by Feliz Faber
Funny how baring his soul to this man he’d only met a few days ago didn’t feel uncomfortable. Much, at least.
When they turned onto the tree-canopied country road that led to La Thillaye’s gates, Louis resumed talking.
“When I first met Francis, he was a skinny kid who’d just figured out he fancied boys and was shaken to the core by that notion. Scared to death about anybody finding out. You wouldn’t believe it, seeing him today, would you?”
“He told me about it. Said you helped him come to terms with himself.”
Louis answered with a noncommittal grunt. The straight, empty road allowed for the occasional side-glance on Will’s part; Louis’s face gave nothing away.
“From the way he talked about you, it sounded like he had an almighty crush on you.”
Louis chuckled. “You have no idea. But that went away on its own soon enough. And once he first laid eyes on Nic, I was out of the picture anyway.”
The comment startled Will into another glance. “You say that as if— Didn’t you mind? Francis going for Nic?”
“That wasn’t what I meant, not really. See, me, I think I’ll always be something like a big brother to Francis. But Nic, he and Francis, they just clicked. Like hand in glove, don’t you say so? Too good friends to ever be lovers. Though the attraction was surely there at some point.” He snorted. “Francis’s got the same taste in men I do, obviously. I’ve met enough of his conquests over the years that I can tell. By the way, you look a bit like Nic did when I first met him.”
Will decided to leave Louis’s last statement uncommented, as he didn’t really know what to make of it. Especially since Louis mentioning Francis’s “conquests” hit a little too close to home to things he wasn’t keen on thinking about at the moment. Instead, he preferred to change the topic.
“Francis never mentioned you and Nic being friends with his parents too.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call them our friends,” Louis said. “We get along well enough, and we love to have them as our guests at La Thillaye. But my beginnings with them were… you could call them a bit rocky, I guess. Especially with his father.”
“How’s that? From what Francis told me, his father thought the world of you,” Will said distractedly as they passed the iron gates and turned into the driveway.
“That was later, once I’d earned the first win on that nag of his,” Louis said. “The first few times I rode for him, he was so cool with me as it was only just polite.”
“Because you were gay? Did he know?”
Louis shrugged. “I don’t know how he couldn’t—everybody did, after all. And I picked to pieces that trainer he’d chosen, which offended him.”
“You were right, though, or so I’ve heard.” Will slowed down to walking pace in deference to possible—if unlikely—four-legged obstacles.
“Yes, even if it took him a while to see that,” Louis replied. “The night after the Louisiana Derby, the LeBons invited me for dinner. Afterward, Francis’s father took me aside and told me, ‘Mr. Meerow, I must admit you’ve disabused me of quite a few prejudices. I of all people should’ve known better. My sincere apologies.’”
“Wow. What did you say?”
“I said, ‘I’ll accept your apology, if you’re serious about it,’ and he held out his hand and said, ‘Trust me, I’ll do my damnedest.’”
“And did he?” Will pulled into his usual spot at the back of the manor house and shut off the engine.
Louis had his door open already, but he turned back to Will once more before getting out of the car. “That, you’ll have to ask Francis.”
MME. KIM was about to leave when they entered the kitchen by the back door. She smiled at them in passing. “Salut, Louis. Monsieur Yeats, there are cold cuts and cheese in the fridge for your lunch, should you be hungry. No fresh bread, I’m afraid, but there’s some toast in the bread box. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, thank you,” Will assured her, and she smiled again and closed the door behind her.
Louis went to the fridge and pulled out a bottled water. He held it up with a questioning look, tossing Will the bottle when he nodded, and took another for himself.
“Why’d she say my lunch?” Will asked once he’d downed half his water in one go. The samples at the market had left him thirsty. “What about you?”
Louis put his bottle down. “She knows that as from today, I won’t eat lunch.” He grinned and patted his flat stomach. “I’ve let myself go some recently. Need to work off the last few days’ binge.”
About to raise his bottle again, Will stopped the movement halfway, his eyes going wide. “You’re kidding me, right? A bird couldn’t live off what I saw you eat.”
Louis shrugged, taking another sip. “I’m going to ride a race in two days. Presque Minuit carries one hundred and fifteen pounds, the max for three-year-olds. I’m currently at fifty-six kilos, which means I need to lose two until Saturday.”
Puzzled, Will did the math. “But fifty-six is, what, one hundred and twelve? You’ve got weight to spare, haven’t you?”
“If I rode naked.” Louis finished his water, screwed the cap back on, and tossed the empty bottle in the trash can under the sink. “My saddle, boots, and helmet add up to six pounds, blanket and clothing one more. Four pounds overweight that need to go.” He grinned at Will. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m sure you know the drill. Watch your carbs, exercise, hit the sauna.” He gave Will a slow, appreciative once-over, his grin turning suggestive. “Though for me, it’s about more than looking good in painted-on jeans. Unlike you city fairies.”
This was new, this provocative teasing, and it sent a totally inappropriate bout of warmth through Will’s guts. If he didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn he was being hit on. As it was, he decided to take the razzing for the obvious challenge it was.
He didn’t run five miles on the treadmill five days a week for nothing, after all.
“You call me a fairy?” He returned the scrutiny, made sure he added a leer for good measure. “Pick on someone your size, runt. I’ll outrun you any day.”
Louis’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Will was afraid he’d taken the joke too far, but then the jockey threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, I’ll make you so sorry for calling me this, you big oaf! C’mon, finish your water. Running it is.”
Will tried to talk his way out of it with the fact that he hadn’t brought any sports gear, but Louis wouldn’t take that excuse. Claiming Nic’s runners would fit Will just fine, he waved him along past the dining room and den to their private rooms, a part of the house Will hadn’t seen yet.
In Nic’s office, they walked around two big desks cluttered with papers, office machines, and computers, past shelving full of ring binders and walls plastered with framed photos and newspaper cuttings. In marked contrast, the bedroom was sparingly furnished with a king-size grand lit with nightstands, the walls painted plain blue. A big frameless photo canvas above the bed was the only decoration. While Louis started rummaging in a closet that took up the wall across from the bed, Will stepped closer to look at the picture.
It was a black and white photograph of a young man sprawled on his back across a rock against the backdrop of a sunset above the sea, his genitals almost obscenely outlined in a tiny bathing suit. The pose brought out powerful, sinewy muscles in torso and arms; glittering drops of water dotted smooth skin and hung in the lashes of closed eyes, wet strands of hair stuck to a clean-cut face and an exposed throat.
Caught by the picture’s raw sensuality, Will traced the model’s long, graceful lines with his eyes up to the sharply contrasted features—
Realization made him gasp. “Wow! This is Nic!”
“Beautiful, isn’t it? I found it when we cleared out the house and had it blown up as a birthday gift for him.” Louis came up behind Will. “He bitched at first. Said he wasn’t vain enough to hang a picture of himself in his own bedroom. But I thought it too good to gather dust in some
box.”
“That would’ve been a shame indeed,” Will said, turning. “It’s a work of art. Was it you who took it?”
“No. This was before my time, when Nic was nineteen or so. He said he can’t remember who took it, but we think it could’ve been Jéro. At one time, Jéro used to always have a camera on him.” Louis held out a pair of runners. “Do you need clothes, too?”
“Thanks. I’ll put on sweats.” Will looked at the picture again, at Nic’s graceful pose, at the young, unmarked face. “How gorgeous he was.”
“He still is.” Louis smiled fondly at the picture, then patted Will on the rump. “Go get changed! I’ll wait for you in the stable yard.”
IT TURNED out that Will had bitten off far more than he could chew, racing against a professional athlete like Louis. Still, he kept pace for the better part of their run. What advantage Louis had in endurance and nimble-footed speed, Will made up for with youth, long legs, and sheer determination. Ten miles across dirt roads, beachside residential areas, pastures, and dunes, and Will reached La Thillaye’s stable yard only a few seconds behind Louis, not sure if he should be proud or embarrassed.
“Gotcha!” Louis pumped his fist in the air as Will doubled over and panted for air. “Now who’s the runt, hein?” Louis stretched his arms above his head as he sauntered up to the back door. He’d run in thermal gear and was drenched in sweat.
Will gave in. “Okay, okay, you won.” Bending over to stretch and rub the backs of his thighs, he groused, “If that’s your kind of exercise, I wonder what you need a horse for at all.”
“Wasn’t it you who wanted to know what it’s like to be a jockey? In fact, now that you mention it….” He grinned at Will, who raised his hands in defense.
“Oh no, I won’t. No. Way.”
“Way. I won, it’s my call.”
“We never agreed on a prize,” Will protested, but Louis waved him off.
“Details, details. Besides, I said I’d make you sorry, didn’t I?”
Will shook his head and buried his face in his hands.
Louis laughed. “Riding is not so bad, I promise. I’ll even pick a nice horse for you.” He nudged Will’s ribs. “Come on, get a shower. Nic should be back soon, and you can help us with bringing the horses in.”
“What the fuck was I thinking, signing up for this?” Will muttered as he followed Louis inside.
Twelve
THE Royal Barrière’s belle époque waterfront facade was quite imposing, and the interior décor matched the exterior hoopla with lots of plush, ornate red carpets, dark wood, mirrors, and glass. Very old-world, very noble, and very much glitz and glamour. Royal charm for queens, Will thought, grinning at his own bad pun as he ambled past the intricate flower arrangements in the lobby. He straightened his tie, secretly pleased he’d brought the Armani after all.
The restaurant, L’Étrier, was more of the same with its red-damasked walls and crystal chandeliers. Jeremy Collins, in a tailored three-piece suit, crisp white shirt, and daring purple tie with a pearl tack, got up from behind a small table and held out a hand to Will in greeting. “Welcome, Mr. Yeats. It’s a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all mine, sir, and thank you for the invitation,” Will replied. According to his research, Collins had to be in his midsixties, and the years hadn’t been gentle with him. Collins looked older with his heavyset figure, sagging jowls, and bags under his eyes. The grip of his hand was firm, though, and his eyes bright and alert as he slowly scrutinized Will from his gel-tamed former fauxhawk to the tips of his polished dress boots and gave another approving smile.
“Impeccable style, Mr. Yeats, but I’d have expected no less from a man of your inclination,” Collins said as he let go of Will’s hand and gestured at the chair opposite his own. Will sat, for a moment rendered speechless by Collins’s opening move. A challenge wrapped up in a compliment that at the same time drew distinctive battle lines of flawless politeness between them—Will could only marvel at the way Collins had with words. They were going to spar tonight, and he’d enjoy himself thoroughly.
“I’d return the compliment if I hadn’t thought style a given with a man who’s at the levers of power with one of the world’s most famous fashion companies,” Will replied, and with a smile and a wave of his hand at himself, added, “All appearances to the contrary, I assure you, I’m a fan, Mr. Collins.”
At that, Collins snorted a laugh and indicated a small sitting bow to Will. “That’s nice of you to say, and I’m duly flattered. But I understand we’re not here to discuss fashion but horseracing. Which I’ll gladly admit I actually prefer.”
It was Will’s turn to indicate a bow. “Much appreciated, Mr. Collins.” He produced his voice recorder and held it up. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? I might like to use parts of it in my article.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Collins said, also leaving the overly formal speech behind. Even so, he still sounded European rather than like the Kentucky native Will knew him to be.
A waiter came with water, bread, and atlas-sized, leather-bound menus. Will set his menu aside unread and asked Collins to order for both of them, which seemed to please the other man. Once the formalities were taken care of, Collins leaned back in his chair and gave Will another scrutinizing look.
“Let’s cut right to the chase, Mr. Yeats. You’ll understand that I inquired about you and your magazine beforehand, won’t you? So by now I’ll have a pretty good idea about what you’re after from Louis and Nic. Which makes me wonder why you asked me, of all people, for an interview in the first place.”
“I’m afraid I’m not sure what your point is, sir,” Will answered cautiously. He’d have expected reasonable reserve, but Collins appeared guarded beyond this, almost wary. He frowned slightly now, and Will added, “Since I know virtually nothing about horseracing, I figured I might benefit from your insight as both their longtime acquaintance and as a horse-racing professional. Does this answer your question?”
Apparently, since Collins’s features softened a bit, though his eyes remained guarded. He nodded. “Mostly, although…. Well, given the primary theme of your magazine, this portrait you’re doing wouldn’t be majorly about Louis’s professional prowess, am I correct? That’s what made me wonder. Their private relationship isn’t exactly public knowledge, and I thought they’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“You’re right on both counts, though they might be changing their mind about the latter,” Will said, which caused another slight frown from Collins. What bothered the man? Will tried a disarming smile. “At any rate, what I was hoping to get from you was an outsider’s view on them and on the matter of gay men in horseracing in general. Is this all right with you?”
Visibly relaxing, Collins gave an almost casual shrug. “Sure, ask away. However, people’s sexual preferences aren’t exactly a big talking point in horseracing. I must admit, other than in regard to Louis and Nic, I never gave the matter much thought.”
He folded his hands on his stomach with a slightly condescending smile that had Will’s hackles beginning to rise. Collins’s prolix answer somehow didn’t sit right with him. As if he was trying to lead Will on.
Gradually Will got fed up by people taking him for a fool. “Are you suggesting that sex in general is immaterial in horseracing?” He made sure to sound and look plenty incredulous. His reward was an expression that came suspiciously close to a leer from Collins.
“Quite the contrary, Mr. Yeats, quite the contrary. You see, horseracing is excitement, and passion—there’s the anticipation before the start, the rush of speed, and of course the thrill of danger to add an edge.” He grinned at Will. “Add to that the heady rush of winning, and I’d call horseracing a quite erotic experience, wouldn’t you agree?”
He hadn’t answered Will’s question, not really, but he hadn’t avoided it entirely either. Get a man to his pet subject and you won’t have to work at all to get him going was one of the first lessons Will had learned about the
art of interviewing. He wasn’t sure this theory applied to Collins, though; the man had given him next to nothing so far.
The sommelier arrived with their wine. While Will watched Collins perform the silent ritual of presenting, approving, uncorking, tasting, and approving again, he decided to try a more personal approach.
Once the server had left, Will cast a speaking glance at the silver-tipped cane that leaned against the wall next to Collins’s seat. “I can see the appeal. You must really miss it,” he said.
Following his gaze, Collins shrugged. “I don’t actually. Luckily, I’m still able to pursue my passion.” He bared his teeth at Will in a smile, and Will smiled back, admitting defeat. He’d truly have to watch his words with this one.
“Though I do miss riding races,” Collins relented. “Yes, Mr. Yeats, it was a good life, and I miss it sometimes.”
Over asparagus-tip salad, a delicious fish course Will couldn’t hope to pronounce, and Charolais beef tenderloin, they talked mostly about Collins’s career as a champion jockey. The stories were similar to those Will had heard from Louis, but Collins’s focus was entirely different. While Louis had fun in reciting some of his most glorious mishaps, Collins only talked about his successes. Will didn’t remark on this notion; Collins was opening up a little now, and besides, Will enjoyed himself listening to him.
“If you’re still here on Saturday, you’ll be able to experience horseracing firsthand,” Collins was saying as they’d arrived at coffee and digestif. “There’ll be an off-season meet at Le Touques. There’s no comparison to the big meets in summer, of course, but it might give you an idea.”
“Ah, yes, Louis told me about it. I was already planning to attend.”
Collins nodded. “Ah well, then we’ll probably meet there. I’m sponsoring one of the races. Actually, CODE is, but at my instigation, of course. I have a three-year-old here in training that I’m dying to try out.”
