Chapter 1. Club Dinner

All characters and events depicted are purely fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

It was another Thursday evening at Proudington, an LGBTQ+ swimming club in London, and you could already feel the anticipation in the air. A little bit of chlorine, a lot of drama, and the intoxicating scent of freshly baked pizza. The proud and perspiring members were making their way into the small, unpretentious Italian eatery that sat nestled among the street food stalls just around the corner from the swimming pool in Clapham, a cosy district in south-west London.

Now, don’t let the charmingly shabby decor fool you. This was not just any pizza joint. This was the arena where the swimmers of Proudington would unwind, throw shade, and engage in more gossip than a high school clique with a decade-long vendetta. It was where alliances were formed, secrets were spilt, and enough carbs were consumed to make a keto dieter weep. The chatter was as lively as ever, with the members eagerly cramming around long wooden tables, dragging their damp towels behind them like badges of honour.

“Ah, my fabulous fish! Come closer, don't be shy,” Dickie called out, waving everyone in with a flourish of his hand. With his perpetually sunny grin, he stood at the head of the largest table, practically glowing like a budget Joanna Lumley tribute act. Dickie’s smile was so bright, it could probably guide ships through fog—if said ships were headed towards carbs and cocktails. He’d organised the dinner, as always, despite the fact that he now showed up to swimming about as often as Halley’s Comet showed up in the night sky. Something to do with a new boyfriend who apparently required constant attention. Honestly, if Dickie smiled any wider, you’d think he had Botox injections in places no one had considered before.

Juan slid into the seat next to Dickie, managing to look both disheveled and effortlessly stylish in his snug shirt that just about contained his generous midsection. “Dickie, darling,” Juan purred in his rich Bolivian accent, “I’m starting to think you like organising these dinners more than swimming. You’re becoming less Aquaman and more... Dinner Lady.” He let out a cackle, loud enough to startle a couple of diners two tables over. Dickie just laughed, unfazed.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, darling,” Dickie shot back with a wink. “And anyway, we can’t all look good in speedos all the time, can we?”

“Speak for yourself!” Rooney chirped, flopping down across from them with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who's just spotted a tennis ball. “I look fabulous in speedos, thank you very much,” he added, adjusting his shirt that was perhaps a bit too tight around the middle—thanks to those midnight sweets, no doubt.

“You look like a dolphin with a dad bod,” Juan retorted, earning a ripple of laughter from the surrounding group. Rooney, never one to be outdone in the banter department, leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“Oh, please. Juan, if I had a pound for every time you’ve complimented yourself on your Instagram, I’d be able to buy this restaurant and rename it to ‘Juan’s Place of Eternal Fabulousness’,” he quipped.

Silvano, the young Italian lawyer with the perfect hair and the slightly too-perfect disdain for socialism, arrived just in time to catch Rooney’s comment. “Oh, Rooney, dear, your jokes are as tired as your swimming stroke,” he drawled in his clipped Italian accent, sitting down with a graceful thud. He had the air of someone who had just come from a far more important engagement—a vibe that wasn't lost on anyone.

“And yet, I still manage to finish ahead of you every time, Silvano,” Rooney shot back, flashing his winning smile.

Silvano raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Dear, it’s not a race when you’re the only one swimming to impress. Some of us are here for the social value,” he responded, with just the faintest hint of a pout that could rival Alexis from Dynasty.

Colin, sitting nearby, listened with a bemused expression. The club's treasurer and water polo team captain, Colin always had an air of seriousness about him that seemed at odds with his high-pitched voice. “Are we seriously going to do this every week?” he asked, his tone suggesting he was just a tad tired of the same old repartee.

“Why break tradition, Colin?” Andy, the former social rep and current artist-in-residence (in his own mind, at least), replied. He was as fit as ever, despite his claims that he’d lost some of his skills. “It’s what we do best: swim terribly, eat excessively, and insult each other lovingly.”

“Oh, I thought you were going to say ‘drink excessively,’” Leonardo chimed in, his round glasses sliding down his nose. The Brazilian had already managed to make himself comfortable, leaning back with a slice of pizza in one hand. “Because if that’s the case, I’m on board. I think we all deserve a little indulgence after today’s session. Honestly, it was like the coach was punishing us for something. I’m still trying to figure out what, though.”

“Maybe punishing us for being this fabulous in a place like Clapham?” Juan suggested, his hand dramatically sweeping through the air. “The straight people in the gym next door don’t know what to do with themselves.”

“You mean apart from staring at themselves in the mirror?” Silvano added dryly.

Dickie chuckled and leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to spill state secrets. “Speaking of which, did you see that new coach? The one with the muscles that look like they were hand-sculpted by Michelangelo himself?”

Silvano’s eyes widened. “Oh, trust me, I’ve noticed. I think half the club booked the Thursday session just to see him. That’s why the pool was packed. Even Leonardo had to swim in the slow lane.”

Leonardo pretended to look offended. “I wasn’t in the slow lane. I was just... appreciating the view, you know?” He took another bite of his pizza with a grin.

“Honestly, you lot,” Colin sighed, though a smile tugged at his lips, “I don’t know why we don’t just rename the club from Proudington to ‘Dramaington’.”

“Because then no one would take us seriously, darling,” Andy pointed out. “And we do have a reputation to maintain, you know. The best LGBTQ+ swimming club in the UK, not a West End show. Though I’m sure some of you wouldn’t mind auditioning.”

“Please, Andy,” Juan sighed dramatically, “if this were a West End show, I’d already have my name in lights.”

“Oh honey, your name might be in lights, but it would be on the marquee of a very small, off-off-West-End theatre,” Dickie teased, causing another ripple of laughter.

“Speaking of lights,” Colin interrupted, changing the subject, “has anyone seen that new play everyone’s talking about? I think it’s called, ‘Panic at the Pool’? A gripping drama about a swimming club in crisis when someone forgets to book the pool on a Thursday?”

Silvano let out a laugh. “I heard it’s got rave reviews! Full of suspense and terror. Especially the part where half the members lose their minds because they didn’t get their slot.”

Rooney nodded enthusiastically. “That’s because Thursday’s the best! The pizza, the vibe, the, uh... sights,” he added, blushing slightly.

“Don’t pretend like you’re not there for the views, Rooney,” Silvano teased. “It’s practically written all over your face.”

In a corner of the crowded restaurant, Juan, Silvano, Rooney, and a few other members were engaged in animated conversation, their hands waving in the air like flamboyant semaphore signals. Silvano was in the middle of explaining his latest triumph at the law firm—something about getting invited to yet another tedious event in a historical London building. His eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and a dash of condescension, as if he were the only one in the room who truly understood the gravity of it all.

“I mean, honestly, if I have to smile through another reception at the House of Lords, I might just throw myself into the Thames,” Silvano declared dramatically, taking a sip of his Aperol Spritz.

“Oh, please,” Juan chuckled, his laughter a little too loud, “You love those events, darling. The free champagne, the canapés, and let’s not forget—eyeing up all the eligible silver foxes in the room.”

Silvano rolled his eyes, pretending to be offended. “You’re just jealous because you’re never invited,” he shot back. “Besides, I have refined taste. I’m not just into any older man, you know. They must have a certain…je ne sais quoi.”

At that very moment, as if summoned by Silvano's dramatic monologue, a tall, striking figure entered the restaurant. A hush fell over their table, and even the boisterous laughter from the neighbouring tables seemed to soften. He was in his early fifties, tall, muscular, with the kind of jawline that could cut through a stale baguette and a Hollywood smile so bright it could outshine the restaurant's dim lighting. His short grey hair was perfectly coiffed, every strand in place like a work of modern art. The American member of the club—let's call him Mr. Silver Fox.

Silvano noticed him immediately. His gaze locked onto the newcomer with an intensity that could rival a heatwave in Rome. His eyes were sticky, clinging to every movement, as if the American was coated in honey and Silvano was a particularly eager bee.

Juan, ever perceptive, smirked and leaned in closer to Rooney. “Oh, look who’s caught Silvano’s sticky summer gaze,” he whispered with a cheeky grin. “I swear, he’s like a heat-seeking missile for hot older men.”

Rooney giggled, almost choking on his drink. “I know, right? I bet Silvano’s already planning his next move.”

“Darling,” Juan continued, not bothering to lower his voice, “if there was a Groupon deal for gigs of bands from the '70s and '80s, Silvano would buy a dozen tickets, just to snag himself a daddy.”

Silvano, catching wind of the teasing, shot them a glare sharp enough to pierce through lead. “Lies!” he protested, feigning offence. “Absolute lies! I have standards, you know.”

“Oh, sure,” Juan replied, winking. “Your standards are just…very experienced. Very mature, shall we say?”

Silvano laughed, flipping his hair back with a dramatic flourish. “Well, Juan, at least I don’t go around telling everyone that Samuel is my boyfriend,” he retorted, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. “What was it you told me? Something about imagining you were cuddling him while hugging a pillow in your hotel room? Wet pillow in the morning, was it?”

Juan’s eyes widened in mock horror. “How dare you!” he cried, clutching his chest as if wounded. “That pillow was just very comfortable, okay? And besides, it’s better than going for pensioners.”

Silvano laughed, his offended act dissolving into a grin. “Touché, my dear,” he conceded. “But don’t think for a second that I’ve given up on my silver-haired target over there.”

Just then, the door swung open again, and in walked Samuel. His entrance was like a scene from a rom-com—hair slightly tousled, athletic body moving with the ease of someone who knows exactly how good they look. His glutes were the stuff of legend, so perfectly shaped they could probably double as a shelf in a pinch. Some found him arrogant, while others swore he was the friendliest bloke in the club. The truth, as usual, was somewhere in between.

Juan’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of Samuel. He almost spilled his drink in excitement, hastily setting it down on the table with a thud. “My boyfriend!” he declared loudly enough for half the restaurant to hear. Silvano rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “There he goes again.”

Samuel flashed his trademark smile, the one that made half the swimmers in the club weak at the knees, and made his way over to their table. “Hey, everyone! Did anyone leave these?” he asked, holding up a pair of goggles and a slightly damp towel. “I found them by the pool after the session.”

“Oh, here we go,” Silvano murmured to Juan. “You think people are actually forgetting their stuff, or is it just an excuse to get close to Samuel?”

Juan grinned. “Well, if they are, it’s working. Look at him. He’s practically a lost and found service for speedos and water bottles.”

Rooney laughed. “Maybe I should leave my swimming trunks next time,” he joked. “Then he’ll have to return them to me personally.”

Juan elbowed him playfully. “You’re too much, Rooney. You don’t stand a chance. Samuel is way out of our league. But I like to dream,” he sighed with exaggerated wistfulness.

Next moment another figure stepped into the restaurant, drawing the eyes of several diners. It was Steven.

In his late forties but looking like he was carved out of a particularly handsome slab of granite, Steven carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had conquered mountains—both literal and metaphorical. Lean and athletic, with a slightly rugged vibe, he had that "outdoorsy" look, as if he’d just stepped off a surfboard or down from a mountain. His bright eyes and wide smile exuded a charm that was both warm and mysterious.

Andy and Dickie, who were sitting together, immediately stiffened. Both of them had a history with Steven. Andy's was a whirlwind weekend affair that ended almost as quickly as it had begun. A cycling trip in the fields outside London had culminated in a passionate night. But then Steven had disappeared, lost in the throes of some new project, and Andy had been left staring at his phone, waiting for a message that never came.

Dickie’s story was different—a slow-burn romance that had simmered for months. Steven had pursued him, chased him like a man possessed. And once he’d succeeded, once he had Dickie’s heart firmly in his grasp, he lost interest. Dickie had been devastated. But he would never let it show, of course. Stiff upper lip and all that.

“So, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Andy muttered, his voice laced with a mix of annoyance and begrudging admiration.

“Steven,” Dickie replied, his tone more neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of emotion.

“Think he remembers?” Andy asked, a slight edge to his voice.

“Oh, he remembers,” Dickie said quietly. “He always remembers.”

As the room buzzed with conversation, Marián made his grand entrance. A Slovak man in his early forties with a flair for the dramatic, Marián commanded attention the moment he walked in. Lean and impeccably dressed, he looked more like a Parisian model than a hospitality manager from Slovakia. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his beard neatly trimmed, and his skin sun-kissed from a recent trip.

“Hello, hello, darlings!” Marián announced loudly, waving his hand like he was on the red carpet. “I have just returned from Saint-Tropez, where I spent a fabulous week with my husband,” he declared, as if everyone had been eagerly awaiting news of his glamorous adventures. “Couldn’t make it to the swimming session, but I simply had to be here tonight. After all, without me, this wouldn’t be a VIP event, now would it?”

Rooney rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw his own brain. “Oh, for goodness' sake,” he muttered to Juan, “does he have to be so… Marián? It's like a three-star hotel with gold wallpaper. Completely unnecessary.”

Juan chuckled, but his eyes were still on Samuel. “Just smile and wave, darling. Smile and wave.”

Marián, not missing a beat, noticed the side-glances and marched right over to them. “Rooney! Juan! So lovely to see you both,” he exclaimed, pulling them both into an exaggerated hug. “What’s that look on your faces? Are you not happy to see me?”

Rooney plastered on a smile so fake it could’ve been a department store mannequin. “Of course, Marián! The evening wouldn’t be complete without you,” he said, adding a little too much cheer to his voice.

Marián grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Good. Now, where’s my drink? I’m dying for a prosecco. After all, darlings, a little sparkle never hurt anyone.”

And with that, Marián sauntered off to the bar, leaving Rooney and Juan shaking their heads with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“Every club has one,” Rooney sighed. “And Marián is definitely ours.”

The evening carried on with laughter, banter, and the familiar ebb and flow of conversation. As the night grew later, the initial excitement began to mellow, replaced by the comfortable hum of old friends catching up, new crushes being formed, and rivalries subtly reignited.

Dickie leaned back in his chair, his ever-present smile softening just a bit. He watched as Andy and Steven exchanged a brief, tense nod from across the room, each holding a glass of wine like it was a shield. Dickie couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. So much drama, so little time.

At the same time, Silvano had made his move, sliding into a seat next to the American, his gaze now a gentle simmer instead of a searing summer heat. They were deep in conversation, Silvano’s hands gesturing animatedly as the American nodded along, clearly amused. Juan, pretending not to watch, sighed dramatically and murmured to Rooney, “Another one bites the dust. That man is a true predator. But, oh, if only I could be his prey…”

Rooney grinned and nudged Juan playfully. “You’ve got your eyes set on Samuel, remember? No distractions.”

“True, true,” Juan replied, his eyes drifting back to where Samuel stood, surrounded by a small crowd of admirers, still holding someone’s forgotten goggles. “But a man can dream, can’t he?”

At the bar, Marián held court, regaling a small group with tales from Saint-Tropez, his voice rising above the chatter. His hands fluttered as he described the sunsets, the parties, the people who were apparently very “chic, darling, simply très chic.” Even those who found him slightly insufferable couldn’t help but be drawn into his orbit for a moment or two.

Across the table, Colin was deep in conversation with Leonardo, talking about the upcoming water polo tournament with the seriousness of someone discussing nuclear disarmament. Leonardo nodded along, his eyes twinkling with a mix of genuine interest and mild distraction, clearly more focused on the dessert menu.

As the restaurant began to thin out, Dickie stood up, clinking his glass to grab everyone’s attention. “Alright, my lovely mergays,” he called, his voice carrying over the crowd, “it’s getting late, and some of us have actual jobs to get to in the morning—no matter how much we’d rather be here with you beautiful people.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the group, and glasses were raised in a collective toast.

“To Proudington!” Dickie declared. “To swimming, pizza, and all the drama in between!”

“To Proudington!” everyone echoed, their voices merging into a cheer.

And with that, the group began to disperse, still laughing, still teasing, still the best kind of chaotic family. The night might have been ending, but as always, the story of Proudington was far from over. There would always be more sessions, more dinners, more new faces to welcome, and more tales to tell. And perhaps, just perhaps, more drama than any of them could handle.