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I was beautiful, so unbelievably beautiful: the most beautiful boy in Europe.
“Beau garcon,” they’d whisper as I walked through the Place Vendome in Paris.
“I am beautiful,” I would say to myself, a slight smile playing on my rose-coloured, sculpted lips as I made my way down London’s uber-fashionable Bond Street.
“Bel ragazzo,” they would murmur excitedly as I sashayed – blond head held high – along the Via Veneto in Rome.
Yes indeed: the most beautiful boy whose countenance, graceful carriage and exquisite manners would eventually prove themselves to be nothing more than an inganno lordo or gross deception.