Their rapprochement had begun after that day in Clarence House. Nick and Freddie had stayed in that room for some time, and when they’d emerged—Nick first, then Freddie five minutes later—we’d all left separately, Nick and me to our place and Freddie and Daphne back to his. I waited until we were home, and let Nick take half an hour to decompress on the couch before I even ventured into his office. He was still lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling, a small smile playing at his lips.
“How’s it going?” I asked, peeking in and wiggling a can of lager I’d grabbed from the kitchen. “Want me to leave you alone a bit longer?”
“Never,” he said, sitting up. “Oooh, just what the doctor ordered.” He popped open the can and slurped at the eruption of foam. “I’m sure you’re wondering what was said.”
“Meh.” I shrugged.
He grinned and took another deep sip. “Good, because the answer is, nothing.”
“Bullshit,” I said, flopping down next to him on the sofa.
“Not at all,” he said. “That’s the thing.” He shook his head slowly. “You saw me hug him, and you saw him cry. We stood like that for a while, and then he sat back down to blow his nose, so I took the interviewer’s chair opposite him and we…I don’t know, just sort of stayed like that. I couldn’t even tell you how long we sat there. And then we both somehow knew when it was time to get up and leave.”
“You seriously didn’t say anything?” I asked. “Freddie went that long without speaking?”
Nick nodded. “Shocking, I know,” he said. “I kept thinking, I wish I knew what to say, I should think of something to say, and then in the middle of all that I realized I already knew what he needed.” His eyes turned moist. “To know that we still have that ability to be a comfort to each other, just by being in the same room.…” Nick swigged his beer and let out a happy sigh. “For the first time since we had words that Thanksgiving, I feel optimistic,” he said. “The great irony being that today we didn’t use words at all. Now let’s get you one of these beers. I don’t like day-drinking alone and I shall need at least one more.”
He and Freddie started rebuilding: a billiard game here, a chat about cricket there. The next week, Freddie hitched a ride with us to a Conclave rather than go it alone, and when he agreed to do a charity polo match in part to curry favor after shorting the interview—pictures of him on horseback always rated well—Nick popped some allergy meds and joined him. Nick then invited Freddie to a session with Dr. Kep, and the three of us even snuck out one night (sans wigs, but in low-pulled hats and unremarkable clothes) for dinner at Bumpkin, a cozy South Kensington gastropub that we knew would seat us in a corner and let us be. We split a sticky toffee pudding and a bottle of red, laughed about Cousin Nigel’s new girlfriend—a terrifying thirtysomething socialite by the absurd name of Prunella Packham Packham Packham—and generally kept it as light as possible.
But this was the first time Freddie had come back into our house for a purely social call. Over the last few weeks, I’d gotten the impression that, as much as things seemed to be moving in a positive direction, he’d been reluctant to revisit the scene of his and Nick’s most emotional bloodletting, and I couldn’t blame him. So I stacked the deck with our best friends. Gemma was perched on Bea’s lap nibbling on some grapes, Lacey was curled up with her back against Olly’s chest as he absently rubbed her arm, and Nick was cooing at Danny. It was bittersweet to see him so besotted.
“Look at all of you,” Freddie said, reaching down to squeeze the baby’s bare left foot. “Happy families. It’s bloody heartwarming.”
“Been a spell since we’ve all been in the same room, eh?” Gaz said, wrapping an arm around Cilla and surveying the room with an almost paternal pride. “It’s like old times.”
As he said this, Danny stirred and started to mewl.
“Right you are, mate, it is like old times,” Nick said, grinning at Gaz. “Except usually it’s you doing the sobbing.” He clucked at Danny until he settled down, and then squinted at the table. “Is this cracker purple?”
“It’s aubergine flavored,” Gaz said. “All my crackers are based on the mighty nightshade. Those pink ones are tomatoes, those darker pink ones are chili peppers, and those pale thingies over there are potato crackers and I’m worried they’re a little bland.” He bit on his thumbnail. “We start filming Ready, Set, Bake next month, and that’s the first challenge.”
“You’ll be awesome,” I reassured him.
A flush ran up Gaz’s entire face. “I do not know how you lot do it,” he said. “They put the cast photos up online yesterday and I spent six hours reading things people said about my face. Some of them were lovely, but one person said he thought I looked like a bloke who would have fat fingers, and now every time I look at my fingers, I wonder how I can possibly move them when they’re so fat.”
“Garamond,” Freddie said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That is the first lesson: Do not ever read the comments. Someone on the Daily Mail website said that they could see the mites that live in my beard, and I itch every time I think about it.”
“Remember the person who went on that massive tweet-storm about how a fascinator I wore was insufficiently respectful to military veterans?” I asked.
Next to me, Bea snorted. “Her suggestion was a mantilla. People would have thought you’d lost your mind.”
“The last time I left the house, a blogger wrote an entire article about how my casual trousers are too wide,” Nick added. “She used a lot of caps lock.”
“They were
