Page 16 of One Last Try

She’s got me. Not that many men who like men live in the hamlet of Mudford-upon-Hooke. There’s me, nineteen-year-old Orlando Oakham-Goodwin, and Tomas and Bryn who are married to each other and therefore very, very unlikely to be on Grindr. And even if they were, I’ve seen both men with their shirts off, since they play sevens with me on Sundays, and neither sport any variety of six-pack similar to the one on display on Daisy’s phone.

“For science . . . How can I look at his other pictures?”

“For science?”

“For science,” I confirm, nodding as solemnly as I can manage.

“You’d have to ask Lan that.Ooor . . .you could always create your own Grindr account. Ooh, you should do that, actually. Let Mathias know you’re DTF.”

“What’s DTF?” I ask, instantly regretting it.

Daisy looks me up and down, tries to keep her smirk hidden . . . fails. “Down to fuck.”

“Right, that’s it!” I jump to my feet and point to the door. “Outta my pub. Now. Go on, sling yer hook.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” she says, scooping her phone up from the bar and grabbing her hoodie on the way to the door.

“Good, because I’ve got shit to do today.”

Like trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to afford the new thatch if Mathias is moving out of Fernbank.

I know he said he’d still pay the remainder of the lease, but it all feels so wrong. How can I ask him for the money if he’s not using the space? And even if he stays, I still have to iron out where the rest of the money’s coming from. Mathias’s rent will barely touch the sides.

“Don’t need to know what other shit you’ve got to do, Dad,” she calls over her shoulder. “Oh, but if you want to look at Matt’s Instagram pics, his handle is Inspector Gadget ninety-five. Okay, love you, bye.”

“Text me later,” I yell, but she’s already gone.

The moment I hear the engine start on her yellow Fiat 500 I pull my phone out and bring up Instagram. I have ninety-nine-plus notifications, and not because I’m popular, but because it’s been so long since I last looked at it. Mostly they’re follow requests from folk who recognise my name from my rugby heyday. I have an official Owen Bosley IG page that my agent—still have one of those too—runs, but people seem to find this one as well. I never accept their requests because all I ever post are pictures of the girls or the pub,and I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry spying on the things that mean the most to me.

I ignore the requests once again and type Mathias’s handle into the search bar.@inspectorgadget95.

A jolt of adrenaline runs up my spine, like I’m doing something illegal or dangerous—shoplifting, vandalism, confronting an escaped zoo lion—not looking at a fucking Instagram page.

The first hit is him. Undeniably him. My heartbeat quickens.

The profile picture shows his full face, smiling for once. He’s in a field, but it’s not a rugby pitch, more like a farmer’s field. In his arms sits a curly-haired tan Cockapoo. Perhaps the famous Brian.

His photos are blocked from my viewing pleasure. A“This Account is Private”notice tells me I need to request access.

Under the little circular profile pic, which has a pink ring around the outside—I should ask Daisy what that means—is his name, Mathias, and his bio.

75% rugby, 20% gadgets, 5% opinions about potatoes

Oh shit. Oh no.

No, no, no, no.

There’s the slightest chance I’ve just developed a crush on Mathias Jones.

7

Tuesday 9th January 2018

Owen

The press conference room stinks of radiator-heated dust and the clawing, sickly sweet cocktail of forty-plus journalists’ perfumes, colognes, and gum. The scent catches in the back of my throat and threatens to come out as vomit.

Davina, my agent slash PA, asked if I could bring the girls today. Apparently, the family-man vibe is good for my image. So we’re all here. Molly, Daisy . . . and Kirsty, even though it’s been five years since the divorce.

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