Bring Me Home

“Honestly, Hel,” Chrissie began, sinking back into the settee, “I’m kinda blown away here. Hugo fucking Hayes. I mean, I’m not like a huge fan or anything but, Christ, the whole world knows the guy. It seems mental. I feel famous by proxy!”

Bloody hell. “You’re insane,” I said, chuckling.

“Like I said, I’m not even a fan but, suddenly, I feel like I just want to know everything about him. I’ve got so many questions.” Her hands started flapping in front of her like a wasp had just taken a divebomb for her face. “Like is it true the judges of Next Up don’t actually see everyone who auditions like they have us believe? Oh my God, were you there? Did you meet Julia Leighton and Fred Dawes?”

It surprised me how fun the evening was turning out. And, yes, it did feel like bragging. Surprisingly, I enjoyed that, too. It’d been such a long time since thinking about him felt good. “It’s true. Hugo had to sing for a bunch of different people, you know, non-famous ones, first. Each time he did that, he had to wait to find out if he’d made it to the next round. Eventually, he got to sing for some producers of the show, and then they decided who got to go in front of the judges and on the TV. There’s a whole process that takes a few months before you get anywhere near the bits they show on the telly.”

“Knew it!” she shouted, high on…I didn’t even know at this point. Wine, gossip, magic mushrooms hidden in the Chinese food?

“And yeah, I met Julia. She was Hugo’s coach on the show. Like I said, we were inseparable. I meant that literally. I was with him throughout the whole show. They even let me stay in the Next Up mansion some nights. It was…well, it was bloody amazing. The whole experience, and I was only watching it happen to someone else.”

Her hands clapped into prayer. Finally, she’d ditched the wine. It must’ve all gone, I decided. “Geez. I feel twelve years old, I swear. This is so exciting! Okay, okay…” She puckered her lips, deep in thought. “Can he really sing that well or do they Auto-Tune the shit out of him?”

“Oh, hell no. His voice is…well, you’ve heard it. All him, and it only seems to get better.” Something pinged in my chest, a sharp twinge as if something integral had snapped out of place. It made me shudder, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to play this game anymore.

“Oooh, I know one. Is he actually gay? There must be some truth to the rumours.”

Whoa.

“They pop up on Twitter Trends practically every month,” she continued, eyes wide and eager. “If he’s not, he doesn’t help himself with some of those outfits. Know what I mean?”

“Not really,” I scoffed, more than a little disappointed in her.

Hugo may have begun his career with his fashion sense set to Pop Star Factory Settings, but Hugo’s style had evolved over the years, and I liked to think he’d taken some inspiration and, perhaps, courage from all the times I’d spent dressing him in outrageous designs in my bedroom, the weekends he’d let me style him however I wanted, create outfits for him that no one else would ever see. In reality, the credit likely belonged to Freddie Mercury, one of Hugo’s musical heroes.

Like many artists, Hugo’s image and sense of self had appeared to develop along with his music. From the outside looking in, he seemed to be as comfortable wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and an oversized sweater as he was in a lace camisole and front-pleated flares. As a designer, I admired and appreciated both. As someone who couldn’t stop loving him, I thought he looked fucking beautiful whatever I saw him in.

“Well?” Chrissie pressed. “Is he?”

“Is he what?” Oh. “Gay?” It wasn’t my place to say and, honestly, I didn’t know. Some days I truly believed, even now, that no one would ever know Hugo Hayes as well as I did and, on those days, I imagined Hugo wouldn’t give himself a label. Sexuality wasn’t something we’d ever explicitly talked about back in the day because we didn’t need to. We didn’t talk about who we were because we just…knew. Hugo was as stunning inside as out. He was open, loving, intrigued by everyone and everything. I imagined Hugo would give his love to anyone who provoked his vivid imagination, who soothed his soul and engaged his ardent curiosity.

Other days, I realised I was fooling myself and I had no idea who he was. Looking back to my own teens, I felt like the same person. Little wiser, smaller dreams, less whimsical, but my heart hadn’t changed. On what I liked to think of as my rational days, though, I didn’t see how that would be possible, staying the same, when all the choices in the world were open to you every single day. I didn’t see how my Hugo, could still exist.