The Primetime actor announced with a pause for dramatic effect, “And the Emmy for Supporting Actor in a Drama Series goes to …”
At least if it wasn’t Hughie Roman, it wouldn’t be multiple Emmy winner Herbert Peters either.
“You should’ve won,” Herbie buttered up his fellow loser, his come-hither blue-gray eyes, sensual lips, chiseled face, and James Dean hair perfection.
“No,” Hughie said. “You deserved to win. Your clip absolutely broke my heart. What episode was it from?”
“It was from your funeral,” Herbie choked up. “I mean Uncle Richard’s funeral last month.”
“I’m sure Uncle Hughie has better things to do than keep up with our show,” their co-star, Larry Mallory, cut in and affirmed his Lameo nickname well-earned. He was ever owl-like with his dark round eyes, beak nose, and unceasing hoot. “We have the same agent. You’ve surely auditioned for a bazillion gigs by now, maybe for Primetime TV shows, streaming projects, or even big-budget movies like our Little Herbie. World’s an oyster for someone as handsome and talented as Hughie Roman.”
“Are you flirting with me?” Hughie asked. Although he accused Lameo, it was Herbie’s reaction he watched out for.
When Herbie had turned a deaf ear to him and instead filmed his reaction to his first loss since time immemorial, Hughie’s chest caved in from the confusion. Had he misjudged his TV nephew’s kindness as a kinky come-on? He was even more embarrassed to admit it’d been because he found the attention of a younger queer man sexy. Someone like Herbie, who was more in his element as a gay nineteen-year-old back when they first met than Hughie had ever been in his entire life, even at sixty.
Herbie raised his iPhone and accepted his unseen audience’s condolences, well wishes for next year, and even a handful of date invitations. Hughie couldn’t help but notice his muscular arms and well-developed pectorals, which he hadn’t had when he screen-tested ten years ago for the role of Toby Hunter, Richard’s cad nephew. A fit of nostalgia came over him. Little Herbie, as the cast and crew had nicknamed him, had grown up on Autumn of My Discontent, coming out publicly not even a year later and becoming even more well-loved by soap fans thereafter. Hughie, on the other hand, was coaxed out of the closet in 2020 because his fiancé refused to marry anyone in the closet, especially someone who was, on a very, very slow news cycle, fodder for gossip, just because he was on television.
As for Larry, all of Hollywood seemed to know he was gay. He’d even been the grand marshal of the West Hollywood Gay Pride parade. Yet for such an out and proud queer person, he lived his personal life out of everyone’s scrutiny. If someone cared who Lameo had dated or was currently doing, they were left to guess.
“I’m not flirting with you,” Larry said. “I’m currently in a loving, committed relationship. I was just trying to be a pal.”
“I meant it as a joke,” he assured him. He peeked at his watch and decided the network after-party at the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Crystal Ballroom was where he should be right now. He saluted Lameo before he took off. “See you at the party. Gotta fetch the Lamborghini. Still drive a Mini Cooper?”
“Yes, a Mini Cooper Electric SE Hardtop.”
“I’ve heard of it. Rui wanted a car like that one when we were together.”
“It is a fun drive.” Larry grinned as he glanced at a message on his iPhone. “My date’s on his way to the hotel. I’ll see you there.”
“See ya,” he said, overjoyed he’d relish a brief break from the tiresome man. What desperate Yo-Yo would date Lameo? The droll answer was apparently joining them at the party.
Not only did Hughie Roman have a date with the open bar, but he had one ending scene to perform for the Autumn of My Discontent producers. After almost thirty years of unwavering loyalty, Richard Hunter and Hughie Roman had deserved more than the unceremonious send-off without so much as a scrap of dialogue or discernible facial expression. The industry and TV viewers should have seen him act up a storm and unequivocally know that Hughie Roman was a brilliant actor whose career was on the rise.
Even if resurrections were par for the course in a soap opera, when all was said and done, the powers that be remained adamant: “Hughie Roman, you’ve been more trouble than you’re worth.” Tonight, he would teach them to use such an auspicious actor as nothing more than a prop on what was to be his final, final death. He swore he’d continue the vicious cycle tonight—all at their expense.
As he prepared to take his leave, Herbie suddenly blocked his way. He was no longer playing for his invisible audience as earlier. He had a pained expression, perhaps still about losing. Hughie’s heart went out to him. He’d felt just as heartbroken the first time he’d lost and every time after that. He couldn’t help but give his TV nephew a sympathetic hug.
“What can I say, kiddo? You’ll win it next year.”
He welcomed his reassuring hug. “I hope they figure out what a mistake it was to let you go.”
“That’s really sweet of you to say.” Hughie slapped Little Herbie’s broad back and was gobsmacked as the younger man’s rock-hard erection brushed his crotch without apology.
“I miss you so much.”
“Herbie?”
“Yes?” he said without emotion while he’d kept him hostage in the awkward embrace.
“You have a hardon.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” Herbie pulled away as his entire face turned scarlet. “I got excited when they were reading out the winner.”
“That was half an hour ago,” Hughie said as he glossed over the younger man’s excuse. “It’s alright.”
They both fumbled back even if the cringeworthy encounter seemed to have gone unnoticed in the emptying theater.
“I don’t know what to say.” Herbie was beside himself.
“Are you going to the party?” he asked and pushed aside his own undeserved guilt. “Do you need a ride?”
Before he finished his sentence, Hughie caught himself in time. To his out-and-out relief, Herbert Peters hadn’t even heard his TV uncle’s offer to ride in his Lamborghini. He mused how much had changed since they met. It had always been such a treat for Little Herbie.
As he drove across town to Beverly Hills, Hughie Roman, with little deliberation, did away with calling him Little Herbie any further and all future overtures—no matter how innocent—to ride with him.
* * *
As soon as he’d arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Hughie darted for the Crystal Ballroom just off the hotel’s busy lobby. An eager mash-up of local and national media mingled with the attention-hungry stars from Autumn of My Discontent and the network’s other daytime programs.
Hughie had tired of his first open bar once a reporter had requested that his TV ex-wife reenact her Emmy-winning line. Filled with gratitude, she cried her eyes out and said, “Doctor, please pull the plug.”
He would’ve scurried off somewhere less pretentious for his next drink had he not caught the familiar scent of the Ethiopian Frankincense he’d slept and awakened to for at least two years. Even now, it had filled him with hope. Understated and very personal, the rare scent was therefore out of place here among the Hollywood glitterati. He’d first breathed in that earthy bouquet of wood and citrus when he took a summer off Autumn to do theater at the Pasadena Playhouse in 2019 and fell head over heels with the play’s then forty-five-year-old co-star, Rui Mamo.
His ex-husband stormed into the noisy ballroom and searched the room for someone. He stood under the ballroom’s namesake chandelier, which had always reminded Hughie of a delightful bouquet of roses all lit up. Once he’d caught sight of the man he had once loved, he tried to wave, but his hands had gone limp. Rui was still as dashing as ever with his rich chocolate complexion and theatrical goatee. His mind raced, wondering why he was here. This would be the first time since the divorce he would see Hughie too.
Time had stopped as Rui finally took notice, and waved and smiled at him—his eyes filled with so much love like in the good old days. He had wanted to wave back, but grabbed his martini instead and polished it off. Not that Rui Mamo was an evil ex-husband, but another drink temporarily stifled the unresolved feelings and embarrassing scenes his presence could still provoke.
He could only stare as the lanky man crossed the crowd to be with him at last. Once upon a time, he’d promised Rui that if he ever won, he’d thank him foremost for loving him. A short and simple speech that perhaps Rui still remembered. Maybe there was indeed hope that they could find their way back to each other.
His tummy fluttered at the romantic notion that tonight would not be a complete tragedy after all. If he had wanted a winning chance to get him back, he needed to get hold of himself. Hughie Roman hightailed it to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and, after too many drinks, pee.
“Rui?” Hughie regarded him with quixotic eyes. “I’m touched that you’re here to celebrate my birthday.”
“Happy birthday. Sorry, I was busy with planning yesterday I forgot to greet you.”
“What planning?” He’d tried to act naively. “Are you going home to Africa to visit your family?”
“Not until after the—” Rui tried to answer before Larry nudged him in the ribs.
“Why’d you hit my husband? I meant ex-husband. Just because you’re helping with his birthday surprise doesn’t give you carte blanche to touch him.”
“I’m not here for your birthday,” Rui said.
“Then you’re here because you heard I lost again.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s not that either.”
Hughie had become more and more frustrated that no one was saying what he’d longed to hear. “Then why are you here?”
“Surprise,” Larry whispered.
“Surprise,” the cast and crew of Autumn of My Discontent shouted on cue while an army of servers rolled in a six-layer cake lit up by birthday candles flickering under powerful gusts from the hotel air conditioning ducts. With great care, they ground the massive cake, which accommodated ten candles per tier beside the dessert buffet.
Was this one concluding middle finger from his ex-Autumn family? Family is who you can turn to when your life is a disaster. Surely, that included tasty ex-husbands.
His heart flooded with hope, Hughie wrapped his arms around Rui and swore never to let go of the only good thing left in his miserable life. “I’m sorry I failed you so much when we were married. You being here tonight is the best thing that’s happened to me since you left. I still love you.”
“What the fuck?” Rui muttered.
It wasn’t the response Hughie had expected after such an honest declaration of true love. Why wasn’t he reassuring him that he wasn’t crazy, that he returned, without question, the same feelings the divorce had forced them both to hold back? Just to make sure Rui knew he loved him, body and soul, Hughie held on even tighter. “It’s your turn to say you still love me too.”
Rui tried to squirm out of his bear hug. “Please let me go.”
“I was thinking about that little bed-and-breakfast we bought for our retirement. Maybe we can start fresh there soon. I now have all the time in the world for you.”
Rui had pulled away far enough so he could grab Lameo’s shoulders. He seemed to be almost begging for something. “We have to tell him now.”
“Larry? Where’s that date you were bragging about?” From as early as he could recall, Hughie Roman had always been the last to know, or in one very important matter, he’d been left out entirely.
Rui had nearly freed himself after holding on to Lameo’s torso like an anchor. “We have to tell him before he makes a fool of himself.”
“You mean an even bigger fool.” Hughie wasn’t in favor of releasing his ex, but Rui had fought for dear life.
Larry finally spoke, “He just lost his job, lost the Emmy, and—”
“And I lost you to Father Flannigan?”
Hughie clenched his fists. He could only think of one way to settle all his pent-up frustrations and nagging questions. With one terrible punch to his jaw, he knocked out his so-called BFF, who fell backward into the gorgeous birthday cake the show had presented him. That’ll teach them they couldn’t just put him out to pasture.
He turned to Rui for a congratulatory embrace, but his ex-husband had already darted to Larry’s side, wiping away fluffy white icing and cake bits from the fallen man’s now soiled tux.
“Grow up, Hughie Roman,” Rui said. “You’re a sixty-year-old baby.”
It had broken his heart one more time.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked unapologetically while they plucked a few now extinguished birthday candles from Larry’s suit. “I’ve been wondering all this time why you walked out on me. It was Father Flannigan all along.”
“Stop playing TV detective.” Rui shook his head. “And his name is Larry, not Father Flannigan or Lameo or Mr. Vanilla.”
“It’s my favorite flavor,” Larry cooed as he sampled some of the heavenly birthday cake smeared on his coat.
“Hughie never means it as a sign of affection, honey.” Rui stood up between them, protectively anchored to the floor. “You don’t deserve an explanation, but we’ve only been seeing each other since Valentine’s Day. After the divorce.”
“And neither of you could have told me? You had to save it for now? Here?”
“I’m sorry,” Rui said. “We should’ve told you sooner.”
“I thought we were BFFs?” Hughie asked. He’d always been accomplished at roasting Lameo Larry with his own guilt.
“I’m sorry, pal,” Larry said. “I promised Rui I wouldn’t say anything until after our wedding.”
“Wedding?” Hughie screamed bloody murder and vaulted towards Larry. It wasn’t about betrayal anymore. He wanted vengeance. “Wedding.”
To get to Lameo, he’d have to get Rui out of the way first. He took a deep breath and thrust out his chest as he stared into Rui’s outraged eyes. His ex hadn’t blinked. He was now filled with the same need to get even. The same Rui Mamo, who had always quoted his idol Michelle Obama: “When they go low, we go high.” Hughie smiled smugly as he shoved him out of his way.
Their suits were covered in icing, but Rui and Larry had remained flopped on the ballroom floor beside each other as two gay wedding cake toppers Hughie had just plucked off and dumped. The two men rolled over to look into each other’s eyes, then burst out laughing.
Hughie scowled. They had no reason to laugh after what he had done to them. It was as if nothing else mattered as long as they were together. He cried, “I’m sorry.”
“We owed you that for keeping mum. I didn’t want to go tonight, but Larry insisted we try to remain your friends. He’s been worried about how lost you seem. Seeing you tonight, I’m worried about you too.”
“I don’t want your pity,” Hughie said. “From either of you.”
“You know neither of us would cheat on you,” Larry said as he held onto Rui. “Let’s not get into it here.”
Hughie lowered his head in shame. All the party guests had stayed quiet as the drama had played out, but he quickly noticed the flashes from mobile phones and various devices still pointed at them. It only reminded him that others had forever captured his heartbreak for all the world to see. Even the writing staff of Autumn of My Discontent kept their ears glued to the air for future storyline material.
His other BFF, Ben Jerry, the show’s head writer, had been taking mental notes but shook his head disappointedly at Hughie once he’d glanced in his direction.
“Hughie?” Rui stopped him. “I have to talk to you.”
“Get out of the way. I already apologized. By the way, did Ben Jerry know about you and Larry?”
“Who’s Ben Jerry? The ice cream?”
“No, the head writer. I thought he was my best friend.”
Rui had stifled his laughter. “If he’d really been your best friend, then you’d know his name is Gerry Hemmings. You were the best man at his freaking wedding.”
“Thank you for the information,” Hughie whimpered. He gave him the cold shoulder, even as Rui tried to reach out. “I’m done with this show, and Rui, I’m done with you.”
“Larry told me the studio has been getting a lot of legal-related calls.”
“It’s none of your fiancé’s business. See, I’ve accepted your joyous news.”
“Never mind me. Is that why the producers really fired you?”
“And it’s likewise none of your business.”
“Despite everything we’ve said and done to hurt each other, I still care about you. Larry and I both do.”
Hughie acknowledged his good intentions with a cool nod. “It was part of the reason. They also think I’m ready to retire, considering I’m reaching retirement age pretty soon.”
“You? Retire? That was never your plan until you married me.”
“It’s why I bought shares in that quaint bed-and-breakfast. It was my promise to make more time for you when I eventually did.”
Rui brushed off his nostalgia. “The Hotel Cairo was never a little BB. It was much too big an investment on your part for me to have split in half. It’s all yours. You should sell it to pay off your debts.”
“Sell it?” He became teary-eyed, recalling their hopes and dreams when things had been good. “We dreamed of running it once. Just the two of us.”
Before he walked off, Rui grabbed his shoulder once more. “Good luck and happy birthday. And please don’t sleep with Herbie. I saw the way he looks at you.”
“Why would you think I would do something that stupid?” he replied to no one.
As much as he’d wanted to hit the party’s open bar to drown his troubles, he hadn’t the resolve to rejoin the celebration and its superficial guests. Especially not when the only two people who’d given a damn about him there had left together.
He stormed off to the valet where the other guests who’d been waiting in line encouraged him to skip to the front, thrown into a panic that an unkempt man was allowed in their presence.
“I’m sorry for dripping cake all over your red carpet,” Hughie said as he passed them. “The network was celebrating my sixtieth birthday.”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Roman,” the friendly valet manager said.
“Can you get my car?” he said excitedly, despite the ordeal he’d experienced. “It’s the white gold Lamborghini with the license plate HUEY1.”
The manager scrolled through his iPad until he had located Hughie’s record. He replaced his happy birthday smile with an apologetic pout. “I’m afraid there’s a minor issue with your vehicle, sir.”
“Don’t tell me you scratched my car.” Hughie threw his hands in the air. “It’s a five hundred thousand dollar car. You can’t just treat it like you would a Mini Cooper Electric.”
“No, Mr. Roman.” He picked up his walkie-talkie, confirming something with the garage. “Maybe we can chat in private in my office?”
Hughie longed for a drink. He shouldn’t have to be bothered by the problems of others. He had enough troubles of his own. “I’m sorry, but I have another party to go to. You need to tell me what happened here, not in your office.”
“Sir, your Lamborghini’s been repossessed,” the valet manager informed him as close-lipped as possible. “They left a number for you to call to settle your debt if you wish.”
It’s not like he hadn’t expected it to happen at some point when he’d stopped paying off the ninety-one thousand he still owed. It was still turning out to be the worst night of his life. Despite the exasperated looks everyone had given him earlier as more cake remnants fell off him, Hughie directed himself to the ballroom. At least there would be free booze there for the remainder of the evening.
Before he succumbed to his pitiful fate, a knight in shining armor stopped him. “I can give you a ride home. I still have the limo. I’ll take you wherever you want.”
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