“And a spokesperson. And a lightning rod. The planet’s most well-known official homosexual. Because unlike so many figures in the arts, I wasn’t perceived as an outlier, or a bohemian. I was the good boy, the scrubbed face, Prince Perfect. But there was also an enormous backlash. I’ve rarely addressed it, because I’ve never wanted special treatment of any kind. And the Palace preferred to minimise all of it, the good and the bad. But along with the most thrilling support, there was a firestorm of hatred. For every housewife who cheered me on and just wanted me to meet the right bloke there was a fundamentalist or far-right politician or neo-Nazi who reviled me. There were death threats, and there still are, which demand heightened security. My appearances remain limited, especially in other, less tolerant countries. James insists.”

I should’ve caught on to these repercussions. But I’d clung to Edgar’s image of carefree openness. I’d expected him to be a queer heartthrob, an out citizen of the world, a leap forward.

“And now here I am. The role model. The lab rat. Which is a position I take seriously. If I make a misstep, it’s viewed, fairly or not, as a mark against gay people everywhere. And I’m not just talking about the conservative response. I receive just as many, if not more, accusations and insults and taunts from other gay people. I’m too vanilla. Too acceptable. Too straight-seeming. I’m out but not out enough, or not in the correct manner, or never sufficiently standard-bearing. The out sellout. The assimilated android. And again, I’m not complaining, I know that I’m far beyond lucky, and that my being out is nothing compared to a kid being bullied, or beaten, or abandoned by his family, or hurled off a building or stoned to death in accordance with another nation’s legal system.”

“But today was just a rugby match . . .”

“But it counts. Everything counts.”

Edgar stared at me with a weary anger.

“Carter. I don’t want to discourage you or speak from some haughty celebrity high ground. But this is a major part of why I invited you here, and into my life. Up until now, you’ve been anonymous, which I envy. You can wander. You can experiment. You can meet hundreds of men and have every kind of sex and stumble home the next morning and discuss it with your roommates.”

“Well, not hundreds of men . . .”

“You know what I’m saying . . .”

He sat on a folding chair, shaking.

“Should I go?” I asked him. “Back to America?”

“Would you like to?”