Tigerland (12 page)

I jumped off the couch and started banging around in the freezer to find the coffee. “What reasonable
business
offers?”

Dec joined me in the kitchen, sitting at the counter. “He already has interviews lined up. Plus they’re talking about a book deal.”

“A book deal?” As I fumbled with the coffee tin, the lid flew off and a fine spray of coffee spilled across the counter. “Fuck.”

“Calm down,” Dec said, reaching over to grab the sponge and wipe up the spillage. “It’s not like you to waste your most precious natural resource.”

I wasn’t finding much of anything funny at the moment, but I took his gentle admonishment and started making the coffee in a more rational state of being. “Did you tell him
you
turned down a book deal? Because you’re not an attention whore?”

“I didn’t say it quite that way, no. But I told him that wasn’t my way.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he wasn’t me.”

“That’s the one thing he got right.”

Dec bit at his fingernail. He was watching me anxiously, and that in turn made me nervous. “He also said that he would be writing about us. When we were together.”

“You and me? How can he, I mean—”

“No, him and me.”

I couldn’t explode on him—he needed me to be calm. I filled the coffee machine at the sink, and was calmed a little at the first sound of steaming water hitting the grounds and the heavenly aroma that followed. “And?”

“And what? It’s not like I can stop him.”

I set the mugs a little too sharply on the counter. “Dec, you’ve got to
stop
being the good guy. He’s being a prick—just like he always was with you. What the hell did you ever see in him in the first place?”

I regretted it as soon as I said it, but it was too late to take it back. Declan’s calm veneer snapped. It happened so rarely that it always really shocked me.

“Because I was lonely!” he yelled. “And I didn’t know anybody else back then who was queer!”

I had never heard him say anything like
that
before. I was still trying to process his admission, so full of pain, while he fled to the balcony. The coffee was now ready, but I let it sit and followed Dec outside. He was leaning on the railing, staring down at the water. There was a bitter wind blowing off the water, and although he was trying to hide it, he looked cold. I hugged him from behind and rested my chin on his shoulder. His hand closed over mine.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “It wouldn’t have been easy.”

“It was my own fault. It was my choice, what I decided to do.”

“It’s not your
fault,
” I said. “There’s no fault in it. It’s just the way it is for us. We all have to find different ways to survive at times, and some people have it harder than others.”

And who the fuck was I to judge? I had it so much easier than others I knew. All I had were my own self-esteem issues, a few homophobic run-ins with strangers, and some familial discomfort which had lessened over the years. Dec had all that, plus the pressures of a life in the public eye, in a sport known for its extreme masculinity and rejection of those who differed from “the norm.”

“It’s not a points system,” Dec said.

“And I think you’re too hard on yourself sometimes.”

“Uh huh.”

“Actually, I think you’re too hard on yourself a hell of a lot of the time.”

“It’s just here I go again, dragging us through crap.”

That was enough. I pulled him around to face me. “Stop that. You’re not doing anything. Heyward is. You’re just being dragged along for the ride.”

“And you, by default. And I love how you can’t even bring yourself to say his first name.”

Was I Voldemort-ing the evil ex? “Fine,
Greg
. There, I said it. Greg, Greg, Greg.”

It kind of felt like yelling into an oncoming storm.

“Feel better?” Dec asked, grinning slightly.

“Not really.”

“Just one thing. Maybe stick to calling him Heyward. You calling his name like that was creepy.”

It
felt
creepy. “Deal.”

He pulled me in closer. “We’ll get through this, right?”

I hated hearing that slight glimmer of doubt in his voice. “Of course we will. It’ll be just like old times, really.”

“You might even get to catch up with Jasper Brunswick again.”

“Ugh, that’s even worse. And don’t say his name. He’s like Bloody Mary. Say it, and he’ll appear.”

“I think I’d rather deal with Bloody Mary,” Dec said.

“Me too. So let’s not bring my nemesis into this.”

“You’re building up quite a number of nemeses,” Dec teased.

“I always did,” I said.

And it was growing longer with each passing minute.

I
KNEW
there was more that had to be said, and more about Dec’s meeting with Heyward that had to be revealed, but Dec and I let ourselves forget about that for one night as we reminded each other that we were the most important thing to protect, celebrate, and fight for.

Unfortunately, the sun rose in the morning, and work had to be attended. It was going to be a long day, because
QueerSports
ran live that evening. Sometimes Dec swung by to watch and come home with me, and I had to admit I was torn today over whether I wanted him to or not. I wanted him there for me, just as he wanted me at the studio when he had to go on his footy show, but I also knew the great majority of the show tonight would be about Heyward, and Dec’s presence would likely overexcite everybody.

The lift doors had barely opened before Coby came running up to me. “You’re never going to believe this!”

My ability to believe strange things had been stretched beyond normal parameters recently, so I shrugged.

“Seriously, guess!”

“I don’t know, Coby. Just tell me.”

“Guess!” He was bouncing up and down, clapping his hands.

“We actually didn’t realise Heyward’s press conference was on April Fool’s Day, and it was all a stunt for charity?”

I could dream, couldn’t I?

“Guess who I just took a call from?” He didn’t even bother dignifying my wish with a response.

“That guy from the Hudsons on the corner you’ve been obsessed with?” I pushed past him and finally made it into my office.

Coby was right behind me, and looked disappointed. “No. And thanks for reminding me.”

“Coby, you’re dealing with a man on the brink who hasn’t even had his third cup of coffee for a day. Spill it, or I’ll spill your guts. Literally.”

“You’re not a morning person.”

“I’ll count to three. One—”

Coby wouldn’t risk getting blood on his Gaultier jeans. “Darren Fiord.”

“Fiord? What the fuck is Heyward’s manager doing calling us?”

“He wants to appear on
QueerSports
next week.”

I went to sit down on my chair and completely missed it. As I fell heavily to the floor, Coby rushed over.

“Are you okay?”

I stared up at him. “I’m fine. I may just stay down here a while.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be happy, but I didn’t think you would take it that bad.”

“I’m
fine
,” I said, although my butt begged to differ. “I’m just unco this morning.”

“This morning?” Coby asked, offering me a hand up.

I dusted myself off and tried to sit in my chair properly, with as much dignity as I could muster. I think my coccyx was bruised. “So, what did you say?”

“That he would have to speak to you.”

“Heyward?” I asked, panicked.

“No, Fiord. Although yes, at some point you’ll have to speak to Greg.”

Greg?
Were they on a first name basis now?

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” Coby said patiently, “you’re the
producer
.”

“Yes,” I said to myself, “yes, I am. I
produce
.”

“Did you hit your head on the way down?”

“No.”

“Well, you know the talent. They always want to meet the producers beforehand.”

The
talent
. I wanted to scoff at that, but I was trying to maintain some dignity. What remained of it, anyway. “Probably wants a cakewalk of an interview. Don’t ask me this. Don’t ask me that. Make sure you ask me whether I help little old ladies with their shopping bags.”

Coby pursed his lips. “You know, I’m thinking maybe you should take a week’s leave.”

On top of everything else, was my assistant trying to usurp me? I shifted my butt on the chair a little to try and relieve it, and said coolly and collectively, “I don’t think that will be necessary. Are you questioning my professionalism?”

“Of course not,” Coby said hurriedly.

“Do you think you’re Worf to my Picard, and want to have me removed in an act of mutiny?”

“I don’t get the reference,” Coby said, reminding me once again there were ten years and a world of geeky pop culture between us.

“Get out.”

That wasn’t like me either. Ordering people around never came easy to me, but I was able to slip into the act this morning. It gave me such a better mask to hide behind.

C
OBY
did his best to avoid direct contact with me for the rest of the day, although being my assistant that wasn’t something he could do easily. He finally approached me after lunch, and after clearing his throat with temerity, he said, “I don’t think you being a bitchy boss is conducive to an effective working relationship.”

“Really? It seems to be making you work harder. Probably because you’re not popping in here every five minutes to annoy me.”

Coby flung himself into the chair across from me. “Wow, you can be mean sometimes.”

“That’s what a boss is meant to be.”

“Yeah, but not you. You’re
Simon
. You’re different. You get the job done without being a prick.”

I glared at him, trying to figure out his game.

“I know you’re stressed about Greg—”

There he goes with that first name bullshit again!
Even though Dec had tried to make me say it, it didn’t feel right on my tongue. Coby said it with an overeager familiarity, despite the fact they had never met.

“—but you’re going to have to cross that bridge, set it on fire, and burn it down behind you.”

“Thanks for the talk, Coby. See yourself out.”

“Okay, Miranda Priestley.”

He didn’t get
Star Trek
, but he could come out with a pithy
Devil Wears Prada
comeback? He wasn’t just a tent; he was also a camp oven and portable toilet.

As much as I would have liked to feel sorry for myself all day, I didn’t really have the time. With the guys from the
QueerSports
panel arriving just after two for a preproduction meeting before having to go into makeup and wardrobe, I was bolting down a quick dinner on the run and it was suddenly six o’clock.

Dec arrived a little after seven, when the sorry excuse for our set was being put into lockdown. He must have found it amusing, coming from the slick professionalism of the Docklands studios to ours, where everything looked like it had come from a high school theatre arts prop room twenty years ago, but he never said a word. I think, strangely enough, he found it charming despite its faults. Even I had noticed there was camaraderie amongst our crew that was missing whenever I visited Dec on his shows. Everybody was
so
professional and focused on their jobs they forgot to have fun;
fun
was apparently what the talent did in front of the camera.

Tonight, however, there was more of a buzz when Dec entered. When I had first started at CTV, I was a novelty precisely because of my partnership. Dec’s first time in the office and the studio sent my colleagues into a strained apoplexy. Although not as bad today, it was still in the atmosphere.

And Dec sensed it. “Something going on?”

I killed the Bluetooth on the side of my head so I couldn’t be heard by any of the crew. “I have something to tell you.”

He groaned. “There’s a sentence that never starts well.”