The Magnificent Sons

by Justin Myers

Genres: Family Life; Siblings; Friendship; LGBT & Pride; LGBT Bisexual

Synopsis

'Funny, beautifully observed and moving' Adam Kay

'Tales Of The City for a new generation . . . smart, touching, razor-sharp one-liners, a life-affirming read . . . I fell utterly in love with it' John Marrs

'Funny, kind, insightful book, about those who get left behind' Russell T Davies

Two brothers. Two different journeys. The same hope of a magnificent future.

At twenty-nine, Jake D'Arcy has finally got his life just right. Job with prospects: check. Steady girlfriend: check. Keeping his exhausting, boisterous family at bay: check. So why isn't he happier?

When his confident, much-adored younger brother Trick comes out as gay to a rapturous response, Jake realises he has questions about his own repressed bisexuality, and that he can't wait any longer to find his answers.

As Trick begins to struggle with navigating the murky waters of adult relationships, Jake must confront himself and those closest to him. He's beginning to believe his own life could be magnificent, if he can be brave enough to make it happen . . .

'Just wonderful. Warm, funny and believable, with characters you feel you know. And with, as ever, some enviably KILLER lines' Marina O'Loughlin

'MAGNIFICENT. It's all about the complicated issues of families and sexuality, the writing is pacy, smart and funny, and the storytelling is first-rate' Adam Kay, bestselling author of This is Going to Hurt

'With razor sharp observation, this coming of age story is full of heart' Sunday Mirror

'Raw and honest, more complex and real than most coming out stories' The i Paper

'Original, compelling, touching and funny' Francesca Hornak, author of Seven Days of Us

'A funny, keenly observed tale about relationships and identity' Red Magazine

'Brilliant. I fell in love with Jake and there was something special about reading the brothers' stories unfold while keeping one eye on my own magnificent sons playing in our garden' The Unmumsy Mum

'Really funny, really moving, really sweet, a really great read . . . I tore through it . . . Love it!' Lindsey Kelk

'The Magnificent Sons is a compelling story that explores the intricacies of family and sexuality, while being entertaining and amusing; pick yourself a sunny afternoon and devour it!' Is That You Darling

'Justin Myers (AKA The Guyliner) brings his signature wit and empathy to this portrait of a larger-than-life family at a crossroads. It sparkles with humour' Isabel Costello

More praise for Justin Myers:

'Extremely funny, with real heart, depth and resonance' Daisy Buchanan

'Insightful, heartfelt and witty' Laura Jane Williams

'So funny and sharp, yet tender and emotional too' Jill Mansell

'Brilliant, funny and incisive' Stylist

Release date: May 28, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

Jake wasn’t sure he was ready for this horror show, not today, or indeed ever. Hanging out with his family was torture enough at the best of times, but when his baby brother was the focus of the attention – not that this was unusual – his family’s ‘quirks’ went into overdrive. Jake stared out of the train window for the first sign he was near enough to Balham to stand up, and pictured what lay ahead. Trick’s birthdays were always ostentatious and, as this was his seventeenth, his mother had taken to labelling it ‘the last birthday where he’s still my baby’. Her middle name was Marie, but it should’ve been Drama. No doubt she’d already be on the rosé, teetering on a stepladder hanging up bunting, wearing one of her knitwear ‘creations’ that could be seen from space, laughing like a drain at one of Dad’s terrible jokes, before sneaking off for a cigarette on the back terrace even though she was supposed to have given up in 2013. ‘Mum, we all know!’ was a common cry from his siblings. Dad would be operating in one of two settings: default, full-on geezer mode, handing out tins of beer and rubbing his hands together in anticipation; or holed up in his sports lounge, glued to the planet-sized TV, not listening to anyone. His sister Margo would be partly made-up – she always seemed to be halfway through applying mascara – and chasing Buddy, her six-year-old, round the kitchen with a forkful of unidentifiable food. He imagined himself at the roulette wheel and placed his bets.

Jake messaged Amelia to see if she’d got the cake. He knew she’d text back that of course she fucking had and why was he asking stupid questions, but he wanted to show he appreciated it. Her offer to help came, Jake guessed, from adoring Trick and his (irritating) idiosyncrasies, but also trying to curry favour with his mum, who Amelia was convinced didn’t like her. Still. After, what? Three years now? Maybe more. He had spent so long pretending anniversaries weren’t important – most of his friends did, too; making it up to their girlfriends seemed part of the courting ritual – that it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

‘She always peers at me like I’m a waxwork and she can’t work out who I’m meant to be,’ complained Amelia. ‘I don’t know why.’ Jake knew she’d already be there, in the middle of all the chaos, and he felt sorry he’d left her at the mercy of the D’Arcys. Usually she would be fine left with Trick – God knows what they talked about – but Jake knew he’d be upstairs waiting to make his entrance. Just like every year.

Though he referred to his parents’ Balham house as ‘home’, it never felt right coming out of his mouth. Jake had spent more time living away from it than being there; he preferred to think of Walworth, a couple of miles up the road, as his real home, before they moved, when he was fourteen and Dad made what they still referred to in hushed tones as ‘the money’ building ugly slivers in Dubai, and ‘phase two’ of their existence as a family began. Jake remembered leaving the comforting courtyards and alleyways of the estate; it had coincided with Trick uttering a full sentence for the first time and being treated like he’d just discovered uranium.

Jake opened the back door to find the dog, Joanie, sitting staring resentfully at the closed kitchen door; she refused to wag her tail even for him. He mussed the fur on the dog’s head and strode into the kitchen to find the usual chaos.

He clocked Amelia in one corner trying to slide a far too gooey gateau on to an ugly serving plate while his mother climbed down from the stepladder. The second her feet touched the floor, one of the strings of bunting fell down. He had won that bet.

Margo was decanting crisps from gigantic catering-size packets into melamine bowls. She winked at Jake.

‘Trick will go mad when he sees these carbs.’

‘Margs, will you give Buddy something to eat?’ called Mum. ‘He can’t wait for everyone else. You don’t want him eating junk.’

Margo snorted. ‘Yes, Gran. If you’ve got a couple of arms free, you can always do it, Jake.’

Jake scooped up his nephew, tweaked his nose and popped a crisp into his mouth. ‘Hello, mate. Want a sandwich?’

Buddy absentmindedly scratched his eye. Tired already. He made a face as he swallowed. ‘Chicken crisps are made from hen’s eyes. My friend Cassius said. His mum eats vegans.’

‘Is vegan, Bud.’ Margo brushed crumbs off her hands and eyeballed Jake. ‘She is not vegan. I saw her in Five Guys last week. There was bacon hanging out the sides of her burger.’

Jake buttered bread for Buddy’s sandwich. ‘How many are coming?’ If he knew Trick, a cast of thousands would be in attendance.

‘It’s very complicated. Use this.’ Margo plonked some ham down in front of him. ‘The understanding is, close family and select friends first. There’s a … presentation.’

Not a huge surprise. Trick’s sixteenth birthday had featured a dance recital and a reading from The Hunger Games. ‘Can’t wait. Then what?’

Amelia appeared, licking icing off her finger, and kissed Jake hello. ‘Then the rest of the wild teenagers arrive for the night-time festivities, whereupon we hop it. Although I’d rather stay! There’s vodka jelly.’ Jake’s mum and dad had planned a strategic trip to the West End to get out of the way. ‘I said you’d be okay to pop in on the teenage dreams later, though, so we need to stay local. Go to one of the pubs on the high street, yeah?’

Jake couldn’t believe Trick and his friends were to be left with the run of the house, to have a birthday party. And vodka? This wouldn’t have happened when he was seventeen – mind you, he’d had barely enough friends at that age to fill the downstairs loo, never mind the whole house.

Mum chewed a biro as she watched everyone set the table, making a mental note to move everything round when left by herself. ‘He was strict about the guest list for this part. Super close only.’

That’s why Mum’s best friend Reenie – who had lived in the flat next door in Walworth and popped round most days under the guise of doing some cleaning – was coming, and also Jake’s university friend Hannah, who had spent many holidays, and a few months after graduation, camping out in the family’s guest room. She seemed to get on with everyone better than Jake did, if he was honest; he’d never quite got over it. She and her boyfriend Dean weren’t here yet, though, and he was half-glad – he knew Amelia couldn’t understand the concept of Hannah, and Jake having a female friend that he’d never slept with. Also missing at this key stage were his dad and the birthday boy himself, who, as predicted, was stewing upstairs plotting his dramatic descent with his closest acolytes.

Jake signalled to Amelia that he was going to find his dad, and padded through to the front lounge, where Pat, his father, was watching a sport Jake didn’t recognise. Shinty? Hoverboarding? His dad would watch anything as long as it involved a vague rulebook and two teams of men pulverising one another.

‘Hello, my son!’ His eyes stayed on the TV.

‘Any idea what’s going on tonight, Dad?’

‘Naaaaaaaw. Trick’s usual theatrics. Bit of acting, maybe. Last year’s will be hard to beat.’

Despite sharing two halves of the same name – Trick was named Patrick after his father in a rare moment of sentimentality by Mum, and nicknamed Trick ever since to avoid confusion – to a casual observer the two had nothing in common, but Jake knew his dad had a kind of protective, proud respect for Trick. They were certainly more alike than Jake and his dad. They were loud. If you’d arranged to meet the D’Arcys in a busy pub, you could always find them. Their squawking was a homing device, a booming GPRS. Jake had seen people move tables to get away from his parents’ ruination of the chorus of ‘Angels’ after a few drinks. Jake, however, never raised his voice in their company. He’d never understood why they were so keen to be heard when they didn’t have anything interesting to say. His parents found Jake’s perceived shyness extremely amusing. ‘The quietest are the worst,’ was their go-to phrase, accompanied by a friendly poke in the shoulder, before returning to their ear-splitting cackling. In these situations, as a teenager, Jake would pray for a knock at the door by a distressed, yet very serene family, who wanted to talk about a ‘mix-up at the hospital’.

Suddenly, from the floor above, doors slammed and there was raucous laughter and choreographed clomping down the stairs.

Pat lifted his eyes from the screen and winked at his firstborn.

‘Showtime, kid.’

Trick was tamely dressed for a change: svelte and sleek in a black roll-neck, tucked into black trousers, boasting a flat stomach you could iron on. His shiny dark hair fell in a heavy fringe across eyes thick with guyliner, his lips glimmering with a sparkly frosting and waist adorned with a belt buckle, upon it the phrase ‘BITCH PLEASE’ in a speech bubble. He was surrounded by two or three friends Jake didn’t recognise at first – Jake’s contact with them had been restricted to the odd family Sunday lunch, where Trick and his votaries would breeze in, look up from their phones only to roll their eyes in formation before disappearing upstairs – until he spotted Kia. There was a time Kia was the gobby brat from down the road who got into all sorts of trouble with his brother and was, outwardly at least, known to be a boy, with a slightly different name. Now Kia was Kia and a woman, and while Margo said there were mutterings in the local mini-mart and Kia spent a few nights in the D’Arcys’ guest room while family stuff had been ironed out, it seemed like everything might be settling down.

Kia stepped forward. ‘Okay, guys, fam, once everyone’s here we’ll move to the sports lounge for tonight’s … uh, Trick’s show.’ Trick beamed. Being talked about like he wasn’t there was one of his major kinks.

‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ said Margo, as Trick and his posse posed for photos and complimented one another on their fashion choices like they hadn’t all seen each other getting ready upstairs for the last three hours. ‘How they’ve found each other?’

Jake knew that wasn’t how it worked. If you were an outsider at school, you didn’t ‘find each other’; you were thrown together, rejection by the masses being your unifier. He remembered trying to keep his head down and making careful modifications to his personality so any clique he was trying to claw his way into would tolerate him. It hadn’t been easy, and success rates had varied, but the alternative was sitting in the lunch room with the crew who got nosebleeds and set fire to stuff, or the ones whose dietary requirements were always to hand on a dog-eared piece of paper and who couldn’t go out in direct sunlight. Being on vague nodding terms with someone cooler was much better than being pals with someone you didn’t like. If his best friends Charlie and Adyan hadn’t started chatting to him in the local park one summer he didn’t know what he’d have done – and thankfully, as they went to different schools, there was no pecking order to navigate. They treated him like one of them, albeit more bookish and much fonder of cycling than the wanking competitions they favoured.

Margo continued. ‘So different from when we were at school. It isn’t even that long ago.’

‘Different?’

Margo gazed into the distance as if remembering. ‘Yeah. Can you imagine lads going round full of make-up and nail varnish, or trans kids? They’d have been eaten alive. You wouldn’t have been able to get away with it. It’s so great they can express themselves.’

‘I expressed myself with my sneakers, Margs, not a face full of make-up.’

Right on cue Trick and Kia screamed in unison at their phones. ‘Okay, well, if Hot Will isn’t coming we only have Hannah to wait for. I’ll message her.’

Jake turned to Margo. ‘The reason they can “express themselves”, as you put it, is they go to a private school. They pay to be weird. I bet down at the local comp it’s business as usual and this generation’s version of Colin Barden will be having his inhaler chucked up on the roof.’

‘Oh my God, poor Colin. He was so unpopular. Hang on … are you saying rich people are more tolerant?’ Margo scoffed. ‘I thought bullying was part of a private school’s syllabus!’

Jake watched Trick and Kia do a series of ballet moves. Not more interpretative dance, please. ‘No, but money talks. If the little preciouses want to walk the corridors dressed like Elsa from Frozen, they do.’

Margo shook her head. ‘There’s a change happening, even in local comps. I can feel it.’

Jake rammed the last of his crisps in his mouth. ‘Well, you’ll find out soon enough when you’re teaching the local dropouts how to hula-hoop.’

‘There’s much more to training to be a PE teacher than hula-hooping, thank you. I have to teach Humanities as well. Anyway …’ She surmised her brother was slipping into one of his infamous sulks. ‘I better go find Buddy before the main event; he loves a spectacle.’

Hannah barrelled through the door with three helium balloons – one with a 1 on, one with a 7, and another with 18, but ‘−1’ scrawled underneath in Sharpie. ‘Don’t panic, D’Arcys! Princess Party is here!’ She kissed Jake on the cheek. ‘Hi, fave. How are you? Why the serious face?’

‘I’ve been doing my “I can cope with this” grin for an hour-plus. Where’ve you been?’

‘Tube was hotter than Satan’s ass-crack – oh, hi, Mrs D – so I got off for a breather. At the pub.’ She beamed widely. ‘But I’m here now.’

‘No Dean?’

‘Circuit training. We’ve lost him to sweat and spandex. Oh, hiiiiii, Tricky baby; happy birthday!’ Hannah enveloped Trick in a bear hug and pretended to slobber kisses all over his face. Jake didn’t get this dynamic at all. ‘I was screaming at your latest vid. From Sunday? With the Coke float?’

Trick absorbed the adoration like a king. ‘Wait till you see tonight’s.’

Apart from being an annoyingly conscientious A-level student, Trick’s side hustle was making videos, broadcasting to the nation – well, his subscribers – and he was, by all accounts, quite good at it. Jake had watched a couple out of loyalty when Trick had first started his channel, but had found them superficial and aimless. Jake’s favourite YouTubers were fitness gurus who did kettlebell swings using a half-packed trolley case or instruction videos on how to fasten a necktie to look like a Danish pastry. Droning on to the camera about last night’s TV, celebrity romances and concealer did not appeal. But, as lacking as it was in plot, Trick’s followers were genuinely interested in his story.

Kia tapped a fork on her plastic tumbler – presumably to get a bit of hush but it sounded like she was drumming on it like a toddler – and the lights dimmed. On the screen appeared a huge picture of Trick at the age of, Jake guessed, seven. Jake had to admit his brother had been cute: jet-black hair and shining blue eyes; not cherubic and pudgy like other children, but sleek and angular. He was destined to be a beauty; it had helped him get away with murder for years.

Jake looked round as everyone faced front, rapt. Amelia huddled in next to him. Jake breathed in her scent and felt mildly placated. But still. How much longer? He never understood this family trait of hanging on Trick’s every word. Jake and Margo got on well for siblings three years apart, but she and Trick were closer. Maybe it was because he had left home long ago and they hadn’t, but when he heard people talk about ‘the D’Arcys’ he thought of the other four, not picturing himself among them at all. And the nickname thing had always bugged him. At school, the coolest people had alter egos. As ridiculous as they were, nicknames were labels of belonging; tribal. It was the same at home. Margo was really Megan, but renamed as a toddler, after a character in an old sitcom who she looked like when she sulked. Trick’s name was instant cool, Dad was Pat, of course, and Mum was Vee – short for Genevieve, which she’d thought too posh to use every day, but kept the name for her hair salon. Jake, however, was just Jake. No cutesy nickname, no extra moniker, nothing. Not even Jacob, which would’ve given him somewhere to go, just Jake. If you don’t feel part of the pack, even the smallest thing feels like a barrier to entry.

Finally, a video started up, its title flashing up in humongous purple letters:

PATRICKSTARCHASER D’ARCY:A LIFE

Jake poked Margo, who was in front of him. ‘Starchaser? Where the hell is that from?’

‘He’s always wanted a middle name. We workshopped worse ones, believe me. I quite like it.’

Old home footage now, along with photo collages, YouTube snippets, highlights of birthdays past. The camera loved Trick and he was only too happy to bask in its admiration. Once it was over, Trick stood on a footstool to address his crowd. Photos still flashed behind him, the silence punctuated by the tap of Kia’s talons on the laptop as she clicked ‘Next’. It was like being at a funeral – the corpse being humility.

Trick surveyed the room with a nervy yet imperious grin.

‘It means so much to have you here, special people, who I love. I feel lucky to be celebrated and honoured in this way, year in, year out.’

Day in, day out was more accurate. Eva Peron on the balcony of the Casa Rosada had nothing on this. Jake sighed heavily; Amelia nudged him.

‘I’m proud of who I am. To be open. I never hide. But over time, I’ve had big chats with myself about who I am and what I want.’ He tugged at his sleeve and wobbled slightly on the stool. ‘I’ve been one hundred per cent supported all my life by my besties and my family. My squad helped me see I needed to make this happen. This is officially my last birthday as a child.’

Jake heard a strangled cry from somewhere in the room. Mother was off already.

‘And now, the next part of my journey. The big news, what I’m about to say, may not be a shock, because you know me better than anyone, but today I can say, officially, that I … Trick D’Arcy, me, I … am … a gay man.’

The applause was deafening, like a game show audience told there were the keys to a Ferrari under one of their seats. Joanie barked wildly from the porch. Hannah let off party poppers and Dad shouted about ‘cracking open the bubbly’. Tears were streaming down Amelia’s face. Jake stood still, trying to process. What the hell? Who cared? Surely this was a given? Trick had dressed like an explosion in a glitter factory and called Hollywood actors ‘gorgey’ for years! Like he’d said, no shock. But this was how Trick rolled: a gold star for breathing in and out. Jake felt like he was watching this happen through a debilitating head cold, as everyone lined up to congratulate Trick.

Amelia glared at him in search of a reaction, so Jake forced out ‘Brilliant’ and took his place in the line-up. Margo squeezed Trick tight before kissing him on the forehead. ‘Well done, bro. Can’t wait for us to go out on the pull together … I’m joking! You couldn’t handle me.’

Jake held out his hand for Trick to shake. Trick grinned and took it, while Jake lightly slapped his brother on the back. Time to stay something brotherly, familiar. ‘God bless you, you little attention-seeker. Obviously we all knew,’ Jake found himself saying. ‘Shoulda filmed this one! Imagine the clicks! Perfect marketing campaign for you!’

Jake gave a hearty, fraudulent laugh, but Trick’s smile evaporated, eyes deadened and he dropped Jake’s hand from his grip immediately. He turned away and hugged Reenie, who was next in line. Jake stood mute for a few seconds before backing away. Oops.

‘Do you really have to go and check on them?’ complained Hannah as Jake finished his pint.

‘I promised. Well, Amelia did. Mum and Dad won’t be back until after midnight.’ Jake looked at his watch. ‘It’s been three hours and they were lining up shots of raspberry liqueur on Mum’s hostess trolley when we left. At six.’

‘I thought Margo was chaperoning! I haven’t seen you two for ages.’ She nodded at Amelia.

Jake realised neither woman particularly wanted to be left alone together. He pushed his glass away. ‘I don’t want to leave her by herself.’ He absolutely did; the thought of looking into Trick’s eyes again didn’t appeal. ‘I’ll be straight back.’

Jake chuckled as he stood at the gate. A few teenagers, dressed like sentient laundry baskets, were smoking at the side of the house, some managing to multi-task and urinate at the same time. The state of them.

Trick saw Jake making his way down the hallway, and sighed so wearily Jake heard it over the din of the music.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Mum said, remember? Can you ask your friends to stop piddling up the side of the house like it’s the toilets at Glastonbury?’

‘Piddling. Cute. When have you been to Glastonbury? Watching Kasabian on the telly doesn’t count, you know.’ Trick whirled round and melted into the throng.

Almost every room was full of gangly adolescents – actually, all consenting adults now, Jake supposed – pogoing to songs almost as old as they were, screaming, ‘This is sick!’ The lounge was in darkness save for the lights of a few mobile phones strobing off the walls. In the kitchen, Kia was pouring vodka into egg cups for a line of giggling girls who all looked young enough to be at nursery. The vodka was expensive; the drinking binge clearly endorsed by parents glad to be rid of their precocious teens. This was another world. Watching from the doorway was a young man, kind of familiar, tapping a cigarette against its packet, eyes pinhole-small in the kitchen’s bright light. Even over the music, Jake could hear somebody puking violently in the downstairs loo.

The teenager noticed Jake and nodded. ‘Trick’s dad, right?’

Fucking hell, the little shit; he’d said that on purpose, surely? Jake blanched and shook his head, laughing. ‘Brother.’

‘Yeah, I know. Just messing. Jake, right?’ The young man nodded down at his cigarette. ‘Wanna go in the garden and chill?’

Jake hesitated a second too long, and the guy looked startled. ‘Oh, not like that,’ he spluttered. ‘Like, a smoke?’

They sat facing one another on patio chairs. His mum must’ve had one of her attacks of design inspiration when setting up the party; there were candles at strategic points on the decking. The effect was very DIY makeover show.

They shook hands. ‘I’m Hot Will.’

He held out a cigarette as Jake stifled a laugh, before taking it – even though he hadn’t smoked since he was nineteen. ‘I’ve heard of you. I thought “Hot Will” was something other people called you.’

Hot Will smiled. ‘Yeah, at first. Turned into, like, a whole thing. It’s my name now.’

‘Why do they call you that?’

Hot Will’s mouth fell open. ‘Why d’ya think? There were two boys called Will in Year Nine. I’m the hot one.’

Jake imagined the street value of this boy’s self-belief. ‘And what about the other one? Was he stuck with “Ugly Will”?’

Hot Will looked offended that anyone could think him so cruel. ‘Of course not!’ he exclaimed. ‘He was … “Other Will”.’

Jake pulled on the cigarette, trying not to show it was burning his throat. He remembered seeing Hot Will lurking over the years now, one of the hunched, sportswear-clad acolytes who shuffled into rooms, grabbed snacks and exited without a word. They’d all grown up, Kia, Trick and now this one – shapeshifting before Jake’s eyes while he remained resolutely, pathetically the same. The younger man had a swagger and a confidence that would’ve been totally alien to Jake at that age. Only bullies and beauties – usually a killer combination of the two – had it, and Jake had been neither. He suddenly felt unusual … what was it? Then he realised: envy. He was jealous of a teenager who smoked like Justin Bieber doing a Robert De Niro impression.

‘You having a good time?’ Hot Will said now, scratching his stubble. ‘What would you usually do on a Saturday night?’

Jake laughed, again, dangerously nearing his quota for the year. ‘I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than babysitting a load of projectile-vomiting hormones in skinny jeans.’

‘I don’t need babysitting. And I would never wear skinny jeans.’ Silence fell. Hot Will, however, was unfazed and stared off into the distance.

‘You with someone?’

‘Tonight?’

Hot Will crushed his cigarette into the ground – Mum would go nuts when she saw that – and lit another with youthful nonchalance. ‘Any time. Generally. Whenever.’

‘Oh. Yeah. Yes.’

Hot Will looked him up and down, considered him. A pause. What did that look mean? ‘Girlfriend?’

Jake’s teeth began to chatter, though it wasn’t cold. ‘Amelia. Yes. Together, uh, three years, I think. Four, maybe.’ Why did he keep pretending he couldn’t remember?

Hot Will gave a low whistle. ‘I’m single.’ He had the sadness of a world-weary bachelor in his forties. ‘For now.’

‘Best way.’ Jake stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. Who on Earth was he trying to b. . .