Naked Hero
by
Fergie Boy
Copyright Fergie Boy, 2009
Published by Firm Hand Books at Smashwords
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Introduction
‘Naked Hero’ is the sequel to ‘Man in the Box’.
Lewis McLair won the Wimbledon title at the age of twenty-one. Then he announced that he was gay.
“No, not perfect,” he had said. “For it to be perfect it needed my perfect man; sitting there, in the box, watching me. Hopefully I’ll meet him soon and I’ll have another big final to play, then he can sit in the box and watch; and that would be perfect, even if I lost.”
Life wasn’t easy after that on the tennis tour for Lewis and eighteen months later he was at an all time low point when he lost in the first round of the Sydney Open - the warm up tournament for the Australian Open in Melbourne. The loss wasn’t unexpected, as sadly Lewis had spent most of the previous night shagging a lad who then sold the story to the press. It wasn’t a very auspicious start to the year.
But Lewis was subsequently helped by two men. One was Lee Porter, manager of a troop of male models come erotic dancers, and a man that Lewis had secretly fantasised over for a year via the internet. The other was Scott Taylor, the ex-champion, now retired, whom Lewis idolised for many years and also found very attractive. Both men helped Lewis and both competed for Lewis’s affection and in the end Lee Porter was chosen on the night Lewis won the title. Had he at last found his perfect man and enjoyed the perfect day? The question was asked.
“No, not quite. I’ll have to keep trying for that one. But in six months time, when hopefully I’m facing Thomas again in the final at Wimbledon... if he’s still there, in the box, watching me; then I think that will be as close as I’ll ever get…”
Now Lewis’s story moves on and that day is fast approaching. He has returned to Wimbledon; scene of both triumph and heartache for the young tennis player. He returns to find out what fate has in store for him this year.
Chapter 1 - He’s Back!
Lewis McLair shuffled around impatiently as the announcements were made. This was the part that he loathed - the waiting. Once he was out there he’d be fine: he would know what he was up against. Know if any of those bastards had turned up again, intent on ruining his day. It was unlikely. It had all gone sweetly so far; but life had a habit of kicking him in the balls just when everything looked like it was shaping up well: so he wouldn’t be over surprised; especially now that the stakes had just been raised with an interesting turn of events.
He could hear the crowd outside, and the buzz of expectancy which had been raised by a few notches following the shock result that they had all just witnessed. And of course the chorus was warming up nicely, practising their anthem for yet another rendition.
God Save the Queen? They were British after all.
Don’t be so daft! They weren’t here to take the piss - they were here to support. They wanted a new king, and no longer cared that he was a bit of a queen on the side: those troubled days had been left behind.
Then the lull; and the only sound that Lewis could hear was the voice of an immaculately dressed official who stood at his side.
“It’s time to play now, gentlemen.”
Flushed with adrenalin, Lewis put on his smile, and stepped once more onto the hallowed turf, that was Wimbledon’s Centre Court.
It was the singing that got him.
That chorus that had formed during the fortnight and had strengthened with every round - they would prevent the test; the real test, that perhaps now would never come. Of course they would - how could he have doubted otherwise? Insecurity creeping in: that wasn’t a good sign, especially now that the anti had been raised. But their song was enough to put his mind at rest. Now he knew for sure that he could relax and get on with the game - get on with the show that they had come here to see.
Let the ritual begin.
Acknowledgement first - give them a wave, and a bit of a smile. They were his friends after all and would win him some points. Then the walk to the chair, following the path that had been trod by a lineage of champions, whose every name and year he had learnt as a boy. His name was there, and it would be added again - of that Lewis McLair was resolved.
With his bag deposited by his chair, the next part of the ritual involved a bit of a show. He went onto the court and brazenly made a cross with his right foot in the tramlines by the net. He wasn’t trying to intimidate, or send a message to the world. It was just a reminder to himself - a new superstition which had been added to the repertoire. This was his court - he had won it two years ago, and they had taken it away from him. Now he was intent on re-staking his claim. He had no problems with anyone knowing that - why else was he here?
To please a crowd?
For the glory and honour of a nation?
For the millions that would be added to his bank account?
No. Bollocks to all of that!
He was here to please himself.
He was here to do honour to only one man.
And his bank account had enough millions in it as it was - he had no burning desire to add any more.
Then back in his chair, Lewis completed the ritual with a look up to his box of supporters. He went along the line, taking them all in - determined not to let anyone down.
At one end was Jim Murdoch, Lewis’s coach of seven years: his boyish glee at attending yet another match at this most sacred of venues, rejuvenated his careworn face; and his trademark tartan baseball cap performed a similar trick with his thinning scalp. He was a cantankerous old bugger at the best of times, and Lewis had often thought that he’d be well shot of him. But he was more than just a coach - tennis coaches could come and go, and frequently did for most of the players on the tour - Jim Murdoch was for life where Lewis was concerned, in whatever role he chose to play: and coach would do very nicely for the next six months. The old boy had tried to wriggle away from the job, and still threatened to do so, but Lewis knew that he would stay on; till the end of the year at least. Even if it did happen on Sunday, Jim would stay on: he would never be able to resist that final accolade.
Then there was Fiona, Jim’s wife and surrogate mother to Lewis. Her crinkling eyes as she smiled down through them betrayed every line on her sun kissed face, and the grey in her unfussy hair sought no bonnet or dye to disguise her comfortable years. Lewis’s natural mother never bothered to attend: too stressful apparently. But it wasn’t the tennis that stressed her out; it was Lewis himself with his off court antics that was Mary McLair’s main concern in life.
Next to Fiona sat his trainer, Mike Crawford, as good a man as you could find for the job; but a new one would be needed at the end of the year. Mike was to be married in six months time and wanted to settle down - the tour was no place for a new wife. Lewis understood. He would give up the tour as well - if the right reason was to arise - if the right question was to be asked.
Marie had also come along, a gesture which Lewis really appreciated. She may well be the girlfriend of the world’s leading women’s player, but watching tennis matches was still something of a chore for her, especially when men were involved. It spoke volumes for their friendship that she was here, and even more so for the confidence of her partner, Chantal Duboir, who would be watching the match in her hotel room, whilst mentally preparing for her own match the following day. The defending champion was in the final again. After all these years she had finally taken to grass and had left her inner doubts back in Paris. The doubts that had plagued her all her career; she would be sure to collect them at a later date.
The chair next to Marie was empty - there was always an empty chair nowadays at Lewis’s matches. Not quite empty - a piece of heather sat on it. A poor substitute indeed for what used to be there.
What used to sit on the empty chair was the most fabulous piece of male rump Lewis had ever encountered, and which he had the pleasure of shagging on a regular basis over the course of a few months earlier in the year.
It was the arse that belonged to Lee Porter, who some of my readers may have met before.
Of course we have met him
Well, at least I have
Man in the Box: the first in the series of Lewis McLair plots
The bastard!
I knew that Lee Porter was up to no good
Welcome back, dear reader
So here we go again
And it appears for our hero to be starting not very well
At least on the love life stakes
I told you back then we needed to wait six months
To see if Lee Porter would be true
But for those of you readers who are coming in from the cold
Let me bring you up to speed...
Chapter 2 - Three Months
Lewis had met Lee Porter in Sydney, ten days before the start of the Australian Open. He was quite a man. The perfect man people said, though most did so in a sarcastic tone. He most certainly had his short comings; and Lewis was sufficiently versed in them to realise that the man who had charmed his way into his supporters’ box on finals night in Melbourne, might embody the perfect image, but was by no means the perfect man.
But it was one hell of an image that he did project: on his web site, where he promoted himself and his troop of dancers come models; and even more so in real life, where he could read your very soul and twist it to his want.
Lewis knew there was an agenda; there always would be where Lee was concerned; but after a year of fantasising over downloaded images; wanking himself silly imagining he was fucking this man; then three weeks of reality when his whole body screamed with yearning as the fantasy turned to possibility, Lewis gladly succumbed, putting agendas aside, along with his doubts: doubts, that this perfectly imperfect man could ever be his, and his alone.
They became lovers that night. The night of the Melbourne final when Lewis McLair’s reconciliation with the world had seemed complete, as the crowd embraced him for all that he was - the first of many spins that Doctor Porter was to prescribe.
It was by the house pool where Lewis was staying that they made a commitment, even before they had sex - that was how much they had wanted each other: to possess, not just shag. They promised to at least try and make a go of a relationship - one that would work for both of them. And it was there by the pool that they then made love for the first time after three weeks of longing, desperate to get into for each other’s pants.
They took a sip of whisky to cement the deal.
“Cheers!”
Then they stood up and gently embraced, before tearing at each other’s clothes.
They returned to Sydney shortly afterwards: Lewis to take a break from the tour, and Lee to attend to a plethora of business matters. But the main reason was to give them some time on their own, to test out the relationship, and then decide how to take it forwards should they both still feel inclined. There was no easy answer; their lives were centred in such different worlds, with little overlap where both could sit comfortably and continue as before. Someone had to give, and it was obvious who. Lewis was the new Australian champion and king elect in his world of tennis. So Lee had agreed to join him, place his own business interests on hold and focus on developing Lewis’s. It was hardly a sacrifice, just part of the fluid agenda; a compromise to secure his prize, around which he could do the deals, and earn the millions that success in Melbourne had proffered.
They were fine for a while; swept away by the novelty of love, and by the enormity of the benefits that they brought to each other. It was inconceivable to Lewis that he could ask for more: his tennis career was back on track and he had a man at his side at long last - one who supported and nurtured him, who gave him the confidence to confront all manner of demons and who treated him on a nightly basis to all manners of sexual frivolity, which our young hero could scarcely believe. It became easy to forget that Lee might actually want more.
But more was exactly what they got: it came in currency, electronically transferred, with each new deal that was struck with obliging consent. It didn’t matter to Lewis about the money, but he knew it was important to Lee. It was important that he made his contribution, both on and off the court: he needed parity - to be a major player, in his own distinctive way, in the world they now shared and challenged to rule. And it was one hell of a contribution that he made - the cash rolled in; to both their accounts. Lewis McLair became big business, and Lee Porter managed that business with flair and efficiency. Dreamtime floated out from Australia and embarked a tour of the world.
The first leg took them to the Middle East, then on to America, where the real money lay - at least for someone intent on playing the pink card. Sponsorships and endorsements were signed up with ease, as a marketing phenomenon was created, through the subtlest of manipulation. Lewis went with it all, apparently thriving on the exposure as he collected new titles; whilst in the background, Lee Porter fanned the flames of corporate greed and collected a string of logos to flaunt. Then Dreamtime move over to Europe, and came to an abrupt end.
Celebrity status had never really sat comfortably with Lewis McLair: it was the price he had to pay to play the game that he loved; and now even more so, to be with the man that he loved. He didn’t want the exposure that was being orchestrated: all the fuss that was being made about his life off court. But he did it for Lee: he did it for them, he did it so that there could be ‘a them’. There was only so much, however, that the ‘McLair’ brand could bear - only so much that Lewis could bear. Spring time in Europe meant tennis on clay, an unfriendly surface for the nomadic Scotsman, and it would need all of his attention to win over: marketing distractions had to be put aside. It was time to reassess their priorities.
With the focus firmly back on the tennis, and little to interest him in the peripheries, Lee started to become restless. London was now more accessible, so Lee took the opportunity to spend a few days away, and stay at his flat in Earls Court. Business and routine maintenance being the impetus apparently, but Lewis was far from convinced; and the doubts, which he had all but suppressed and buried down under now resurfaced with a vengeance.
Lewis tried to be rational about it; it was only a weekend after all, even though it did manage to stretch through till Tuesday. But he couldn’t rationalise away the doubts; nor could he conceal his suspicions from Lee - he never could. Another two weekends apart were enough to seal their fates: with the doubts eating away at him, Lewis’s tennis form took a dive; something needed to happen, and soon.
Fight for a man, or fight for a career - that was the choice. But none was needed at the close: Lee made the decision for him when he told him he had been unfaithful and wanted the relationship to come to an end: Lewis was given no choice - a question was never asked.
The heather had been given to him just before the final in Melbourne. “For luck, just in case you need that as well,” Lee had said. That was all that remained now: millions in the bank, and a piece of heather on a chair. Poor substitutes indeed for what he thought he had - for what he thought he really wanted.
Chapter 3 - Meet the Murdochs
Fiona Murdoch looked down at the end of the first set as Lewis seated himself at the changeover. Her concern was mounting. Not for the tennis, she knew that would turn out fine. Alberto Gonzales had improved a lot on grass this year, but nowhere near enough to be any real threat to Lewis on his favourite surface. Fiona knew that Lewis would come through this - he had come through so much already. The tennis was easy compared to the rest. He could shut the rest out when he was on court. That’s what he had been doing for the past two months: shutting it all out and losing himself in the game. But come Monday, or a few days later if it all went well, and celebrations could occupy his mind, things would change. Lewis needed a break, they all did, and a month had been blanked out from his schedule: a month without tennis, and a month for a rest; a month when the rest would hit him.
‘And hit him, it will,’ she thought, as surrogate eyes caressed the most precious thing in her life. ‘Just like it hits him every time he walks onto a court and sees that empty chair: empty because of a superstition that won’t have it filled. What’s going to happen, Lewis, when there isn’t a match to protect you from the blow?’
Fiona cast her mind back over the six months that had just elapsed, and looked on the labyrinth that was Lewis McLair’s life: paths he had taken and others rejected in an attempt to find his salvation - to realise who he truly was and where his destiny ultimately lay.
‘Was it a mistake?’ she wondered. ‘It didn’t seem like it at first: I’d never seen Lewis so happy... and now. Well, he isn’t unhappy. It was almost a relief to him went they split up. Three months. Sooner rather than later, perhaps it was for the best - it certainly did the trick for his tennis; his ‘destiny’ is now within reach: but it’s not the ‘destiny’ that Lewis really wanted; why couldn’t Lee understand that? Perhaps he did: he understood most things. Maybe it was all part of some elaborate plan: to push Lewis to this point - for both their sakes. I wouldn’t put it past him: and if that were to be the case - what next?’
Fiona hid her concerns as Lewis glanced up then walked towards her and prepared to serve. Instead she conveyed only reassurance; just as she had done in Melbourne on the night of the final, when it looked like the match was slipping away from him.
‘Would things have been different if he’d chosen Scott that night?’ she wondered. ‘Of course; but I doubt if things would have turned out any better.’
Lewis had never spoken to her about what really went on there, when the former champion had helped out with Lewis’s coaching during the Open. But she had pieced together a fair amount by herself: guessed correctly that Scott Taylor was a closeted gay, and that he was offering Lewis a lot more than his services as a coach. But Lewis had chosen Lee, and Scott Taylor had never been seen again. She was sure that Lewis had made the right choice, even now that they had split up. He had loved Lee, and had to take the chance; he had to find out if Lee was the one.
‘Well, he’s done that;’ she thought, ‘let’s hope they’ve both found out and will leave it be. And now Lewis is alone again. Another final for him to play, and that chair will be empty: except, of course, for that bloody heather: another ghost for you to cling to, Lewis.’
***
Jim Murdoch had no such thoughts about ‘the rest’ that awaited Lewis next week; his only thoughts concerned the present and the final that awaited them all on Sunday. He smiled to himself with satisfaction as Gonzales netted another volley.
‘Lewis is taking him apart; just like he did in Melbourne,’ thought Jim. ‘Easier this time, easier on grass, easier because you know you can do it, my lad. Scott Taylor showed you the way there. Not on clay, that might never happen, but that’s the only surface where Gonzales still has the edge. But even there the edge has blunted a bit: you gave him a right old scare in Paris. Same stage: the semi-final. Christ, I never thought you’d get that far, Lewis; especially after the break up. But you just got your head down: threw yourself into it like never before. You made it your life, boy; just like I always hoped you would. Bringing Miguel in was a big help: helped us both to get through the clay court season... You just got better with each tournament once Lee had shot the crow... and not before time! I knew all along that he was no good for you... Then Paris: who would have expected that? Gonzales might have gone on to retain his title, but you ended up above him in the rankings: did enough to take over as number two. And now, here you are, boy, sailing past him again on the way to the final. Every match that you won here took you closer to Johansen: and now the Swede’s gone and lost his semi: opened the door for you. One more match, Lewis... one more win. Not only will you get your title back, the title you should never have lost in the first place... one more win and you get the top spot. Win on Sunday, Lewis... and you’re the new number one!’
Chapter 4 - The Studio Interview
As Lewis entered the studio, the camera crew started to applaud and shout out their congratulations. Samantha Allen was waiting for him, resplendent in a yellow summer suit, to match her hair and sunny disposition. They were on kissing terms now and had got to like each other over the fortnight. She always made sure to have a chat with him before each of his interviews. Made darn well sure that Lewis was briefed about the questions to be asked; she didn’t want a repeat of two years ago, when he had used one of her questions to announce that he was gay. No problem for her, she admired him for it, but it had left her speechless on national television, and that wasn’t so good for her image. Not many people had bothered, though: they had been far too stunned to take note of her. But she hadn’t been prepared, and that irked her. She had no intensions of being caught out like that again.
“Well done, Lewis,” said Samantha, as he walked over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Cheers, Samantha. How are you doing?” replied Lewis.
“I’m wonderful; as always, Lewis. And apprehensive, as always, when I’m about to go live on air with you,” she replied in return. They both knew that this was not the case. Samantha enjoyed interviewing Lewis: most of the other players on the tour were boring in comparison.
“Don’t worry; I don’t have any more bunny rabbits up my sleeve to pull out and surprise you with. Chance would be a fine thing! No, you’re safe enough. Is there anything you need to warn me about?” Lewis was equally keen on the briefing sessions before his interviews. There were too many awkward questions that could be asked: he liked to know what was coming.
“Not really. It will be the usual stuff about the match, the final, and of course the added pressure of becoming number one if you win. Is that okay?” she asked whilst flicking through her notes.
“Sure. No worries,” replied Lewis, as he quickly decided how best to respond when the questions came.
“I’d like to ask about Jim’s plans after the final. What do you think?”
“I think he’s going to Morecombe for a week. Fiona wants to go to Barbados, but Jim’s more of a kiss me quick man.”
Samantha smirked at him, relieved that Lewis was in a light hearted mood. “So I can raise it then?” she prompted.
“Yeah, there’s no story, but ask anyway.”
“And the box?”
“No story there either. There’ll be an empty seat, that’s all. But don’t ask about him... please! It’s over... and it’s private, that’s all I’ve got to say, and all I’ll ever say. You know that.”
This time she smiled, conveying her sympathy as she did so. She knew all about his suppressed pain, as did most of the country: the tabloids had given them endless speculative updates, but no quotes from Lewis other than the one he had just repeated. “Okay, but I can mention the box, yes?”
“If you must. What’s your angle?” asked Lewis, feeling slightly on edge.
“There’s been a lot of fan mail coming in... People offering to sit in the box and make it the perfect day for you. I’ll keep it light, I promise.”
“Sure, let’s have a laugh about it.”
“Thanks. Take a seat. We’ll be on in two minutes.”
Two minutes later, Lewis commenced his next performance of the day. These ones still didn’t come naturally to him, but they had got easier. His run of wins during the course of the year had given him plenty of scope for practice.
They covered the match and the significance of Johansen’s loss earlier in the day. Lewis explained that he would have preferred a different result. He wanted to get to number one, but not here, where winning the title was all he really wanted to think about: it was an added pressure which he would have sooner avoided. But it wasn’t the case, so he told the viewers that he would try to put it aside, and then think about what was, or could have been, after the match. Winning the title again was more important to him than becoming number one. It was his title, and he wanted it back. He would happily sacrifice the number one slot if it meant he got his hands on the trophy again.
The trickier questions came next.
“Of course if you do win again, Lewis, it would also mean that Jim Murdoch achieves his ambition: to take a player all the way from being a novice to the top of the rankings. Very few coaches have ever done that. Do you think that he might decide to call it a day then?” Samantha sat back and waited on the answer, wishing that she had phrased the question differently and allowed Lewis to repeat the Morecombe retort. That would have got a laugh around the country, but she didn’t worry. There was still plenty of time for a laugh.
“I seriously hope that Jim realises his ambition. It’s mine as well. If I ever get to number one, then that’ll be fantastic... but the true number one player, is the man who’s there at the end of the year, not some flash in the pan for a day or so. And that’s what I’ll be telling Jim Murdoch. So he doesn’t get the feather in his cap until then. We’ll see after that what he thinks. No changes on the horizon, though: not as far as I can see.”
“Okay, Lewis,” said Samantha, as she braced herself for the final topic, the topic that everyone wanted to hear about. “You know I have to ask it... Hopefully champion again on Sunday, and number one as well. Would that not be enough to make it the perfect day for you?”
Lewis smiled at the camera, remembering the time two years ago when a similar question had been asked, and he had shocked the world by giving his answer: the perfect day needed the perfect man, and one day he would meet that man and reach another final: then this perfect man could watch from the box and that would make things perfect; even if he lost.
“It’s never going to go away, is it: Lewis McLair and his perfect day? The crowds have being singing it to me for the past two weeks: the Lou Reed song. I think it’s really funny: takes the stuffiness out of the place a bit. I love the stuffiness, though, don’t get me wrong. Wimbledon’s the bee’s knees. My home tournament and the one that means the most... I’m avoiding the question, aren’t I? Maybe I should do a cover version and be done with it. People would really get sick of it then.”
He smiled at Samantha then lowered his eyes as memories stung for a few moments. The studio lights bore down on him along with millions of eyes through the lens of a camera: he looked back seeking only one pair and at last gave his answer to only one man.
“No... It won’t be perfect, and I’m probably running out of finals to make it so, but that’s life. I’m not complaining.”
The autocue rolled, but it was a few seconds before Samantha continued: Lewis’s eyes as he had raised them gave her cause to doubt if this final section was such a good idea. But continue she did, Lewis had been briefed after all and had given his consent. “Well, we’ve had quite a number of e-mails and letters here at the BBC. Over ten thousand have been sent in; mainly from men, but a few women as well, who would love to help you out and sit in the box and watch.”
“That’s nice. I don’t suppose Brad Pitt was one of them by any chance?” laughed Lewis as he warmed to the banter and tried to make light of it all; tried to show him that he had moved on.
“Afraid not,” replied Samantha, feeling more relaxed again. “But there are a few celebrities on the list.”
“Like who?” asked Lewis leaning back in his chair.
“Julian Starr, the comedian; and the singer, Shaun Duffy.”
“What, the guy from the Irish boy band?” laughed Lewis again, he was relaxing himself, and starting to enjoy this.
“Yes.”
“Too pretty. Anybody else?”
“Robbie Trindall.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He plays Danny in Victoria Square.”
“Oh yeah, I know who you mean now: too short. Fussy, aren’t I? Come on, there must be a hunk on that list somewhere.”
“Gavin Strang. What about him?”
Lewis jerked forward and gazed at her in astonishment: carried away by the moment, he blurted out his reply before taking the time to check it. “The big dour Scotsman from House Enemies? You’re kidding me!”
“No.”
“Well, that’s settled then,” he continued, slapping his hand down on the table in front of him, getting totally lost in his performance and forgetting that there was more than one pair of eyes that would be watching. “I know that nobody else seemed to like him on the show, but I was totally gutted when he got voted out. No, that will do very nicely,” added Lewis with a grin. “If Gavin Strang seriously wants to come and watch me on Sunday, then he’s more than welcome... Samantha, what’s up? You’ve gone all quiet again. I’m just having a laugh you know: like we said we would.”
Samantha Allen was struggling to control herself. Opening her mouth in an attempt to speak was not on the cards. Guffaws of laughter would have exploded out in place of the words. She would give Lewis a kick for this after the interview; and herself as well for not being thorough enough, again, with the briefing. Lewis wasn’t helping matters either as he continued to stare at her with a cheesy grin, but at least he kept things rolling whilst she tried to get a grip.
Lewis turned his look away from Samantha and remembering his wider audience, smiled directly into the camera. “For all the viewers out there: I know you can’t see her; I’ve seen these interviews myself on telly, so I know you can’t see her, which is a bit of a shame; because she’s creasing herself laughing at the moment. Aren’t you, Samantha? Come on, girl: pull yourself together. I can’t ad lib here for much longer.”
“Lewis, you did it again,” she spluttered. “I think we should end this now: best of luck on Sunday.”
Lewis started with mock affront. “What do you mean by that exactly? He probably won’t come along.”
Samantha was crying now, “With the match!”
“Oh, yeah, of course... Thanks... Gavin Strang, eh? Now that would be perfect!”
Chapter 5 - Gavin Strang
Gavin Strang had barricaded himself into his flat in Edinburgh; his telephone was off the hook and his mobile was turned off. He had spent the past hour pacing the floor of his living room, three strides was all that it afforded him, as he cursed Jilly McPhee: cursed the nerve of the woman; to have done this without his permission.
Six weeks had passed since Gavin had been evicted from House Enemies, and his life was just getting back to something which vaguely resembled normality. People didn’t accost him in the street so often or call out catty remarks at his back; given the size of him, not many dared say anything to his face. He was glad that all the fuss had died down, but the appearances had died down as well, and the money that went with them; that wasn’t so good, even though he hated doing them. He was never that popular in the first place, but now that the country’s favourites had joined him on the outside, they were getting all the attention - and all the money.
He had done fairly well out of it, considering: almost sixty thousand in the bank from the appearances and magazine articles; a bit of advertising as well, so no complaints there. It was a hell of a break, one of several in his life, but it hadn’t set him up for life in the way that he’d hoped.
Jilly McPhee had called him a few weeks ago and told Gavin that he needed to get back into the public consciousness. Jilly had taken him on before he had gone into the house, and had been as good as her word in finding him the work once he had been evicted. The offers were lined up nicely and the cash started to roll in.
“Shame you came across as such a miserable git, though, Gavin,” she had said to him, shortly after his eviction. “I told you to camp it up a bit. Jolly queens are much more marketable than bitter ones.”
But it had blown his mind being cooped up in there after the first couple of weeks. He quickly got bored with all the fake joviality and acting up for the cameras: he withdrew into himself. Having a screaming shouting match with the Irish fairy who eventually won didn’t help matters along either. He was up for eviction the following day, and packing his bags at the end of the week. Bang went the prize money, and pop went the poppy: the real poppy that he hoped to have made - if the public had actually liked him.
“I’ve got a few ideas to get you back into the limelight,” Jilly had said to him last week. “Hopefully one of them will come up trumps. If not, then I’m afraid I’m going to struggle with you, petal.”
“Well, she’s certainly got me back in the limelight,” Gavin muttered to himself. He had been hounded within minutes of McLair leaving the studio. He had found it funny, though. Even now his muffled ranting at Jilly McPhee was interspersed with the odd titter. He could still hear the cameramen cracking up in the background as they wound things up. He reckoned that anybody who had been watching would have found it hilarious; except of course, if you just happened to be Gavin Strang.
The first call he had received was from The Daily Star, who offered him fifty grand on the spot for an exclusive on the big day. Gavin slammed the phone down on them without giving an answer. He knew that they would ring back, or that Jilly would follow it up; that’s if he decided to go for it. He had been screening the calls ever since through his answering machine, as he tried to come to grips with what this meant: what it could mean to him. It was only when he heard Davy Wallace’s voice that he picked up the phone and answered: he seriously needed some guidance.
“Well now, you big hunk of meat: Lewis McLair has got a lot of Scottish in him, but it sounds like he’s after a fair bit more. Fucking hell, man; you did see it, yeah?” Davy asked.
“Aye; almost choked myself on a McEwan’s when she read out my name. That Jilly McPhee set me up like a kipper. I had no idea, man,” he replied at last giving his carpet a break by slouching down into an armchair with the portable handset.
“So what are you going to do? You’ve got to go through with it.”
“I’ve just been offered fifty grand from The Star.”
“For what, exactly?” was Davy’s brisk response.
Gavin hesitated for a moment before answering: it was one of the questions that he had been toying with over the past hour. “Just my version of the match: what it was like being the man in the box,” he replied, though he seriously doubted that that was what they were really after.
“Take it, then! And the rest. This is a lot bigger than House Enemies. You’ve turned out the real winner, after all. Go for it.”
“What - turn up for the money?”
“You could turn up for Lewis McLair as well, you old poofter. Give the boy a bit of support; he deserves it after all he’s been through. I’d be down there like a shot, and sod the money; but sadly, even if he had seen me on the telly, there would be no chance of an offer. But he’s made the offer to you; though Christ knows why? What does he see in a sandy haired navvy that’s all brawn and no fucking brain? Well, listen, Gavin, I’m going to lend you a few cells for the weekend; now once we’re finished, get on the phone to Titty McPhee, then get yourself on the next plane to London. All expenses paid.”
“No. I’ll not take his money. That’s if I do go. I’m no rent boy.”
“Don’t be so daft. Lewis knows the score. He’s done it for a laugh; and it was one hell of a laugh. I was pishing myself: I still am every time I think about it... He’s invited you to the match, that’s all. So take him up on it, and do it for a laugh as well. It’s your big chance: take it,” Davy urged him.
“I’ll think about it. He was probably only joking anyway,” Gavin replied, hoping for some reassurance to the contrary.
“Of course he was joking. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? But joke or no joke, he said it, and Lewis McLair doesn’t strike me as the sort of lad to take something back once he’s said it.”
“Do you think he was serious, though, you know, about liking me on the show?” asked Gavin, raising the other question which had been preoccupying his mind.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Gavin: get real. What the hell’s going on in your head, boy? You’re being brought in as a last minute substitute, nothing more; somebody to help him through the day, help him to win again and make us all proud to be deviant Jocks. So go down there by all means, for a laugh, the way it was intended, and use the publicity to earn yourself a few quid - in an honest way. But if your idea is to go down there and shag him and then take the money, from The Star, or whoever else is offering for that sort of story... well, that would be one hell of a trick to turn. You don’t need to sell yourself that way, Gavin; you never did. And don’t sell out the people who care about you either; and care about Lewis for that matter, so think on. There are more important things at the end of the day than some easy cash.”
“Aye, I know, Davy... How’s Margaret?”
“Not so clever. They say it’s too risky to operate, her heart wouldn’t cope; so we just have to hope she responds to the medication.”
“Aye, Davy, you told me. How’s it looking, though?”
“Too early to say, but...”
“I wish there was something I could do. You’ll tell her I was asking after her, won’t you? Is Ewan still there?”
“Aye, he’ll stay till it’s over, or... some miracle happens. Summer in Glasgow, eh? Oh, well.”
“I’ll try and come over soon and see her again.”
“She’ll see you on Sunday, okay? On the telly: there’ll be two reasons now for her to tune in. God, the neighbours are never going to hear the end of this... Oh, and will you try and put a smile on your face this time, Gavin?”
“Aye, right you are, Davy.”
He had known that Davy Wallace would show him the way and tell him what to do: he had told him years ago.
Gavin and Davy had met through unusual circumstances. Nine years before, towards the end of June: the result of an episode in Gavin’s life which was to dramatically change the direction he took. His drunken father had stumbled upon Gavin having sex with a man; he thrashed him to within an inch of his life then stomped out the house telling him to be gone by the time he got back.
His mother discovered him an hour later. Gavin told his mother what had happened and asked her where he should go. There was no way he was going to stay here: enough was enough.
Hospital was the answer she should have given, but she dared not get the authorities involved. Afraid to call an ambulance, Gavin’s mother called the only person she knew who was likely to help: she called Margaret Wallace whose son was openly gay.
Davy came round an hour later and took Gavin away. He left him at his mother’s house where she tended to his wounds. Davy returned a few days later to check the young lad out. Not in the way that most other older gay blokes would have wanted to check him out; he wanted to see what his mother was letting herself in for if she agreed to the request to take Gavin in.
Gavin was wary of him at first: wary of what he assumed he must be after; but not too wary. He liked the look of Davy Wallace straight away, and he was easy to talk to; he understood him. Never told him what to do; he just encouraged him to think about a few things. By the end of the visit, Gavin had agreed to go to college after the holidays, do his exams and get the qualifications he needed. Davy visited every week, to see his mother, naturally, but he spent the majority of the time talking to Gavin, not to her. Gavin never realised it at the time, but the weekly visits had also brought the cash that was used to support him: his own family gave nothing. Davy paid for everything; his food, clothes, college fees and books, put a few quid in his pocket so he could indulge in some sports; and even took him out for the odd night on the town. He put Gavin through college and took him out of the Gorbels and set him on a road to a better life.
Once Gavin left college, he left Margaret as well; though they remained an integral part of each others lives. There was a debt there, which he would probably never now be able to repay: being true to himself and the values that would be her legacy was all that he could offer - all that she would have wanted anyway.
It was natural that he moved in with Davy: he had wanted to do so right from the start, but Davy had refused, saying that his lifestyle was not one that a teenager should be part of, especially one with studying to do; so Gavin had to wait until he had graduated and had found himself a job.
The job came, but Gavin hated it, working in an office in front of a computer screen wasn’t really for him. He hid it well at first, but Davy saw through him, and then he helped him again. He made Gavin quit and paid for him to return to college, this time to get onto the Register of Exercise Professionals and gave him his simple wish of becoming a personal trainer.
And it was natural that Gavin made the offer and tried to get Davy into bed. He didn’t offer because of the support he was receiving, appreciate it as he did, and obliged as he felt. He wasn’t trying to snare himself a rich man - and Davy Wallace was rich, certainly in the eyes of Gavin Strang, who had been dragged up in a Gorbels tenement. No, it wasn’t for the money; it was for the man himself: the only man who had even knocked him back. Knocked him back, because he thought it was for the wrong reason.
“I’m helping you out because I’m your friend, Gavin,” he had said to him. It was the closest he had ever got to shouting at him.
Gavin had followed Davy into his room one night, and made the clumsy offer that everyone else had been happy to accept, having finally plucked up the courage to do so, after months of longing.
“Just accept it: I don’t expect anything in return, and certainly not that. What would I want with you anyway? You’re as ugly as sin, and all that meat you’re piling on at the gym, rolling about on top of me, or under me; I’m quite versatile you know. But that’s as much as you’ll ever know... I can’t... Not with you. So just leave it, Gavin. Take what’s given when it’s given freely, and recognise the difference when it’s given with a motive. But don’t sell yourself, Gavin, no matter what the price.”
He had felt too embarrassed to protest: to try to explain that Davy was getting things wrong. He felt cheap and rejected in a way, but he knew that rejection wasn’t Davy’s aim: quite the opposite in fact. He wanted to leave, but there was nowhere for him to go, and Davy just got on with things, pretended that it had never happened. So he stayed with him: stayed for four years; four outwardly fun years riddled with inner torment, as he turned from a boy into a man. A decent man on the whole: even if he said so himself. He had Margaret and Davy Wallace to thank for that. And he had Davy Wallace to thank now for helping him again, telling him what to do, reminding him of who he was.
He would go to London and watch Lewis McLair, just like he had watched him over the past two years. But no money would change hands for the pleasure he would have in seeing him in the flesh. He would take no money from The Star, or any other rag that might want his story; and he would take no money from Lewis McLair either, for this last minute substitution and the support he would happily give him.
It was time to call Jilly McPhee.
Chapter 6 - Jilly McPhee
“Gavin!’ screeched Jilly. ‘What the hell are you playing at? I’ve been trying to get through for hours now. You won’t believe the reaction I’m getting from the press. We can make a fortune out of this, petal.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? A bit of warning would have been nice,” he snapped in reply.
“Calm down, petal there’s no need to take that tone with me. I offered to go over my ideas with you, but you said you weren’t interested. Just get on with it: that’s what you said, petal, and that’s what I did. Never thought for a second it would work. I was just pleased when they agreed to mention your name. Who would have thought that he would have reacted that way? He likes the big dour Scotsman. I can work on that... Shit, Gavin, you’re going to be the man! The man in the box. The perfect man making the perfect day... The Star was a bit miffed that you hung up on them, but it’s worked out well. They’ve upped the offer to 60k.”
“I’m not selling the story. I’ll go along to the match, that’s if he’s serious about it, but no story. The papers can make their own one up, but I’m not giving them mine.”
“Very noble, Gavin: and really stupid. If you play your cards right, you could make twice the money out of this one story than you’ve made from everything else so far. It’s the story that everyone wants. The media have been all over Lewis McLair since he got caught with his pants down in Sydney and then took up with that porn peddler, Porter. The guy was a total arsehole if you ask me, but he certainly knew how to milk the McLair success. He’s set this one up for you, Gavin: Lewis McLair’s perfect day - the Wimbledon final where the perfect man would be there to watch him, making it perfect, win or lose. A load of bollocks, but people are hooked, so who cares? Then the bam head walked away from it all before he could cash in. The media love Lewis now. They might write a load of tosh about him, but they write about him endlessly. Everybody’s been waiting for this day. They knew Lewis was gutted over Porter, but nobody really liked him; bit of an arrogant twat. They wanted Lewis to find the man, the real one, and for him to be there at the final. This has been six months in the making. People want the story, Gavin: your story.”
“Well, they’re not getting it.”
Jilly wasn’t going to give up so easily; it was her commission that was being passed up here as well. “I’m sure Lewis wouldn’t object too much: he seems to take it all in his stride nowadays... Are you going to try it on with him? Now that would really make his day perfect, and half the country’s as well, sad bastards. He might like a bit of rough. You really would get a fortune for that one, petal.”
“I don’t think you’re listening to me, are you? Now get this into your thick skull, there’ll be no story from me in the press, or anywhere else. And you make that clear to whoever you speak to. There’ll be enough stories getting written anyway, there always are where Lewis McLair is concerned. Take advantage of the publicity, more appearances and things like that, but no stories. Have you got that?”
“Okay, Gavin. Have it your own way.”
“Right. It’s probably not on anyway. Have you checked?” he asked trying to sound indifferent.
“I called his agents. They were a bit off hand with me, snooty southerners, but they had to listen. They haven’t spoken to Lewis yet; should do shortly. But they reckon he would be unlikely to withdraw the offer now that it’s been made. I’m expecting a call back from them within the hour, so don’t take the phone off the hook again, Gavin. I’ll call you later tonight with a bit of luck, and confirm all the arrangements.”
“Aye, right. Let me know what he says.”
“Oh, Gavin. Can you sing?”
“Don’t even think about it, Jilly!”
Chapter 7 - Thanks for Asking
In the house they had rented overlooking Wimbledon Common, Jim and Lewis were sitting in the lounge, winding up the post match debriefing. Jim was an old hand at keeping things in perspective and was putting on a good show as he nit picked over a few minor blemishes in an otherwise flawless performance. For the first time, Lewis would go into a Grand Slam final as the favourite - it was essential that Jim kept things on the level: not let the lad get too carried away with himself and allow complacency to deny him at the crunch. He had already made one major mistake which could easily blow up in their faces; and it was that studio performance, much more than anything that had happened on court, that needed to be addressed. What Lewis did in his private life was his own business, but when it impacted on his tennis, then Jim Murdoch would have his say.
“Christ, Lewis. Why did you have to go and blurt out something like that? There’s going to be enough to think about, especially now that Johansen has lost.”
“It’ll give them something else to fuss over. I thought it was funny,” replied Lewis, chuckling as he sunk back into his armchair.
“Oh, aye; you would. Bloody hilarious it was. It’ll be even more hilarious if he actually takes it seriously: another chancer turning up to a big final.”
The chuckling came to an abrupt halt and Lewis stiffened at the reference. “You can take that back, Jim,” he snapped. “I won’t have a bad word said against Lee, and you know nothing about this guy.”
“Neither do you,” said Jim staring at him intently.
“That’s as may be. But all he’ll be doing is sitting in the box, that’s if he comes.”
“Of course he’ll come. Then spend the next few weeks broadcasting it to all and sundry.”
“That’s up to him. It’ll be the same match that he watches as everybody else, so I can’t see what would be so interesting for anybody.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s the match that they’d be interested in, Lewis; so you mind what you’re doing.”
It was at this moment that the telephone rang. Fiona took the call.
“...I’ll just ask him. Hold on a minute,” she said after a few moments. “Lewis, it’s your management agents. Gavin Strang’s agent has contacted them wanting to know if you were serious about the offer. Gavin would be happy to come along apparently. She wants to know the plan, that’s if the offer is still open.”
Lewis leaned back again as he considered the situation for a few moments. It was the first time he had actually done so with any degree of seriousness. He had tried to put it out of his mind; put Gavin Strang out of his mind; Jim was right, though Lewis would never admit it to him: there were too many other things to think about. But now it had to be addressed, and he could see only one way forward: wanted only one way forward.
“Tell them to cut out the middle men, Fiona. If Gavin Strang wants to attend the match, then of course the offer is still there. I’ll make the arrangements with him myself. They can pass on the landline number to him, via whoever they like, and he can give me a call, that’s if he doesn’t mind. I owe the guy an apology. I bet he’s getting hounded right now. They can let him know that I’d like to say sorry... and that I’d like him to watch the match from the box.”
Fiona passed on the message, which remarkably survived the Chinese whispers and reached Gavin Strang thirty minutes later. It was a further hour of carpet pacing before he plucked up the courage to dial the number and asked Fiona Murdoch if he could speak to Mr. McLair.