3-67（在线收听）

67.

Meg and I were on the phone with Elton John and his husband, David, and we confessed: We need

help.

We’re sort of losing it here, guys.

Come to us, Elton said.

By which he meant their home in France.

Summer 2019.

So we did. For a few days we sat on their terrace and soaked up their sunshine. We spent long

healing moments gazing out at the azure sea, and it felt decadent, not just because of the luxurious

setting. Freedom of any kind, in any measure, had come to feel like scandalous luxury. To be out

of the fishbowl for even an afternoon felt like day release from prison.

One afternoon we took a scooter ride with David, around the local bay, down the coastal road.

I was driving, Meg was on the back, and she threw out her arms and shouted for joy as we zoomed

through little towns, smelt people’s dinners from open windows, waved to children playing in their

gardens. They all waved back and smiled. They didn’t know us.

The best part of the visit was watching Elton and David and their two boys fall in love with

Archie. Often I’d catch Elton studying Archie’s face and I knew what he was thinking: Mummy. I

knew because it happened so often to me as well. Time and again I’d see an expression cross

Archie’s face and it would bring me up short. I nearly said so to Elton, how much I wished my

mother could hold her grandson, how often it happened that, while hugging Archie, I felt her—or

wanted to. Every hug tinged with nostalgia; every tuck-in touched with grief.

Does anything bring you face-to-face with the past like parenthood?

On the last night we were all experiencing that familiar end-of-holiday malaise: Why can’t it

be like this forever? We were drifting from the terrace to the pool, and back again, Elton offering

cocktails, David and I chatting about the news. And the sorry state of the press. And what it meant

for the state of Britain.

We got onto books. David mentioned Elton’s memoir, at which he’d been toiling for years. It

was finally done, and Elton was mighty proud of it, and the publication date was drawing near.

Bravo, Elton!

Elton mentioned that it was going to be serialized.

Is that so?

Yes. Daily Mail.

He saw my face. He quickly looked away.

Elton, how in the absolute—?

I want people to read it!

But, Elton—? The very people who’ve made your life miserable?

Exactly. Who better to excerpt it? Where better than the very newspaper that’s been so

poisonous to me my whole life?

Who better? I just…I don’t understand.

It was a warm night, so I’d already been sweating. But now beads were dripping off my

forehead. I reminded him of the specific lies the Mail had famously printed about him. Hell—he’d

sued them, just over a decade earlier, after they claimed he forbade people at a charity event from

speaking to him.

They’d ultimately written him a check for a hundred thousand pounds.

I reminded him that he’d stirringly said in one interview: “They can say I’m a fat old c—.

They can say I’m an untalented bastard. They can call me a poof. But they mustn’t lie about me.”

He didn’t have an answer.

But I didn’t push it.

I loved him. I’ll always love him.

And I also didn’t want to spoil the holiday.