Not for the first time, Charlie had not been entirely honest. When we arrived at his parents’ apartment, it was immediately clear they hadn’t been expecting me. It made my situation more disconcerting. Still, they welcomed me into their tastefully decorated rooms—ornate, unmistakably Parisian.
I had left Thomas, Ambre and Léo behind, taking my first tentative steps towards reconciliation with Charlie. Yet I could not shake a lingering sense of disappointment. All three had hugged me as I left—our plan à quatre had come to an end, but it would stay with me for a long time. We crossed Paris in uneasy silence, neither of us willing to admit that we had both behaved badly.
“This is completely unexpected,” Charlie’s mother said. “But it is a wonderful surprise, and we are delighted to see you both. I have not seen Charlie for such a long time, and at last we get to meet the person he shares an apartment with.”
Charlie leaned in and whispered in my ear. “My mother still hopes I might give her grandchildren and refuses to accept that it will never happen.”
His father shook my hand warmly and patted my shoulder. “Come in and make yourself at home,” he said. “I shall make coffee for us all.”
“You never said anything about visiting,” his mother added. “If I had known, I would have prepared something special. Never mind—we shall go out. I’ll call Thomas and see if he can join us.”
Charlie cut in quickly. “Thomas is working. I have already seen him, but he sends his love to Maman.” He glanced at me cautiously; it could not have escaped her notice.
“Such a shame,” his father sighed. “It is not often we have both our sons together. “But” he added, turning to me, “when Charlie and Thomas are in the same room, things can become a little… lively. Perhaps it is for the best.”
It was certainly for the best. If Charlie and Thomas had begun arguing, it would have been about one thing—me—and that would have made everything unbearably awkward. I might even have had to explain that I had been caught in a love tryst with both their sons.
“Follow me,” Charlie said.
He led me through the apartment to a bedroom that had clearly once been his. The bed sat directly beneath the window; he climbed onto it and pushed open the large panes. The street stretched out in a straight line towards the Seine, and on the opposite bank, the Eiffel Tower rose above everything.
“This room is perfect in summer,” he said. “It’s wonderful to sleep with the windows open, your head almost out in the street.” Six soft pillows were stacked against the iron grille. I placed my holdall beside his and pretended to take an interest in the view.
“I’m glad you came with me,” he admitted. “For a moment, I thought you might stay with Thomas—and that would have made me very unhappy.”
If he was expecting reassurance, I wasn’t going to give it.
“I’m very upset about those photographs in Le Pénis,” I said. “Why, Charlie? Why pose naked—and not have the decency to tell me?”
“I was foolish,” he admitted, “but I found it exciting. It was some time ago, when I went to Lille with Matis. He persuaded me to pose. I knew he intended to submit them to magazines in France. I was wrong on two counts: I thought they weren’t good enough, and I never expected you to see them.”
“But I did, Charlie.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “And I regret that. But I must live my own life.”
“And what about me? Did you ever consider how I might feel?”
“I always consider your feelings, Miles. But I suspect your problem isn’t really the photographs. It’s something that was mentioned earlier.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you have never seen me naked. That we have never made love.”
My silence gave him his answer.
“You, see?” he said softly. “I knew that was on your mind. But you must understand—my reluctance is for your own protection. I have lived carelessly, in both Paris and London, and I promised myself I would not return to that life. It does not mean I don’t love you—quite the opposite. And when it does happen, it will be because the moment is right. Love is meant to be something beautiful.”
It was not the explanation I had expected, and it did nothing to satisfy me.
A faint flush rose to his cheeks; he chose his words carefully.
“Despite appearances, I am a shy person. And yes—before you say it—those photographs were difficult for me. I had to force myself. But there is something else.”
I stared at him, incredulous. Shy was the last word I would ever have used to describe Charlie.
“There is also the fact,” he continued, “that you are highly sexed. We are compatible in many ways, but not in that.”
“So it’s my fault?”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied quickly. “But I know you will seek sex elsewhere. I just didn’t expect it to be with my brother.”
Since his arrival in Paris, everything had become a quiet contest of blame—and he was adept at shifting it onto me.
“If you want me to apologise for last night, I won’t.”
“Your promiscuity frightens me,” he said. “I’m afraid you will catch something—and put me at risk as well.”
“If you think I’ve been sleeping around, you are mistaken. Yes, I’m attracted to people—but for years, the only person I’ve wanted is you.” I sat down on the neatly made bed. “Last night was an exception. I was angry, drunk—and yes, I find Thomas attractive. But it wasn’t planned. It just happened. It was new to me. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it. But I also need to live my own life.”
“But you have hurt me,” Charlie said, his voice breaking. “I never imagined that you would make love to my brother before me.”
We had reached an impasse.
“If you like, I can return to Thomas and leave you alone.”
“Non!” he exclaimed. “I want you to stay with me. We must try to make this work.”
“But I don’t see how we can. Our trust has been compromised—by both of us.”
For the first time since I had known him, I saw fear in Charlie’s eyes.
“I beg you not to give up on us. I came to Paris to make our relationship work. I am certain we can return to the life we have in England and put all this behind us.”
I was not so sure. Away from Charlie, I had tasted a kind of freedom that had awakened something in me. If we were to make this work, he would have to change—and I doubted that he would. And yet, despite my coldness, I felt a flicker of pity. I considered forgiving him for those revealing images in Le Pénis. I also wanted his forgiveness—for Thomas, for Ambre, for Léo. In the space of twenty-four hours, everything between us had shifted. But if I gave in now, Charlie would always hold the advantage.
My phone buzzed. A WhatsApp message lit up the screen: Bianchi, in Verona. His timing was uncanny, as though he had sensed an opening and meant to claim it.
“Let’s talk about this later,” I said.
Charlie’s parents took us out for dinner at a small restaurant on rue de Passy. It was expensive, and I felt slightly underdressed, out of place. His parents made polite conversation in English as we waited for our main courses. I played my part, courteous and attentive, while Charlie remained withdrawn and silent.
“What is the matter?” his mother asked. “Is something troubling you?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m just tired.”
“Charlie tells us you are a writer,” his father said, turning to me with quick interest. “Is it true you write about travel?”
“It is,” I said. “But I would like to write about other things.”
“Have you considered a novel?”
“I have,” I admitted. “But I’m not sure I have the patience—or the skill—to write a good one.”
“My sister, Cecilie, has written a book,” his mother announced. “It was dreadful. She attempted a grand romance, with a few murders thrown in. It ended up chaotic—and not at all romantic.”
“My Aunt Cecilie knows about murder,” Charlie interjected. “Her first husband was killed by his business partner, and she became very wealthy as a result. We have often suspected she was having an affair with the man who killed him.”
“That will do, Charlie.”
But he continued, undeterred.
“Of course, infidelity is common in our family. You must look around this table to realise there are secrets waiting to be uncovered.”
He looked at each of us in turn—his parents, then me. I remembered what Thomas had told me: that he suspected he was not his father’s son. The flicker in his father’s expression suggested there might be truth in it—or at least, guilt of another kind.
“Should I assume something is wrong between you?” his mother asked.
Charlie left the answer to me.
“I think every relationship has its difficult moments,” I said evenly. But the mood had already soured.
Charlie’s behaviour throughout the meal suggested he might not be as ready to forgive as he had claimed.
Afterwards, we made strained conversation as we walked back to his parents’ apartment. Rain had begun to fall, quietly at first, then more steadily—as though the evening required it.
Inside, we were offered brandy—expensive, warming. I was pleased to discover that his father smoked. He suggested we step out onto the balcony together. Closing the French doors behind us, he gestured for me to sit.
Below us, the hum of traffic drifted upward, mingling with the occasional burst of laughter from passers-by in the street.
In the half-light, I could see Charlie in him. His thinning grey hair had once been as dark and full as his son’s. He carried himself with a surprising vitality, every inch the businessman—someone accustomed to inspiring confidence, to being believed.
“You are the only person Charlie has ever introduced to us. That must mean you are important to him.” He spoke calmly, with quiet precision. It was not a question, but a statement. “And yet, the circumstances suggest there is a problem between you.”
“We’ve been very happy together,” I said. “But let’s just say we have both done things we now regret.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
It was a difficult decision. Should I tell him everything? Neither of his sons would come out of it well—nor, for that matter, would I. But there was something in his manner, a steadiness, that suggested he would not rush to judgement.
“Before you answer,” he said, “allow me to tell you a few things. I love both my sons, but—as Charlie implied—there are secrets in this family. Charlie is my flesh and blood, but he takes after his mother, who, in her youth, was… let us say, complicated.” He paused briefly. “I am closest to Thomas, though he is not my son in the strict sense. I am not his biological father. He was the result of one of his mother’s affairs. And yet, Thomas is very like me. He has loved me in a way that has made me deeply proud.”
He hesitated, then continued.
“But do not imagine that fault lies only with their mother. I, too, have been unfaithful—many times. Age tempers these things or perhaps exhausts them. We settle, eventually. But my sons… they have inherited more than we intended. In their own ways, they are becoming what we once were.” He studied me for a moment. “Am I close to the truth of your situation?”
“I believe you are, sir.”
And so, I told him everything.
As I spoke, I watched him carefully, searching for some flicker of judgement or surprise. But he remained composed, listening, nodding occasionally, as though nothing I said was entirely unfamiliar. When I finished, he was silent for a long moment.
“The question I must ask,” he said at last, “is which of my sons you love.”
“I suppose the honest answer is that I love them both.”
“But love is a delicate thing,” he replied. “Do not mistake it for desire. I suspect it is Charlie whom you love. Thomas, perhaps, is a distraction.” He took a measured breath. “I am not surprised by Charlie’s actions. Nor am I surprised that Thomas would seek to provoke his brother. That is their nature. But you, Miles—you are the unknown quantity. Everything now depends on how you choose to respond.”
“That is the problem,” I admitted. “I don’t know how to deal with it.”
“Charlie craves attention,” he said. “He will do almost anything to be noticed. But beneath that, there is a boy who wants to settle down with someone he truly loves—and he is afraid to reveal those feelings.” He paused, weighing his words. “If you want my advice—and I offer it as someone who knows his son—then leave him. Leave Paris without telling him where you are going. Let him believe that he might lose you.”
He glanced out into the night before continuing.
“He will return to England in a hurry, convinced that you have gone back there. Whether you are waiting for him… or not, is entirely your decision.”
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 