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Charlie: The Promise of Paris – Partie 4

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.”

Charlie: The Promise of Paris – Partie 3

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Caught Between Brothers, Desire, and Sex
French films—where sex feels real. Skin is just skin, textured, imperfect; faces carry lines; bodies are allowed to be naked, warm, a little unguarded. That was my first thought when I woke the next morning: that I had been inside a film, and now there lingered a soft, satisfied glow, the sense that something good had happened.

We were all naked.

Thomas lay close beside me, his right arm draped across my chest. Ambre was sprawled over our legs, her head tipped over the edge of the bed. Léo’s head was tucked beneath my left arm, one leg thrown across my midriff. I couldn’t have moved even if I had wanted to.

It had been very late when we returned to Thomas’s rooms. We had drunk far too much. And somewhere in that blur, the three of them had shown me something about sex in France—something unforced, unashamed, almost instinctive. The rest dissolved into fragments, but I woke with a lingering, uncertain impression: that, perhaps, I had crossed a threshold I hadn’t expected and shared something new.

And then I thought of Charlie, back home.

The anger I’d felt—at discovering those explicit photographs of him in Le Pénis—had dulled overnight, settling into something cooler, more measured. In its place came the faint, unsettling sense that the balance had shifted. I hadn’t replied to his messages, hadn’t answered the calls he’d tried to make. I imagined him now: alone, uneasy, carrying the weight of a secret no longer entirely his own.

And there was something else.

I had slept with Thomas, with Ambre, with Léo. The thought lingered, complicated and strangely satisfying. That I had been with Charlie’s brother felt, in some quiet, private way, like the sharpest form of retaliation available to me—an unspoken act that tilted things, however slightly, back in my favour.

For it to have the effect I imagined, Charlie would have needed to take the first Eurostar of the morning and walk through the door at that exact moment—only then would he have found us as we were, the four of us bound together by something reckless, unguarded, and impossible to explain away.

“Bonjour,” Thomas murmured into my ear, his voice still heavy with sleep as his fingers idly traced my chest. “How are you today, my English lover?”

Léo was awake too, stretching out beside me. It was only then I noticed the words Esprit libre tattooed along his arm—something I had somehow missed before. “Miles,” he breathed softly, shifting closer, his warmth pressing into mine.

Amid all of this, Ambre slept on, undisturbed, as though the morning belonged entirely to her dreams.

Thomas was the first to get up. The night before, he had warned us that he had work in the morning—that he would come to regret his small indulgences. I watched as he slipped from the bed and wandered, still naked, into the small kitchenette to make coffee.

He moved with an easy, unselfconscious grace—tall and lean, his pale skin catching the soft morning light. There was something quietly inviting in the ease of his body, a softness to him that made it difficult to look away.

I felt, unexpectedly, a flicker of disappointment as he pulled himself from the warmth of us, as though something of the night had gone with him.

Léo took it as an invitation to move closer. He kissed me softly, his lips brushing mine, the faint roughness of his stubble grazing my skin. There was a quiet confidence in him, a suggestion that the night could easily begin again.

But Ambre, roused by the promise of coffee, chose that moment to wake. With a casual gesture, she tossed a crumpled sheet over us both before slipping out of bed and wandering into the kitchenette, where she joined Thomas and helped herself to a stale croissant.

“What are you thinking about?” Léo asked.

“I’m thinking about that Bertolucci film—the one where a brother and sister take in his teenage friend.”

“Innocents,” he said, after a moment. “The Dreamers was the English title. It shows how different French sensibilities can be—more permissive, less constrained. Like Les Enfants Terribles, with its own tangled intimacy between brother and sister. But there are no siblings here.” He paused, a faint smile forming. “The only brother worth mentioning is Charlie, who—if I understand correctly—has managed to embarrass himself rather thoroughly with his boyfriend.”

“Ah, Charlie,” I said. “That’s something I’ll have to deal with.”

Ambre perched on the edge of the bed, finishing the last of her croissant. She retrieved her phone from the floor and began tapping out a message, only half-listening.

“Miles,” Léo went on, his tone light, almost teasing, “you find yourself in a rather enviable position. You’re able to make comparisons—observe what each brother has to offer. Charlie, who, judging by Le Pénis, is… generously endowed. And Thomas, whom you seemed to appreciate last night, is rather more modest. Would you agree?”

Ambre raised her little finger in the air, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I don’t think Thomas is in any position to impress anyone with the size of his bifler,” she said, laughing.

She wasn’t entirely wrong, I thought. Thomas may have come second to Charlie in that regard, but there was something about him—something understated, quietly appealing—that stirred a different kind of interest in me.

As if to underline the point, Thomas reappeared with the coffee and came to stand over me, the morning light catching him in a way that made it difficult to think of anything else.

“What are you going to do about Charlie?” he asked.

“I’ll message him later,” I said.

“Forgive me, Miles,” Ambre added, almost lightly. “But I’ve already messaged him. I told him you spent the night with us—nothing more than that, of course—but enough for him to understand that the four of us may have… misbehaved.”

“Oh,” I said, caught off guard. “Was that wise?”

Thomas came to sit beside me and brushed a quick kiss against my cheek. “Brothers are meant to share their toys,” he said with a faint smile. “And besides, Ambre’s right—after what he did to you, he deserved to hear something.”

Léo shifted closer, his touch unexpectedly intimate, then lifted his gaze to meet mine. “There’s a difference, isn’t there,” he said quietly, “between posing for photographs and actually taking part in something.”

And just like that, I felt it—the subtle, unwelcome shift. The balance, which had briefly seemed to favour me, tilted back toward Charlie.

After showering and dressing, we followed Thomas down to the bar below. We found a table outside and ordered Orangina, which he promptly fortified with generous measures of Cointreau. It might have suited the night before, but just after midday the taste felt oddly sharp, almost unwelcome.

“A few of these,” Thomas said, with quiet encouragement, “will put you in the right frame of mind to speak to my little brother.”

The conversation was interrupted when one of Thomas’s colleagues appeared at the table, breathless with excitement. She spoke quickly, hands moving as much as her voice, pausing only when someone cut in with a question.

Thomas frowned, then glanced at me, unwilling to let me be shut out of something so clearly urgent. He began to translate, his English halting, searching for the right words as he went.

“She… she is saying… a group of American boys, they went into a café nearby, last night. And—how you say—they noticed a very beautiful French girl, sitting with her friends.” He hesitated, brow furrowing. “One of them, as… a kind of bet, tries to speak with her. But she is not interested. She shows this, very clearly. Still… he continues.”

Thomas paused, as if rearranging the story in his head.

“Then a French boy—he does not like this—and he punches the American. In the face.” He gestured vaguely to his own cheek. “And after this… it becomes worse. The American, he takes out a gun. He fires. He misses, but… the café, it is chaos. People shouting, more guns, even knives…”

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

“The police are called—the Préfecture. The Americans, they run upstairs, to escape. And then…” He faltered, searching again. “A policeman, he is pushed from a window. He falls—rolls over the awning—and lands in the street below.”

Ambre and Léo both reacted with open disgust, though how much of the story was true remained uncertain. Léo placed a hand on my knee and gave it a small, deliberate squeeze, as if to underline the gravity of what we’d just heard.

But the moment quickly lost its weight.

Outside Bar Dieudonné, Charlie was standing on the pavement.

The others hadn’t noticed him yet, but I had—and for a second, I could only stare, caught somewhere between disbelief and recognition.

He moved towards us, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, running a hand through his thick hair. I tried to read his expression—whether it was anger, or embarrassment—but couldn’t quite settle on either. By then, Thomas had seen him too, his voice cutting gently through the table.

“Charlie. What are you doing here?”

Charlie’s eyes went straight to me, sharp, accusing. “I thought it would be easier to come to Paris,” he said, “since none of my messages or calls were being answered.”

Thomas stood to greet him, pulling him into a brief embrace, but there was something restrained in it—something almost reluctant. I felt it too, that same flicker of disappointment.

It seemed Charlie had a way of appearing wherever I went.

Charlie dropped his bag to the floor and pulled up a chair, his movements abrupt, almost territorial. He made a visible effort to ignore Thomas, Ambre, and Léo, as though shutting them out might simplify things. As for me, I still had no idea what I was going to say.

The waitress slipped away unnoticed, sensing the shift in the air, and Thomas drew up a chair of his own. The five of us sat there, suspended in a strained, uncomfortable silence.

Charlie broke it.

“It seems I have gate-crashed an orgie,” he said, placing deliberate weight on the final word.

No one reacted. Ambre and Léo shifted awkwardly, and Thomas reached for my hand, a quiet gesture of support.

“We were drunk,” I said at last. “I had reason to be. It’s not every day you discover your partner naked in a gay magazine.”

“I wanted to explain that,” Charlie replied, his tone tightening, “but I haven’t exactly been given the chance.”

“Then explain,” Thomas said evenly.

Charlie exhaled. “They were taken a long time ago. I was in Paris, and someone offered me a lot of money to pose. I didn’t tell you, Miles, because I knew it would upset you.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But not as much as it did yesterday.”

“It isn’t something shameful,” he continued. “The male body is beautiful. I liked the idea that someone thought I was worth photographing. And posing for images like that is not the same as…” He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Thomas before settling back on me. “…what you’ve done. With my brother. And the others.” His glance toward Ambre and Léo carried a trace of disdain.

“It was one night,” Léo said lightly. “It didn’t mean anything.” Ambre let out a small, disbelieving snort.

Charlie shook his head, his frustration now turning toward Thomas. “I can’t forgive you. This happens every time I have something of my own—you take it. That’s why I left for England. And still, somehow, you manage it.”

“Wait,” I cut in. “None of this would have happened if we hadn’t found those photos.”

“That’s not true,” Charlie said, his voice sharpening. “I knew something was going on between you and Thomas. When you came to Paris, I knew you’d see each other. So Ambre’s message…” He gave a small, bitter smile. “It didn’t surprise me. It only confirmed what I already suspected.”

“We are French,” Thomas said, with a faint, knowing shrug. “We do the wildest things when they are expected of us. We have welcomed Miles—made him feel at home. For that, you should be grateful, Charlie.”

Ambre, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, her tone calm but unflinching.

“And we also know that the two of you don’t sleep together. Miles hasn’t even seen you naked.” She tilted her head slightly. “That isn’t natural. The fault is yours, Charlie. You are boyfriends, yes? And yet you keep him at a distance. So he looks elsewhere.” Her gaze shifted to me, softer now. “I hope last night was good for you.”

She had, with disarming ease, landed on the truth.

“It’s true,” I said. “I don’t really know what we are, Charlie. We live together; we get on well—but I’d be embarrassed to explain it to anyone else. That this is all there is.”

Charlie looked unsettled, as though trying to assemble a response that would satisfy both me and him.

“You came to Paris to find him,” Thomas said, more gently now. “That must mean something. Forget everything else—what’s happened, what you think it means. If you came here to make things right, then do it. There is still something between you worth saving.” He paused, then added, without apology, “As for Miles—I won’t pretend otherwise. I like him. And I know he likes me. But I also have Ambre, and Léo. They know who I am. I follow what I feel, while I can. There’s something in that, little brother.”

In a few quiet sentences, Thomas stripped the argument back to its core, leaving little room for accusation.

Charlie drew a breath. “I’ve spoken to our parents,” he said. “I’m staying with them while I’m in Paris. I asked if Miles could stay too—they said yes.” He glanced at me, something softer now beneath the tension. “But if you’d rather stay here… with Thomas… I’ll understand.”

I realised then how deeply I had been pulled into something that had begun long before me—a quiet, unresolved rivalry between two brothers. I hadn’t expected to stand at its centre, still less to feel responsible for how it might end.

I loved Charlie. That much was certain.

But Thomas—there was something about him, something immediate and consuming, that I couldn’t ignore.

And it seemed, whether I was ready or not, that a choice had to be made.

Charlie: The Promise of Paris – Partie 2

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I had assumed that French people’s reputation for being sexually daring and uninhibited was overstated. My relationship with Charlie confirmed it. An observer could have thought that I was more typical of the French than he was. Charlie avoided sexual gratification: my desire for sex could be insatiable.

My reason for going to Paris was not, as I had told Charlie, to review an exhibition at an art gallery, but simply to find Thomas, his older brother, who had urged me to go. Charlie had every reason to suspect that this had been my intention all along. He had watched my contrived journey around the city with scepticism. Every message, each question, was an effort to catch me out.

Charlie knew much more about his unlikely brother than he cared to mention. “Make sure you do not go to see Thomas.” It was a warning that implied something unthinkable might happen if I did. That was the allure. I hoped that something might happen.

My arrival had stirred a buzz of excitement. Thomas had greeted me like a returning lover. But there was still ambivalence. He had rooms above Bar Dieudonné and I had noticed the only bed which suggested that I was going to share it with him.

The arrival of Ambre was the first time I realised that he had a girlfriend, and I confess that I initially regarded her as unwelcome competition. His friend, Léo, added to the uncertainty. After that, I resigned myself to sleeping on the brown leather sofa.

While Thomas worked at the bar, Ambre and Léo took me into Le Marais and we ended up at Joe Le Sexy, a gay sex boutique, where I had discovered naked photos of Charlie in the glossy magazine Le Pénis.

Ambre consulted Thomas and took it upon herself to make me drunk. After drinking too many Vodka-Apples I began telling them everything that was wrong with Charlie. They comforted me in a way I had never known. Ambre kept kissing me and brushing her cheek against mine. Léo insisted on nibbling my ear and letting his lips trail down my neck. I found that I was enjoying the attention.

We encountered Thomas as he was shutting down Bar Dieudonné for the night. He slipped his arm around me. “My brother is an idiot,” he whispered. “But we shall make your stay memorable, and then you might not wish to go back.” He insisted that we go to a late-night café on Rue de Seine where bar staff gathered after work.

It was a small place; tables with candles squeezed into every available space; the walls covered in black and white prints of Paris in the 1960s; chart music turned low. “Brigitte Bardot, Françoise Hardy and Serge Gainsbourg used to come here,” said Ambre.

There was a vacant table in a dark corner.

“Come,” Thomas gestured. “Sit beside me and we can lust over Ambre and Léo together.” His hand rested lightly on my knee.

A young man brought bottles of red wine and fussed attentively over us.

“The waiter who was in charge of that part of the room was a young, handsome fellow, about 23 years of age,” said Ambre, smiling. Her eyes followed the blushing boy and then settled upon Léo.

“Civil, good-natured, and obliging,” Léo interjected. “He was a favourite with both master and son, the latter of whom, black-eyed beauty as he was, seemed to regard him with even affection.”

He signalled for Ambre to continue.

“But he was only a waiter: he was an heir,” she sighed and shook her head in quiet sadness. “Mutual affection is, in civilised parts of the world, a mere folly.”

Everyone laughed.

“The French are crazy people,” the waiter said to me with a shrug.

When he had gone, Thomas restored a sense of order around the table.

“I must see the incriminating photographs that have caused such remue-ménage.”

Ambre pulled out Le Pénis and handed it to him.

Thomas slowly flicked through the magazine, carefully studying each page, raising his eyebrows once or twice. We, the jury, waited until he finally reached the images of Charlie. Léo kicked me under the table while Thomas spent a long time examining the photographs.

“Thomas!” Ambre shrieked. “If you spend any more time looking at them, I shall think that you are becoming aroused by your own brother. What do you think?”

“I think it is a tragedy and a regeneration,” he replied. “Good pictures. Unusual themes—beautiful, dramatic, romantic—exquisitely thrilling and appealing. What more can I say.”

So far, I had been allowed to wallow in my misery; the quiet spectator who was content to let the others remain the focus of attention. But Ambre and Léo were waiting for me to say something.

“Your critique is interesting, it is almost an art form,” I managed to say, “but, sadly, that is not the way I see it.”

Thomas gave a great sigh and stroked my hand.

“I understand that you are hurting. I understand that you are embarrassed and angry. But we are not talking about war, suffering, or death. We are talking about photographs.”

“Only photographs,” I agreed, “but naked photographs of Charlie with an erection. It was a shock because I had no idea that he had agreed to be photographed in this way. Charlie usually tells me everything. In this case, he didn’t because he knew that I would disapprove.”

“And why would you have done so?” asked Ambre.

“Because,” I stammered, “I fail to see why the world should see him like this when I have not. Why has he allowed this to happen? I feel like a fool.”

My phone pinged again as it had done dozens of times. I looked at my messages, some accusatory, and some, I might add, showing concern. But I had no desire to reply. Among them, I saw that Bianchi had also messaged, and, for once, I did not feel guilty.

“Give me your phone,” Thomas demanded.

I resisted. It was said that a boy and his dog were inseparable, and the same might have applied to a boy and his phone. Especially when you knew that Thomas was about to do something that I might regret.

Thomas held his hand out and waited until I reluctantly handed it to him.

He laid the copy of Le Pénis on the table and took a photograph of it. Then he opened WhatsApp and sent it to Charlie.

It was as simple as that. No need to make excuses for not replying to messages. Make him see that I was angry without saying anything.

Almost immediately, the phone pinged.

“No, monsieur,” Thomas warned. “You are not permitted to look at it and certainly not allowed to answer it… at least not for three years.”

Charlie maintained that Thomas was stupid but, from what I saw and heard, I began to understand that the opposite was true. Thomas was like Charlie in some ways, and, as the older of the two brothers, had been able to refine his instincts in a way that made Charlie seem less complete.

Thomas turned and kissed me. His lips were warm and soft, and I felt the brush of stubble against my chin. When he pressed his tongue into my mouth I yielded, accepting that this had been the moment I had waited for. There was a soft, melodic hum—Ambre’s way of showing that she found this display of affection ‘cute’ and ‘heartwarming’. Léo gripped my inner thigh. “Nous prendrons soin de toi, ami,” he said soothingly.

We were interrupted by the waiter who, satisfied that the occupants of this corner table were unlikely to cause any trouble, had brought more red wine.

We talked for ages: nothing of any consequence.

“Thomas tells us that you are an established travel writer. That must be very exciting.”

“Well,” I volunteered, “Thomas is only partly correct. I am a travel writer who does not go anywhere.”

“And that you are also living in Italy.”

“Again, Thomas is being creative with the truth. I can stay in a room that Signora Bruschi keeps for me. It is not mine, and when I go, which is not often, I am allowed to stay rent free.”

“But you are able to make a living?”

I decided that the truth could wait for another day and nodded. My head spun slightly as I did so.

“Miles must earn money to keep Charlie,” Thomas interjected. “My brother is known for not paying his own way. But I think that they are in love most of the time.”

I pulled a face.

“I am a student at Paris Diderot University,” Léo said. “I study history and one day I shall win a Nobel Prize for my genius.”

Ambre howled with laughter.

“And that means you are always spending your time with friends, visiting cafés, and enjoying the nightlife. Studying is only a small part.”

“And do not underestimate the importance of sleep,” he said “Ambre does nothing worthwhile. She works in a fashion store at Canal Saint-Martin and spends her days complaining about loathsome Parisians with too much money and no manners.”

We talked for ages: nothing of any consequence.

“Where did you all meet?” I asked.

“We do not know when or how we met,” said Thomas. “A French thing. It is usually through a friend, or a friend of a friend, and after we have been introduced, they disappear and we are left with each other. It is a union of those people who are not wanted.”

“Non,” Ambre decided, “it was about sex.”

“What?”

“The French prioritise the art of seduction, and our appetites are natural and normal rather than shameful. We were certainly attracted to each other sexually.”

If that were true, then I had been unfortunate enough to have become involved with the only French person who did not follow such principles. But Charlie had allowed strangers to see him in a way that I, his lover, had never been permitted to. I thought back to the times when I had tried to be affectionate and the refusals that followed. And now there was the realisation that, if this relationship was to survive, it might have to be shared through the pages of magazines like Le Pénis.

I slipped away to the toilet, and, with Thomas not there to admonish me, I could not resist the urge to look at my phone. The last message from Charlie had been an hour ago and read: I love you. Really, I do. I had always understood the meaning of a Queen’s silence, or what might now be a King’s silence, and I was not drunk enough to forget it. I did not reply.

When I returned, Ambre was lip-synching to Melodrama. Léo was nowhere to be seen. Thomas had that ecstatic look on his face which suggested that he had taken something. But then I noticed that Léo had slipped beneath the table and was giving him a blow job. When somebody came over to say hello, Thomas shook their hand as he came in Léo’s mouth.

Charlie: The Promise of Paris – Partie 1

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Paris in the spring. The city had emerged from winter into blooming flowers, mild air, and sudden rain showers. Not like England, where winter still clung stubbornly to everything.

If I returned to Paris, Charlie had insisted that he should be the one to take me. It was the city where he had grown up, where his family still lived. But to Charlie’s frustration, he had not been able to come. He had recently landed a job as a nightclub DJ—something he had wanted desperately and had then come to hate.

“No, Charlie, you’ve only been here a few weeks. You can’t take a holiday.”

His anger and frustration were matched only by my hidden delight.

“You cannot go to Paris without me,” Charlie had pleaded.

“It is work, not pleasure,” I told him, adopting a serious tone. “I’m being paid to write about an art gallery.” It was an elaborate lie.

“But you’re not an art expert. I would have been able to tell you what is good and what is bad.”

I shrugged this off, quietly pleased at my good fortune.

“There’s no choice in the matter. I must go, and that’s that.”

Before I left, Charlie looked me straight in the eye.

“You must promise that you won’t see Thomas.”

“Charlie, I’m going to be busy. I won’t have time to see anyone—least of all Thomas.”

He was not placated.

“Promise me. Cross your heart that you’ll have no contact with him.”

“I promise I won’t see Thomas,” I lied. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Thomas was Charlie’s older brother, of dubious parentage, and I had met him only once, years earlier, when he stayed at our apartment for a few days. Charlie was convinced that Thomas had tried to seduce me.

That part was true.

Nothing had happened, but Thomas had left an impression.

We messaged each other regularly. More accurately, we flirted—quite shamelessly—and Charlie had no idea.

It was the same with Bianchi in Verona. Charlie had no idea that he existed either.

I climbed the steps from the Métro at Rue du Bac and found the bar on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Bar Dieudonné stood on a corner, occupying the first two floors of a traditional Haussmann building. A striped, blue awning ran along the façade, beneath which stainless-steel tables and matching chairs spilled onto the pavement. A handful of people sat outside, lingering over drinks.

This was the bar that Thomas managed, though I couldn’t see him. A young waiter took my order and raised his eyebrows slightly when I asked for a café crème—it was well into the afternoon.

I have always thought the best parts of this neighbourhood were the little streets that slipped away from Boulevard Saint-Germain: narrow cobbled lanes with outdoor cafés and dusty curio shops. But there was no work to do, and there would be plenty of time for wandering. For now, I sat back and watched the passing crowds—bohemians and tourists alike—talking loudly, smiling, drifting past in loose, cheerful hordes.

A small Algerian boy approached and held out his hand.

My French is about as good as my Italian, and I struggled for something to say. In the end I muttered “fuck off,” which only earned me a puzzled look. I waved him away instead, and he slunk back into the crowd, looking dejected.

I assumed I must be close to the house where Jean‑Paul Marat, one of the more notorious figures of the French Revolution, had been stabbed to death while writing in his bath. Yet this elegant corner of the 6th arrondissement had attracted many other ghosts over the years—Oscar Wilde, Charles Baudelaire, Ernest Hemingway, Jean‑Paul Sartre, and Simone de Beauvoir, among countless others. Shadows from earlier lives, but still somehow present.

A pair of hands suddenly covered my eyes from behind.

“Ah,” a voice said. “I see my intended lover has finally arrived.”

It was Thomas—tall, slender, delicate, with skin as pale as snow. A baseball cap hid most of his blond hair, which seemed to have been cut short. He kissed me lightly on both cheeks and then pulled me into a hug that felt surprisingly strong for someone with such an elegant frame.

“I hope my brother isn’t hiding somewhere, ready to appear and ruin everything.”

“I’m alone,” I said, “though Charlie has an uncanny ability to know everything that goes on—even when he isn’t there.”

Thomas sat opposite me and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

A small pang of guilt drifted through me.

“Where does Charlie think you’re staying?”

“An Airbnb,” I replied. “That way he won’t be able to track me down quite so easily.”

For a moment I wondered what I was doing here. Why was I willing to jeopardise everything with Charlie?

There was only one honest answer: sex.

My friend Levi says I have an addiction to it, and he may be right. On the Eurostar to Paris I had looked up the symptoms, and the similarities with my own life had been unsettling: continuing despite knowing the consequences; using it as a coping mechanism for something missing; an inability to control the urges; risky behaviour; escaping shame through sex; living a secret life to hide things from partners; compulsive pornography; confusing sexual attraction with intimacy.

The list had felt uncomfortably familiar.

I loved Charlie, and I had good reason to believe that he loved me. He was the perfect pin-up boy—French, handsome, with a body people envied. Everyone said they were jealous of us. The perfect couple.

Yet I also knew that Charlie would happily sleep with anyone who offered, while somehow maintaining an aversion to sleeping with me. That hurt more than I cared to admit. It was an awkward conversation we had both avoided.

Which meant I was always looking elsewhere.

Charlie, I suspected, probably was too.

Thomas, I decided, was the next closest thing to sleeping with Charlie. The same genes, the same beauty—though expressed differently. He possessed an allure that was quieter, more evocative.

And impossible to ignore.

“I must work until late,” he said, “but you can stay in my rooms upstairs.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him through a large doorway beside the bar. We climbed several flights of marble stairs, the walls decorated with faded mosaic patterns, until we reached his door.

“I should apologise,” Thomas said as he unlocked it. “My rooms are untidy. I’m not as particular as Charlie.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

The place reminded me of the many student apartments I had visited over the years—not dirty exactly, but nothing seemed to belong anywhere.

The main room was dominated by an enormous television fixed to the wall. Beneath it sat what could only be described as a gaming command centre, surrounded by controllers, headsets, and cables. A huge brown leather sofa occupied the middle of the room.

Unopened boxes were stacked in three corners, while the fourth had become a kind of tech graveyard—a tangled nest of charging cables, old headphones, and abandoned power banks. The window ledges were crowded with pot plants, some thriving, others clearly beyond saving.

The small kitchen counters were cluttered with dishes and coffee mugs—clean, but apparently without a cupboard willing to receive them. In one corner sat the remains of several breakfasts: croissants, chocolatines, pain aux raisins, brioche, alongside fresh bread, ground coffee, and hot chocolate.

It seemed Thomas lived almost entirely on whatever the pâtisserie across the street happened to produce.

The bedroom was no better.

A floordrobe of clean and discarded clothes spread across the wooden floor. He had adopted the “bare mattress” aesthetic: no sheets, the bed unmade, pillows scattered in all directions except where they were meant to be.

“Throw your bag in here,” he said casually. “Like I warned you—it’s a bit of a mess.”

The bathroom was clean, though untidy. Half-empty bottles of shower gel and shampoo lined the edge of the shower, alongside an assortment of deodorants and colognes. Toothpaste tubes lay scattered near the sink. Two toothbrush holders stood side by side, each containing a single toothbrush.

The toilet and bidet had been recently cleaned with pine disinfectant, and a full roll of ‘papier toilette’ had been folded into an elegant point, as if in a luxury hotel.

The illusion was spoiled, however, by the pile of discarded cardboard tubes that had accumulated beside the waste bin.

I had the impression that Thomas wanted to impress in certain places, though for the most part the effort had fallen short.

The contrast between the way Thomas and Charlie lived could hardly have been greater. Still, I wasn’t too concerned. I had stayed in places far worse than this.

Charlie had insisted that Thomas had a girlfriend, although the tone of Thomas’s messages to me had suggested otherwise. Flirty, flirty French boy.

But one small detail gave me pause: the two separate toothbrushes.

Almost as if he had read my thoughts, Thomas chose that moment to complicate matters.

“My girlfriend, Ambre, will be along later,” he said nonchalantly. “She’s bringing my friend Léo with her. They’ve promised to take you out this afternoon.”

I was left alone and cleared a small space for my neatly folded clothes. There would be no confusion about what belonged to whom. I also placed my own toothbrush beside the others.

That meant there were now three toothbrushes in the bathroom.

I made myself a strong coffee and waited for the arrival of Ambre and Léo.

They arrived in a burst of energy. Like Thomas and Charlie, their English was excellent, and although they often slipped into French when speaking to each other, they were careful to translate whatever they had said.

Ambre was a slim brunette who seemed to radiate personality. Bright and bubbly, she swept through the rooms with an effortless charm that felt distinctly French.

Léo, by comparison, was quieter.

He looked about twenty: dark-haired, reasonably handsome, with the faint beginnings of a moustache that might have taken months to achieve.

“Thomas was right,” Ambre said with a wink. “You are a very handsome homo boy. So, we must take you to Le Marais and let our boys decide for themselves.”

I couldn’t quite tell whether Léo was gay or not, but he appeared perfectly happy to be included in the plan.

They were easy to get along with, and before long it felt as though we had known each other for years. We wandered through several crowded bars, drinking pastis and mimosas, before eventually stopping at Joe le Sexy—a shop that might best be described as a kinky gay boutique, selling everything from books to toys and explicit magazines.

Ambre bought several bottles of Rush poppers and dropped them into a brown paper bag that did little to disguise where they had come from.

Léo grew visibly embarrassed when I began leafing through several issues of Le Pénis, a magazine that contained exactly what its title suggested. He peered over my shoulder, offering approving or disapproving noises depending on the size and shape of the appendage on display.

Up to this point I had become so caught up in the carefree afternoon that I hadn’t checked my phone. When I finally glanced at it in the shop, several messages from Charlie were waiting.

They followed a familiar pattern: polite curiosity slowly hardening into anxiety once I hadn’t replied.

“Where are you?”

“Did you find the art gallery?”

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Answer me.”

“Make sure you do not go to find Thomas.”

I carefully composed a reply.

“All good, Charlie. Found the gallery. Busy talking. Call you later x”

Almost immediately a thumb-up appeared

I felt strangely comfortable with the small fiction I had created. The sunshine had put me in a carefree mood, and the alcohol had washed away any lingering doubts that I might be behaving like a bit of a skank.

When I put my phone away, Léo was still browsing through Le Pénis. I rested my chin lightly on his shoulder, and he seemed perfectly content for me to share the explicit photographs with him. He smelled faintly of Bleu de Chanel and something musky beneath it.

I decided that I really did like French boys.

He turned the pages idly, but suddenly something caught my eye, and I stopped him at once.

“What is it?” Léo asked.

“Turn back a few pages.”

He flipped slowly through the magazine until I told him to stop.

I froze.

Léo stared at the page, trying to understand what had unsettled me.

Unsettled wasn’t quite the word. It felt more like a bomb going off.

“I can’t believe it,” I said quietly. “These are photographs of Charlie.”

Léo looked puzzled. I later forgave him for not recognising him—he had apparently never met him—but there was no doubt in my mind.

Several glossy colour images showed Charlie completely naked, proudly demonstrating that this magazine truly deserved its title. In Charlie’s case, it might more accurately have been called Grandiose Le Pénis.

The penis was magnificent.

A rush of conflicting sensations flooded through me. Mortification. Confusion. Disbelief.

And anger—enough to make me want to tear someone’s head off.

“Fuck me, Léo,” I muttered. “That’s my boyfriend.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that this enormous dick shouldn’t be in here.”

Léo didn’t seem to know how to respond and called Ambre over for support. He spoke rapidly in French while she gave short replies that sounded increasingly disapproving.

“Let me see,” she said.

Léo held up the magazine while she studied the photographs of Charlie, although what this was meant to accomplish remained unclear to me.

“And you did not know?” she asked.

“No!” I snapped.

“Maybe it is AI,” she suggested thoughtfully. “Maybe this zizi does not belong to him. Maybe it has been… enhanced.”

“The point isn’t the size of his dick,” I said. “The point is that he’s showing it in a magazine—especially when…”

I stopped myself.

“Especially when what?” Léo asked.

“Especially when I have absolutely no idea what size his dick is,” I said. “Because I’ve never seen it.”

Ambre and Léo exchanged a quick glance. Neither seemed to know what they were supposed to say.

“Ça va aller,” Ambre said gently. “We must speak with Thomas. Perhaps he knows something about this. I will call him now.”

She stepped outside the shop and spoke quickly into her phone.

“Poor thing,” said Léo softly.

Ambre returned a few minutes later, slightly out of breath.

“I spoke with Thomas. He knows nothing about it.”

By that point I had slipped into a strange kind of numb shock.

Ambre bought the offending issue of Le Pénis and dropped it into the same brown bag that already contained the bottles of poppers.

“And now,” she announced firmly, “we are going to find another bar and get you extremely drunk.”

He understood that a work of art, or an effort to create beauty, was regarded by some people as a personal attack

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They said he was a prodigy, and I didn’t doubt it. Pour le piano. He played notes that were delicate and haunting. But those gentle sounds had meaning and showed that he recognised beauty but didn’t know what to do with it, and this was the cause of his torment.

He peered from underneath a baseball cap, sad frightened eyes, that looked at the door behind.

“When Debussy died on March 25, 1918, in Paris, it was being bombarded by the Germans….” He stopped playing, “ … “and it was raining.” I’d heard this line before but couldn’t remember where.

He walked towards the bookshelf and pulled out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes that were hidden behind Patti Smith’s A Book of Days. The holy egoism of genius. He blew smoke into the air. “I am repaired, reconstructed, remodelled, remixed, rethought, reimagined, reinterpreted, rekindled, reactivated, but not rebooted!”

***

Almost everything here is inspired by Art of Noise

Le Trumpet – high up in the sky the little stars climb

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Benoit was sixteen on the night his grandfather died. He climbed onto the roof, curled up against the warm chimney, and looked over the rooftops of Le Septième.

His grandfather had been ill for months. The tiny bed had been pushed against the window where he would watch the street and its people. In the evenings, Benoit’s mother sat beside him, and talked about old times.

When he died, they both cried.

That night, Benoit listened to the noisy traffic, police sirens, and the animated chatter from Café Maxim below. As it got later, the traffic quietened, and voices were replaced by the clatter of plates being washed in the kitchens. By the early hours, most Parisians were asleep.

It started to rain, and Benoit found the sound of raindrops trickling down the sloping roof strangely reassuring.

The city grew quiet, and the people of Paris slipped into their beds. A church bell chimed one o’clock and Benoit listened carefully.

It was a familiar sound.

A mournful trumpet played across the dark rooftops, and it was his grandfather’s tune.

Benoit thought about the battered old trumpet that still lay beside the empty bed, the one that used to play Stardust.

***

Sebastien was in the market when somebody told him that Landry had died in his bed.

The news made him sad, and he went for a walk to remember the good times he’d had with the old man.

With a baguette under his arm, he walked beside the river where the fishermen on the bank thought he looked a lonely sight.

When it began to go dark, he walked through the park and kicked autumn leaves like he used to as a little boy.

Sebastien was twenty-two now and was at the Paris Conservatory where he studied classical trumpet.

He thought of the day outside Café Maxim where Landry had showed him the trumpet he’d found in the attic of an old house in Normandy and then taught him how to play it.

And Sebastien played it quite well and was good enough for his parents to buy him a new one that had cost a lot of money.

Sebastien called at Café Maxim and spoke with Landry’s friends. They bought him a beer and ate the baguette that had snapped into two pieces, and they all agreed that they would miss the old Frenchman.

They raised several toasts to Landry, and it was after midnight when Sebastien arrived home.

He climbed the rickety stairs to the flat on the top floor and opened the French windows. The breeze caused the curtains to billow inwards and the first drops of rain started to fall.

He looked at his shiny trumpet and thought about the first tune he’d played.

The clock from the church chimed once, and he put the trumpet to his lips and played in memory of Landry.

It was Stardust.