CHAPTER ELEVEN
Backlash
A few minutes after his phone call, Button-eyes sent us the following email.
Proposed timeline for Eric’s coming out.
We will send a press statement confirming your relationship with Joel Bottomley on July 13, after your graduation ceremony. Send me a photograph of you and Joel. A casual snapshot is best. A barbecue setting, perhaps. It must be clear from the photograph that you and Joel are in love, but please avoid any poses which can cause discomfort (i.e. no kissing or holding hands).
The prime minister will announce your engagement one week later. The news will be picked up by the international press. Expect public reactions to be both positive and negative.
I propose a televised interview with you and Joel at the beginning of August. This will give the nation a chance to get to know the new prince consort. The interview will be aired internationally and will cause A LOT of interest. This will be the moment when the two of you become celebrities. How you handle the attention will be crucial. Your lives will never be the same again. (I hope you two know what you are letting yourselves in for.)
It was a cold and officious email. No greeting. Not even a congratulations. It was a complete downer, which instantly snuffed our brief moment of euphoria. The pale and tense expression returned to Eric’s face, and I too felt my heart pound in my chest at the prospect that awaited us.
My mother took the photograph. In the garden, by the barbecue, with our arms around each other, just as Button-eyes suggested. It was printed all over the Doggerland press and even made it onto British television. I sat down to watch the ten o’clock news and was shocked when, at the end of the bulletin, just before the weather forecast, my photograph suddenly popped up. I became a local celebrity. People approached me in the supermarket or at the post office and shook my hand or patted me on my back and said, “Good on you, mate!”
Trevor phoned me that very evening. “Oh my God, Joel! You’re a rock star!” he gushed.
I hadn’t spoken to Trevor since that awful day when we heard about the satirical TV show, and I wasn’t in the mood to speak to him now.
“Hi, Trevor,” I said, failing to summon much enthusiasm for him.
“So, you’ve done it! You’ve actually gone and done it! You’re marrying the crown prince of Doggerland!”
Something about that statement rubbed me up the wrong way. “I haven’t gone and done anything, Trevor.”
“No, I just mean that you managed to get him to marry you. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“I did not want to marry him, Trevor. He wanted to marry me. If anyone should be congratulated, it should be him.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re making me sound like a gold-digger. Like I set out to bag a prince.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m marrying Eric because I love him. Not because he’s a prince. “
“I know. I just…”
“You just what?”
“I’m happy for you, that’s all.”
“Okay… Well, thank you.”
It was an awkward conversation. Things had become awkward between Trevor and me. Fact is, I had outgrown him. He was still that strange, nerdy Welsh boy, whereas I… well, I had a different future mapped out for me.
We flew back to Doggerland the following month. Button-eyes had arranged for a team of fashion experts and publicists to dress us for the interview. While Eric got a quick trim, I got the full treatment. I was surrounded by camp hairdressers and chic stylists fussing over my look, while Eric, who’d already had his hair cut, stood in a corner all day, with his arms folded, watching me get all the attention.
“Do I have to be here for this?” he asked Button-eyes.
“You want to know what Joel is going to look like, don’t you?”
“What about what I look like?”
“Doggerland already knows what you look like.”
Eric frowned. “I just want Joel to be himself. They’re making him look too different.”
Things didn’t get any better for him after the wardrobe session. Button-eyes presented us with a list of the interviewer’s questions. Most of them were addressed to me.
“Why am I even here,” Eric sulked. “None of the questions are for me.”
“That question is for you,” Button-eyes said, pointing at the list.
Eric read it out. “What do you think of Joel? What am I supposed to say to that?”
“Just tell them what you think.”
“I love him, of course! Otherwise why would I want to marry him?”
“So, tell them that.”
“Although you might want to say it a little less angrily,” I added.
Eric frowned. “I’m going to the apartment.” He picked up his copy of the question list and marched away.
“I think he’s jealous,” Button-eyes said after he had gone. “Eric isn’t used to sharing the spotlight.”
The interview was conducted by Pia Steenstra, the royal correspondent for the national broadcaster. She had interviewed the king and queen on previous occasions, and the palace had good relations with her. As it was a sunny day, it was decided to hold the interview in one of the gardens. Eric and I sat side by side on a park bench, close enough for our thighs to touch.
“Sit further apart,” Button-eyes said. “This looks too intimate.”
Pia frowned. “It’s supposed to look intimate. I was even going to suggest they hold hands.”
“Absolutely not! There should be at least twenty centimetres of space between them. I’ll go get a ruler.”
He rushed off to the office and came back with a ruler. Eric and I stifled a smile as he set out measuring the distance between us.
But Pia was not amused. “The posture lacks romance,” she argued. “This is their engagement interview. The viewers will surely comment on the lack of intimacy. I assure you, Mr Boersma, this will not go down well with the public.”
Eventually, Button-eyes agreed to let Eric rest his arm over the back of the bench, behind my head, but only on the proviso that we didn’t touch.
The interview was conducted entirely in English. Pia started off by congratulating us on our engagement and by asking how excited we were. Then she asked Eric how we met.
“Joel was looking for the library and asked me for directions,” Eric said. “He was completely lost in Oxford. He was like a fish out of water. I helped him settle in, took him under my wing, showed him the ropes.”
This was a lie, of course. Button-eyes and Eric had spent a whole hour beforehand fabricating the story. The truth, which involved Eric’s loneliness and inability to cope with his studies – not to mention our night of partying in a gay club – was considered too inappropriate.
The rest of the interview focused on me.
“Have you ever been to Doggerland before?” Pia asked.
“Yes. A few times. It’s wonderful. Very beautiful. And green.”
“Will you be learning Doggerlandish?”
“Of course. Although it won’t be easy. We Brits aren’t as good at learning foreign languages as you guys are.”
“What do you expect your new life as prince consort to be like?”
“It’s like a fairytale come true, although I realise it is a position of great responsibility, and I am prepared for the hard work ahead of me.”
Eric kept staring ahead of him throughout this exchange, a frozen smile on his face.
“Which causes will you be taking up in your new role?” Pia asked.
“Well, Eric and I discussed this quite thoroughly.” I looked at Eric, wanting to include him. “We want to defend and promote gay rights. Especially abroad, in countries where homosexuality is still outlawed and gay people are persecuted. Isn’t that right, Eric?” I put my hand on his knee without thinking. It wasn’t until I saw Button-eyes frown that I realised my mistake.
Button-eyes was furious. “The people of Dogger
land aren’t used to seeing displays of affection between two men,” he said after the interview. “They will feel very uncomfortable looking at that!”
In the end, Button-eyes was proven wrong. The moment when I went off script and placed my hand on Eric’s knee became the great talking point of the interview. That was the clip that was shown on the news, and a still photo of it was published in the newspapers. Doggerland loved me. Where Eric came across as stiff and awkward, I came across as genuine and spontaneous.
The interview had a seventy percent audience share, and the reactions were mostly positive. According to a poll, I was particularly popular with female viewers. The Doggerland Broadcasting Corporation sold the rights, and in the following week, it was aired all over Europe, the USA, and Japan. Although my proposed role as a gay rights ambassador had only been briefly touched on, it was pounced upon by the gay press, particularly in America. They called me the new star of the gay rights movement. My face even made it onto the cover of the Pride edition of Time magazine. Eric had been cut out of the picture; only his knee, with my hand on it, remained.
Back in England, Eric had been given an extension to complete his dissertation and threw himself into the task with renewed vigour and confidence.
In the meantime, I summoned the energy to take care of some unfinished business. I called Trevor up at his parents’ home in Cardiff, where I was sure he’d be staying. Trevor had been a good friend for many years, and I’d been neglecting him. I didn’t want our friendship to fade away.
His mother answered the phone. When I asked to speak to Trevor, she went quiet, then said, “I’ll go and check if he’s at home.”
This was odd. Trevor was a homebody. He was always in his room playing computer games. And there was no way that Trevor’s mother didn’t know whether he was home or not.
“I’m afraid Trevor is not in,” she said when she came back.
“Well, where has he gone?”
“I don’t know. I suggest you call back later.”
I called two or three times that same week, and each time I had the same conversation. It was clear to me that Trevor didn’t want to speak to me. I’d been unfriendly to him last time we spoke. He must’ve still been sore. I decided to try again shortly before the new year started.
When I went to the supermarket, however, I discovered the truth. I first suspected that something was amiss when Patricia, the cashier, avoided eye contact with me. Patricia was one of my greatest fans. She called me her Prince Charming. We always had a little chat when I went shopping. She wanted to know all about Eric and Doggerland and the king and queen. I’d even signed my picture in a newspaper for her. But this time she wouldn’t raise her head to look at me, and only greeted me with a half-smile. When I approached the till with my groceries, she seemed a little flustered.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She didn’t answer, but she glanced at the magazine stand. There was a magazine with my picture on it. It was a gossip magazine with a title I’d never heard of. The heading read: My good friend Joel: a revealing article about Doggerland’s future prince consort by his best friend, Trevor Tudor. I bought a copy and read it on my way home. The article reeked of bitterness and spite.
Of our friendship, Trevor wrote: Joel and I were very much alike, but in one thing we differed. Whereas I was never very interested in sex, he was like a sex maniac. He was constantly looking out for new hook-ups on his app. And when we went partying in Cardiff, I was happy to go home after a few pints and a dance, but he refused to budge until he had found someone to f*** him in the a***.
Of Eric he wrote:Eric had a reputation for being arrogant and lazy. He would never have been accepted into Oxford if it wasn’t for his title, because he is, in all honesty, a little dim. Joel caught him cheating on his papers. Being either too dumb or lazy to write them himself, he’d buy them from an Indian academic at an essay mill.
Of my first fling with Eric, he wrote: Joel was so proud and smug to have bedded a prince. He boasted about it on the bus. He felt no shame in telling me – in gross detail – how he had ejaculated into Eric’s mouth, and how his sperm dripped off Eric’s lips as he kissed him. I was disgusted! And so were all the other passengers on the bus who’d been listening in!
I was shocked. My head and my heart pounded as I trudged back home, too dumbfounded to even think about what to tell Eric. I decided not to tell him anything. I burned the magazine in the fireplace and, while he was still in his study typing away on his dissertation, I climbed into bed and tried to forget all about it.
It took a few weeks for the content of the article to make its way into the Doggerland press and for Eric to become aware of what had been written about us. I caught him watching a YouTube clip (once again forwarded to him by Petra). It was another comedy show. An actor, impersonating Eric, kept taking spoonsful of yogurt, then talking with his mouthfull and allowing the yogurt to drool out of his mouth. The audience was in hysterics. Eric looked confused.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why is he eating yoghurt? I don’t eat yoghurt.”
I had to tell him the truth. “An article about us appeared in a gossip magazine,” I said nervously. “Trevor wrote it.”
“Trevor?”
“My friend. Ex-friend, I mean.”
“What did he say? Why did he say I like yoghurt?”
“The yoghurt is meant to represent something else.”
“What?”
“Perhaps you should read the article yourself. It’s online.” I gave him the website of the magazine, then sat down on the sofa. My stomach churned as I watched him read it.
His face went pale and tense. “What the…” He looked up from his laptop. “That was that time in the hotel in London. The day we met at Euphoria.”
I nodded.
“How did Trevor know about that?”
“I told him.”
“You told him?”
“He was my friend. We told each other everything.”
“But why would you tell him that? Why would you tell anyone something like that?”
“I didn’t know who you were then, Eric. What he wrote about me boasting that I bedded a prince is incorrect. As far as I was concerned, you were just another student. And I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“Why would you think that? We went to the same college.”
“You made it clear to me at breakfast that you didn’t want to see me again.”
“I did not.”
“You did, Eric. Don’t start bending the truth.”
“But I still don’t understand why you would tell anybody something as personal as this. How could you have done that?” He ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, this is terrible!”
“What does it matter what people think?”
He banged his fist on the table and jumped up from his seat. “That’s easy for you to say, Joel!” he yelled. “They all love you. They think you’re the new star of the gay rights movement. They put your picture on the cover of Time magazine. And what do I get? Jokes about my arse being like the Japanese flag. Yogurt dripping out of my mouth every time I talk. It’s humiliating! Especially as I have never taken it up the arse. I don’t suck cock. I don’t do those things, Joel. You’re the only guy I’ve ever… I mean, I’m usually the one who gets blown. It’s you they should be getting at! You’re the whore! You’re the one who looks for hook-ups on apps. You’re the one who offers your arse to random strangers in sleazy clubs!” He slammed shut the lid of his laptop with such force I was afraid he would damage it. Then he sat down at his desk and buried his head in his hands.
I was raging inside, but I had to keep it together. We couldn’t both be panicking. “Let’s not do this,” I said. “Let’s not turn on each other. Trevor lied in that article. He’s just mad at me. He’s jealous and spiteful and wants to get back at me for ignoring him.”
“This was a mistake,” Eric mumbled, his head still in his hands. “My mother was right. Ou
r family name is being dragged through the dirt, and it’s all my fault.”
“That’s just part and parcel of being a royal.”
He looked up at me and frowned. “What the fuck do you know about being a royal! My father never faced such insults. The worst they’ve ever said of him was that he was dull.”
“You’re different. You’re gay. Gays have always been the butt of dirty jokes. That’s one of the things we have to fight against.”
“Well, I don’t want to fight against it. I don’t want to be the butt of dirty jokes. I don’t want any of this, Joel. I don’t even want the fucking crown!” He got up and marched out of the study, slamming the door behind him.
I gave him half an hour to calm down before going up and checking on him. He was in the bedroom packing his suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know. I just want to get out of here.”
“I think you’re blowing all this out of proportion.”
“Well, I don’t care what you think. You betrayed me.”
I ignored that last comment and maintained my composure. “In a way, what happened was actually a good thing. It exposes the homophobia that still exists. It shows us what we need to battle against.”
“I don’t give a fuck about that, Joel! I don’t want to battle against anything. I don’t want any of this.” He shut his suitcase and locked it. “I’m leaving now, Joel. I’m leaving it all behind. You, the palace, the title, the crown. Everything!” He picked his suitcase up from his bed and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere I’ll never be found!” He stopped in the doorway and looked back at me. “I thought I could trust you, Joel. I thought you were the one I could trust.”
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