Page 32 of The Elements

Following my successful audition, Rafe put me to work.

I had a very particular clientele; or, rather, he did.

Mostly men in late middle age. Thriving in financially successful jobs.

Some in the public eye. Occasionally married.

I was professional in my dealings with them but clear from the start about what I was willing to do and what I was not.

If a client ignored my rules, then I would leave, and Rafe never reproached me for this.

On the contrary, I knew he could be unforgiving with anyone who demanded more than was on offer.

Payments were made directly to him. He took a one-third share, and I took the rest. Despite the nature of our first meeting, I grew strangely fond of him, and wanted to impress, feeling a curious sense of pleasure whenever he reported positive remarks from clients back to me.

Some men wanted to book me on a regular basis, but I limited myself to a maximum of four encounters with each.

Any more than that and they would start to believe that we were something we were not.

I once spent a half hour studying Constable’s Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s Grounds at the V&A while waiting for a client who was taking me as his guest to a party at the Natural History Museum.

Often, when I was hired as a piece of human jewelry at some lavish engagement, the client preferred to connect somewhere nearby first to ensure that I was appropriately dressed and could adhere to basic social niceties.

As it turned out, he liked me, and I didn’t entirely loathe him, so we saw each other a few times afterward.

He was entirely vanilla in his tastes, which was a bonus, and it probably could have lasted longer, for he was wealthy, and generous with his cash, but I ended it when he invited me to move in with him, promising that I’d never have to pay for anything again for as long as I lived.

Men like him never understood what a turn-off a line like that could be.

I learned this lesson a second time with Samuel, who ran a luxury real estate company and lived in an exquisite apartment near Hyde Park.

Our routine was that I would visit him on the last Friday of every month when his wife went to Cornwall to visit her parents.

His needs were simple, and I was relaxed in his company, but after our fourth meeting he asked me to join him for a drink in a Soho wine bar and, as he would be paying for both my time and my margaritas, I agreed.

We’d never met in the wild before, so the evening started with some awkward small talk, but it grew even worse when he announced that he had fallen in love with me and, to my intense embarrassment, seemed convinced that I had developed similar feelings toward him.

He talked of leaving his wife and of our setting up home together, expressing the hope that, in time, his son would come to accept our relationship.

“What relationship?” I asked.

“This relationship,” he said, reaching across to take my hand. I allowed this. He was the client, after all. “The one we’ve built. It’s gone past just a commercial transaction, Evan, don’t you think? I know you feel the same way.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” I told him. “I’m sure you’re a nice enough person, if we disregard your marital infidelities and your willingness to exploit a young man in financial difficulties, but I have no interest in pursuing anything long term with you.

You employed me to do a job, that’s all.

Outside of that, I have no feelings for you whatsoever.

I do what I do simply to avoid returning to the island. ”

“The island?” he asked, looking puzzled.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, shaking my head, annoyed that I had revealed any part of my previous life to him. “The point is, you mean nothing to me, Samuel. Nothing at all. I say this to be kind. So you won’t deceive yourself.”

He was clearly shocked by the brutality of my words and began to cry, which was excruciating. I grew nauseous. People were looking at us. It was too much.

“You’re lying,” he said, wiping away his tears. “I know you feel something.”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Try.”

“But I can give you everything you—”

I excused myself then, saying I needed the bathroom, before leaving the bar and blocking his number on my phone. That was the moment I decided I would never see any man more than four times.

Until Sir arrived, that is. With Sir, I had no choice. The decisions were all his.

That experience, my final as human chattel, began a few months after the Samuel debacle when Rafe phoned to say that he had a very special client who was interested in meeting me.

“Fine,” I said. “Send me his details.”

“No, I don’t want to put anything in text,” he told me.

“Why not?”

“Because nothing disappears. Nothing is forgotten. Everything we say or do these days clings to us forever. Meet me for a coffee and I’ll explain.”

We met in the Reform Club on Pall Mall, where he was a member, and he handed me an A4 envelope containing a document that he instructed me to sign.

It was a nondisclosure agreement, he explained.

The previous boys with whom his client had spent time had all done so, he told me, so I shouldn’t worry about its contents.

It simply said that I could never reveal any details about our encounters or I would be subject to criminal proceedings.

I never spoke about what I did anyway, nor did I have anyone with whom I might speak about it, so was content to do as he asked.

The payment, to my surprise, was more than twice my regular rate, which could change things considerably for me.

“Excellent,” he said, returning the document to the envelope. “What’s most important here, of course, is discretion. Are you discreet, Evan?”

“You know I am,” I told him.

“I think I do, yes. But in this particular case, it’s important for you to understand that, if you were to be reckless, there would be consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?” I asked.

“Severe consequences.”

He removed another envelope from his bag and told me that it contained a picture of his client.

If I opened the envelope, he said, that would be taken as a tacit agreement on my part that I was willing to play by the rules.

If I returned it to him unopened, then I could walk away now, he would find someone else, and our current arrangements would not change in any way.

“But if you say yes,” he told me, “you don’t get to choose when the arrangement ends. That will be his prerogative. Do you understand?”

“You wouldn’t put me in danger, would you?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he said, smiling at me. “You know you’re my favorite boy.”

I wanted to believe him but worried that I was doing what some of my clients did with me, believing that our relationship ran deeper than our professional ties.

I didn’t want a sexual relationship with Rafe, but sometimes, when I was with other men, I thought of him.

I wanted something. Something I couldn’t quite define.

I opened the second envelope and slid the picture out, recognizing the man immediately, and looked across at Rafe in disbelief.

“Obviously, now you understand the need for discretion,” he said, retrieving the envelope, along with the picture, and returning both to his bag.

“Of course.”

“I’ll text you with details of your first engagement. A day and time, nothing more. A car will collect you at a given place and return you there afterward.”

Three days later, at seven p.m., I found myself standing outside one of the lesser-frequented Tube stations in London as a black Range Rover pulled up next to me.

The most enormous man I had ever seen was driving, and we both remained silent throughout the journey.

It took around forty minutes until we arrived at a set of iron gates, which were immediately opened for us.

We made our way up a long driveway before stopping in a central courtyard, where a second man in livery was waiting to guide me inside and upstairs.

He barely acknowledged me as I exited the vehicle, simply starting to walk, and I assumed that I should follow.

“What do I call him?” I asked, and he didn’t even turn as he answered.

“Sir,” he said. “You call him Sir at all times.”

I nodded, wishing he would slow down, for the walls of the corridors were hung with extraordinary paintings, the masterpieces of many centuries, and I wanted to pause for a moment so I could study them.

Soon, I was led into a spacious room where I recognized a chesterfield sofa and armchair, along with some handsomely upholstered chairs and a desk of Regency design.

As he left the room, he instructed me to remain standing and not to touch anything.

I examined the photographs that stood on the various surfaces, faces I’d seen on news programs and in magazines throughout my life.

They looked like any normal family. How had I got here?

I asked myself. I grew up on an island of four hundred people.

I worked on a farm. I wanted to be a painter.

After about ten minutes, a door at the other end of the room opened and he came in, walking toward me with a smile on his face.

I instinctively stood as tall as I could.

“Good evening,” he said. “It’s Evan, have I got that right?”

“That’s right, Sir,” I told him.

“Splendid.” He continued to smile, betraying no anxiety at how unusual this meeting was. “And where are you from exactly?”

I told him the name of the island and explained its location relative to Galway, and he nodded, looking me up and down as I talked. He seemed uninterested in my answer, even though he’d asked the question.

“Very good,” he said. “And you know the rules, yes? They’ve been explained to you?”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied. “I understand them fully.”