historical drama—’

‘You don’t think they’d sack me?’ Ben frowned. ‘We start filming in just a couple of weeks. Surely they won’t have time to find someone else?’

‘Probably not,’ said Harry. ‘But the studio won’t be happy. A film like this done well is a shoe-in for the Oscars, but you’re unlikely to even be nominated as a gay man.’

‘But I’m not a gay man!’ Ben growled irritably. ‘All these bloody labels, they drive me insane . . .’

’Whether you’re gay or bisexual or what won’t matter to the old greybeards at the Academy, and you know it,’ said Harry. ‘Then there’s Country Sunsets coming out in November, which should be getting at least one nomination at both the Academy Awards and the Golden Globes. You don’t want the press tour for that to be overshadowed by this mess.’

Ben groaned, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. ‘I know . . .’ He sighed. ‘How long can you keep a lid on this?’

‘If you don’t talk to any press, maybe until Monday. So far it’s just The Sun, but as soon as anything even remotely like evidence surfaces, The Daily Mail will be on this too and then there’s no stopping it. I’ll try to give you some time to figure out what you want to do, but I’ll need to know by tomorrow night. I’m drafting a few possible statements. I’ll e-mail them over when they’re done so you can have a look, all right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ben. ‘All right.’ He stood up, stretching his back. ‘I’ve got to get ready, need to be at the theatre in an hour.’ He paused. ‘Thank you, Harry. Really. I’m sorry for the headaches.’

Harry’s voice was gentle. ‘Try not to worry about it. We’ll talk later.’

* * *

It was the first time for as long as Ben could currently remember that he had forgotten a line on stage. He always became his characters, fully and without doubt, when he stepped out onto a stage in costume. But just then, with Deputy Governor Danforth staring down at him from his high seat, he was not John Proctor at all. He wasn’t even Benjamin Connor, the actor, but simply Ben.

‘Your wife, you say, is an honest woman?’

Ben blinked. Swallowed. Racked his brains for the appropriate line. Where were they? Which page? What came next?

‘I . . .’ He licked his lips.

Then John Proctor straightened his back, looked the Governor in the eye and said, ‘In her life, sir, she have never lied. There are them that cannot sing, and them that cannot weep—my wife cannot lie.’

And then the play went on, and only someone who knew the script by heart or had seen the play a hundred times would have noticed, but Ben knew and it made him uneasy. There are them that cannot sing, and them that cannot weep—Benjamin Connor cannot step out of character, he thought bitterly when the scene was ended.

As far as final performances go, it was a good one, in spite of Ben’s mistake. They got a lasting standing ovation, and there were flowers being given out, and they pulled their director on stage and applauded the hell out of him, and it could not have been a more perfect ending. Not that it was any kind of real ending, of course. They had already been commissioned to do six more weeks after Christmas, due to the play’s enormous popularity, exceeding even that of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s iconic production less than a decade previously. He wondered, as he stood there, how that would change if his relationship with Mark became public knowledge.

His parents were already waiting for him in the dressing room by the time he made it back there, with hugs and kisses and flowers.

‘Oh, you were wonderful, sweetheart!’ said his mother fondly. ‘Simply wonderful!’

‘Thank you. Thank you both.’ Ben smiled at them.

‘Too bad you’ve got these vicious rumours in The Sun putting a dampener on things, eh?’ said his father. Ben looked at him, head cocked to one side.

‘How are they vicious?’ he asked.

‘Oh!’ said his father. ‘No! I only meant—’

‘I know,’ said Ben and shook his head, smiling. ‘But you see, the truth is . . .’ He hesitated, but as usual it seemed as though his mother could read his mind.

Her eyes widened. ‘You mean . . . ?’ She stared at her son for a moment, mouth agape. Then she shrugged. ‘Oh, well, there go my hopes of grandchildren.’

William Connor looked between his wife and his son, appearing somewhat bewildered, and then he too seemed to understand. ‘Oh . . . Oh! Well. That’s—’

‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘Not really how I meant to tell you. But I don’t even know if we’re still together, so . . .’

‘Well, whatever happens, we’ll support you, you know that!’ said his mother brusquely, waving her hand dismissively. Ben smiled. He did know. He wasn’t sure how he had thought his parents would react, but he had never expected rejection. He was glad they had not proven him wrong in that respect.

‘Thank you,’ he said earnestly. ‘Now, I am really sorry, but I need to get out of my costume and get ready for a party, so . . . It was lovely of you to come!’

‘Of course!’ said his father. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have a good party. I hope you . . . sort things out.’

Ben got changed as quickly as he could, pulling off that horrible, scratchy beard for the last time in a good, long while and cleaning off his stage make-up hurriedly. He had hoped to beat the crowds out to the car, but when he exited the stage door, there were fans waving pictures and programmes for him to sign and, Oh God, please no, there was press. He signed a few programmes as quickly as he could, resolutely ignoring the journalists shouting his name.

‘Ben! Ben, how do you feel about your performance in The Crucible?’

‘Ben, how do you respond to the rumours put forth in The Sun today?’

‘Ben! How does this relate to last year’s rumours about you and Emma Stone?’

Ben found the last question so perplexing he was tempted to turn around and ask what the man was on about, but he caught himself at the last minute and, apologising profusely to the fans he hadn’t got around to, hurried to the waiting car.

He hated leaving his fans like this. He loved the contact, loved to see their smiles when he signed their pictures, talked to them, gave them hugs, asked their names. He had, at one point, set up a Twitter account in hopes of getting closer to his fans, but had given up on trying to use it actively. He was too busy and couldn’t really get into it, so it stood unused with over three million followers.

He slid into the back seat next to Alice. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes.’ Ben glanced at her. Earnest, brown eyes looked back. ‘No, not really . . . I should ring Harry.’

‘No need, I just got off the phone with him,’ Alice replied grimly. ‘There’s something you should see.’

She pulled out her Blackberry, typed something and then handed it to Ben. On the screen was a photo. It was slightly dim, somewhat blurry, but the figure on the left was definitely him, and the one on the right . . .

In the photo, Ben had his right hand tangled in Mark’s green hair, and Mark was looking up at him with a decidedly soppy look on his face, a look which Ben mirrored almost perfectly.

He knew exactly when this had been taken. Monday night, outside his home.

‘Apparently, some girl randomly walked by, saw you, got out her iPhone to snap a picture, and caught this,’ said Alice. ‘She put it on her Tumblr. An hour later, it had over a thousand notes, and since then it’s been shared more than 200,000 times.’

Ben handed her the phone back. Then he dipped into his pocket to pull out his own. He dialled Mark’s number. He had never even saved it to his phonebook, he knew it completely by heart. There was no answer, only voicemail.

Mark hadn’t gone to the press. He had been telling the truth. Ben had to speak to him. He tried again, but there was still no reply. He let his hand drop to the seat cushion next to him.

‘I don’t want to go to the party.’ It came out more like a whimper than he’d meant it to, and he cleared his throat.

‘I know, dear,’ said Alice kindly. ‘You should, though. Shake a few hands, hug some people, have a drink or two. Especially now, it’s so important that you do this.’

Ben looked over at her. ‘Harry told you to say this, didn’t he?’

Alice smiled guiltily. ‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Also, you promised to bring me as your plus one and I’ve been dying to meet Natalie Dormer.’

Ben returned her smile. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a drink and make nice for a bit. For you.’

* * *

‘Ben!’ Sir Derek clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Fantastic work, simply fantastic! Your John Proctor has been a masterpiece, truly!’

‘Thank you.’ Ben smiled amiably. ‘It’s been a pleasure working with you. You have been excellent, as always.’

‘Well, none of these roles are exactly easy,’ said the older man with a shrug. ‘I do believe, however, that this has been the best run of The Crucible the London stage has ever seen! If I do say so myself . . .’

Ben laughed. ‘I am inclined to agree. As are the critics. Please, excuse me for a moment.’

He wanted to try Mark again, and headed off in the general direction of the toilets. Everyone had been lovely, congratulating him on his stunning success, wishing him luck in America, and no one had mentioned The Sun or the rumours. This was the London stage, he reminded himself. Most of these people couldn’t care less about his sexual orientation or his choice of partner, the man he had just spoken to being living proof.

‘You look distracted,’ said a voice, and he stopped in his tracks, turning his head in the direction it had come from.

‘Catherine?’ His co-star from Singularity Sky smiled at him. He looked around them for a moment, before returning his gaze to hers. ‘Party-crashing?’ he asked.

Catherine laughed. ‘I’m here with David.’ She closed the distance between them and kissed his cheek. ‘How are you?’

Ben was about to say ‘fine’, but Catherine’s expression told him she already knew he wasn’t. ‘Anxious, worried, frightened . . . Take your pick.’

‘I heard about the rumours. Saw the photo, too.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wanna tell me about it?’ She arched an eyebrow at him. Ben hesitated. ‘You know, in the months we worked together on Sky, I thought we became quite close,’ she continued. ‘I wish you’d talked to me.’

Ben sighed, slumping his shoulders somewhat. He swirled the wine in his glass a little bit, took a sip, glanced up at her again. ‘His name is Mark,’ he said softly. ‘I met him at your after party. He snuck in.’

‘Clearly I need better security at my next party,’ said Catherine drily. ‘Go on.’

‘He gave me his number, I went to America, I came back and thought, why not? One thing led to another and . . .’ Ben clicked his tongue. ‘Then this happened, and I mistrusted him, thought he’d gone to the press. I don’t . . . I don’t know how I could think that of him. And now I can’t get hold of him, and I’m worried because I don’t know if he’s ignoring me or if he’s gone and done something stupid.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t even know . . . He’s the impulsive kind.’ Ben shook his head and sighed. ‘I know I should be worrying about my career right now, but . . .’

‘You’ll be fine!’ said Catherine. ‘You’re a fantastic actor, Ben. No one’s gonna care if you come out. Look at Neil. Zach. Sir Ian, for goodness’ sake. They’re not exactly short on roles.’

‘Neil doesn’t make it out of television a lot, though, and Zach and Sir Ian only get big roles in genre films,’ Ben reminded her. ‘But, I know. Stephen, Russell, Mark—Gatiss, I mean—Rupert, well best not mention Rupert . . . Sir Derek, of course. He and Sir Ian have that sitcom. Like I said, though, I know I should be worrying about this, but all I can think about right now is Mark.’

Catherine nodded, slowly, looking thoughtful. ‘Go try him again,’ she said.

Ben smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he said. ‘For—’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Catherine. ‘Now go away.’

Ben handed her his glass and then rushed into one of the toilets, putting his phone to his ear. It rang once, twice, three times, four times, voicemail. He tried again. Once, twice, three times. . .

‘Yeah?’ The background was very noisy, but Ben could clearly hear Mark’s voice.

‘Mark?’ he said. ‘It’s . . . It’s me.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Party!’ Mark replied. ‘Bloody fantastic one, too!’

‘Er . . . Good for you . . .’ Ben hesitated. ‘Look, I need to talk to you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Go somewhere you can hear me?’ Ben pleaded. There was a change in the background noise, the click of a door, and it became quieter. ‘Thank you. I need to talk to you.’

‘Well, I’m at a party!’ Mark repeated.

‘I know, I just . . . I’m sorry, all right? I was wrong.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Mark, please . . . Can I see you?’

‘Aren’t you at some fancy party yourself?’

‘Yes, but this isn’t where I want to be,’ said Ben emphatically. ‘Please! I need to talk to you. I need us to work this out. Okay?’

There was a pause. ‘Okay,’ said Mark.

‘Okay. Good. Where are you?’

Mark gave him the address. Camden.

‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ said Ben urgently. ‘I’ll call you when I’m there, all right?’

‘Sure.’ Mark’s voice sounded distant. ‘See ya.’ Then he hung up, without waiting for a reply.

* * * 

Ben returned to Catherine and bid her good night.

‘Got hold of him, then?’ She smiled softly.

Ben nodded in confirmation. ‘I should stay, I know that, I just—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Catherine, touching his upper arm reassuringly. ‘I’ll make your excuses if people ask.’

Ben nodded. ‘Thank you. I don’t deserve friends like you.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘We’ll have lunch soon,’ he promised.

‘Not if this goes as you hope, I reckon.’ Catherine smirked at him. ‘I’ll hold you to it, though.’

Ben sought out Alice in the crowd. He found her talking to two actors and a writer and pulled her aside.

‘I have to go,’ he said urgently. ‘I managed to reach Mark.’

‘All right, get out of here. I’ve got you covered.’ Alice hugged him. ‘I’ll call for the car. Mike will take you where you’re going, and home after.’

‘Cheers,’ said Ben. ‘You’re too good to me.’

Alice shrugged. ‘It’s what you pay me for. Good luck!’

‘Thank you.’

The car belonged to the agency that represented Ben. He didn’t have his own chauffeur and didn’t want one, either. In truth, he preferred to drive for himself—otherwise, what was the point in owning a Jaguar?—but he rarely had the opportunity. Driving in London was usually not worth it, and as such his fancy car spent most of its time safe in a high security parking garage, while Ben took cabs where he needed to go. He had kept taking the tube for as long as he could, but that was no longer an option. The price of fame.

It had just gone one o’clock when he disembarked in Camden. He asked Mike to wait for him. There was loud techno music coming from inside the building. He pulled out his mobile to let Mark know he was there. There was no answer, but only a few moments later Mark came out of the building. He was dressed in a reasonably tight white tank top, torn jeans and army boots. He wore a couple of glow sticks for bracelets, blue and green.

‘Hey,’ said Ben breathlessly.

‘Hey.’ Mark wore a soft smile as he looked Ben up and down. ‘Nice suit.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’ It was a simple two piece, charcoal grey, over a black shirt and pale silver-green tie. ‘You look nice too.’

Mark laughed. It was a raw, somewhat manic but humourless laugh. He took a couple of steps closer. There was something fluid, almost feline in his movements. He ran his fingers through his hair. It seemed slightly damp, and there was a sheen of sweat to his face. He must have been dancing.

‘What is it you really want?’ Mark crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was still smiling that odd, soft smile. ‘Cause there’s a gorgeous man in there who’s begging me to let him suck me off.’

Ben frowned. ‘Is that meant to make me jealous?’

‘I dunno. Is it working?’ The expression on Mark’s face was unreadable, but he was tapping his foot restlessly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It made him seem agitated. ‘Are we done? You’re pissing on my parade, you know . . .’

‘No, we’re not done,’ said Ben. ‘I came to apologise, okay? I was wrong. There’s . . . there’s a photo.’

Mark looked completely disinterested. ‘Whatever,’ he said in a bored drawl. ‘I’m over it, anyway.’

Ben closed the distance between them. He raised his hands to Mark’s shoulders, examining his face. Mark’s eyes narrowed at the touch, but he didn’t flinch away from it. On the contrary, he seemed to somewhat lean into it, as though his body craved closeness even if his mind didn’t. His skin was hot, his pupils blown. He licked his lips.

‘What have you taken?’ asked Ben quietly.

‘What?’ Mark took a step back, pulling himself out of Ben’s grasp. ‘Nothing!’ he said defensively, refusing to meet his gaze again.

‘Don’t lie to me.’

Mark took another step back, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands on his hips. ‘I haven’t taken anything! Besides, it’s not like it’s any of your business . . . And I haven’t taken anything.’

‘You have,’ said Ben. ‘You’re not being yourself, and I’m not smelling a lot of booze on you, which means you’re high as a bloody kite. No use denying it. Now, what did you take?’ He used the most commanding tone of voice he could muster.

Mark looked down at his boots as he spoke. ‘Just E,’ he mumbled. ‘They . . . they offered me special K, too, but I didn’t take any.’ He pulled a tiny zip-locked bag out of his pocket and showed it to Ben. It contained two tiny, round, pink pills. ‘For later,’ he explained.

Ben took the bag from him and frowned at the pills. Then he dropped the bag on the ground and stepped on it. ‘No. More. Drugs.’ His voice was quiet but commanding. He glared up at Mark, who stood wide-eyed, staring at him. ‘Ever. I’m taking you home.’