Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

  And, with that, the Right Honourable Racist doddered off.

  “I say,” exclaimed Alex, turning to me, “it seems Randy met the same strange man that you did. Do you think we’ve got an intruder? Shall I tell somebody?”

  “I suspect,” offered Oliver, “that won’t be necessary.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, you know, can’t be too careful and all that.”

  “I have no doubt Justice Mayhew dealt with the miscreant appropriately.”

  Alex gave a fond smile. “He’s a feisty old bugger, isn’t he?”

  “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

  There was a brief silence, which Oliver delicately steered us over by asking if everyone was ready to move on to dessert. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he went on, “the jam roly-poly on the menu. I’ve always been rather partial.”

  Alex bounced in his seat like a poorly trained beagle. “I’m a dick man, myself. Thick and solid, and piping hot, and slathered in what the French call crème anglaise.”

  I was still having way too many Oliver-related emotions, but I couldn’t not steal a peek at him. And, of course, he didn’t look even the slightest bit as if he was about to die of laughter in a room named after a dead Tory.

  “I’ll admit”—oh God help me, his eyes were legitimately twinkling—“that does sound good.”

  Miffy looked rather dreamy. “You know, I was just thinking, I really fancy a tart.”

  Were they doing this deliberately? They had to be doing this deliberately.

  In any case, it turned out they could talk about pudding basically indefinitely, swapping childhood anecdotes, and squabbling over the merits of cobblers versus crumbles. They had, at least, finally hit on a topic—or rather, Oliver had introduced them to a topic—that I knew more than nothing about. And if I’d been a better person, I would have given them my hot take on which order you put the jam and cream on a scone. (It’s jam, then cream). Unfortunately I’m a mediocre person at best. And so sat there, trying not to sulk into my pineapple upside-down cake.

  We finished up our desserts, and I was about to be relieved that it was nearly over when one of the Jameses came around with cheese, then coffee, then brandy, then cigars. We eventually exhausted the topic of pudding, but Oliver kept stubbornly guiding the conversation back towards accessible subjects. I was sure he meant well and, after the fuss I’d made, wanted to make sure I was included.

  But between my dad, my job, Justice Mayhew, and all the ways I’d made a complete mess of tonight, I didn’t quite have the energy to be grateful.

  Chapter 18

  Eighty-seven thousand, five hundred and sixty-four gazillion hours later, we were finally allowed to leave the Cadwallader Club. Given how terribly the evening had gone, I was really looking forward to taking a quiet cab ride home, sticking my head under a duvet, and dying. But, of course, the whole point of the evening had been to get me photographed standing next to socially acceptable people. Which meant the moment we stepped outside, we were swarmed by a mixture of high-end paparazzi and low-end journalists.

  My vision sheeted white as far too many cameras went off in my face. I froze. Normally when people took my picture, they had the decency to sneak around so they could catch me fucking against a wheelie bin or vomiting in a pub car park. This was a whole other level of attention. And I’d not particularly liked the old level.

  “Who are you wearing?” someone yelled from the crowd.

  Okay. They were definitely not talking to me. My clothes were much closer to a “what” than a “who.”

  Miffy tossed back her hair and reeled off something incomprehensible that I assumed was a list of designers.

  This was fine. I was fine. I just had to look vaguely like I belonged in this nice world where nice people could have nice things. How hard could it be?

  “Have you set a date yet?”

  “The eighteenth.”

  Relax. But not too relaxed. Smile. But not too much. I tried to remind myself that journalists were like tyrannosauruses. Their vision was based on movement.

  “Eighteenth of what?”

  “Yes,” Miffy said.

  Were they getting closer? I was sure they were getting closer. Also not sure I could breathe. I must have been photographed enough by now, right? Good publicity was starting to feel worse than bad publicity. At least bad publicity, or the sort of bad publicity I was used to, didn’t pin you into a corner and yell at you.

  I scanned the jostling horseshoe of newspersons, looking for a gap between the bodies. But I could hardly see for the after-images, and the idea of being grabbed at and pulled at as I tried to force my way through a pack of strangers made my stomach twist. I was this close to throwing up. On camera. Again. Another crackle of silver, and when the starbursts faded, I realised I was looking this one guy straight in the eye. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. “Is that Jon Fleming’s kid?” he yelled. “You into Rights of Man, Miffy?”

  Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

  “I’d so love to chat”—her voice ebbed and flowed in my ears like the tide—“but I have to see a horse about a man.”

  “Which horse?”

  “Which man?”

  Another lightning storm of flashes—this time pointed much more squarely at me. I threw an arm across my face like a vampire trying to dab.

  “What’s the matter, Luc?”

  “Overindulged?”

  “Making the old man proud?”

  “N-n-no comment,” I muttered.

  “Have you joined the Cadwallader Club?”

  “What have you been drinking?”

  “Are you turning over a new leaf?”

  No way was any of that not a trap. “No…no comment.”

  “Cat got your tongue, Luc?”

  “Are you coked up right now?”

  “Where’s your bunny ears?”

  “That’s enough.” There was suddenly an arm around my waist. And then I was being drawn against Oliver’s side—right up against that warm, gorgeous, um, coat. It was the most pathetic thing I’d ever done, possibly the most pathetic thing in the world, but I turned in to him and hid my face against his neck. The scent of his hair, so clean and, somehow, so him, slowed the panicked racing of my heart.

  “What’re you hiding from?”

  “Come on, mate. Give us a smile.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  “My name is Oliver Blackwood.” He didn’t shout, but he didn’t have to. There was something about the way he spoke that sliced through the clamour. “I’m a barrister at Middle Temple, and I suggest you get out of my way.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “How long do you think you’re going to last?”

  “Have you done him in an alley yet?”

  I was basically made of day-old spaghetti at this point, but Oliver got me through the crowd. It wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. Mostly people fell back, and when they didn’t, a look at Oliver’s face seemed to make them reconsider. And, all the time, I sheltered in the circle of his arm, and nothing touched me but him.

  Eventually, though, we got far enough and I calmed down enough that I became very aware of what a total arse I must have looked, clinging to Oliver and trembling like a kitten.

  “Okay,” I said, making a bid to pull away, “we’re clear. You can let me go now.”

  Oliver’s hold tightened. “They’re still following. Endure me a little longer.”

  As ever, Oliver wasn’t the issue. The problem was me, and how good this could have felt if I’d let it. “We can’t do this forever. Just get me to the Tube and I’ll sort myself out from there.”

  “You’re obviously shaken. We’re getting a taxi.”

  Wait. What did he think was happening? “Hang on, what’s this we?”

  “I’m taking you home.
Now stop arguing with me in front of the press.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “We can argue on the way.”

  Oliver flagged down a passing cab which, of course, actually stopped for him instead of speeding past with an air of contempt. He bundled me into the back, and I reluctantly gave my address. Then off we went.

  Knowing Oliver would probably disapprove if I didn’t, I resentfully fastened my seat belt. “Look, I appreciate the whole chivalry bit. But you are absolutely not coming into my flat.”

  “Not even”—his eyebrow flicked up nastily—“if I appear unannounced on the doorstep after standing you up?”

  “That was a very different situation.”

  “Which doesn’t alter the fact that I’ve welcomed you into my home and you’re pushing me away from yours.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. Let’s chalk this up to one more example of you being a fundamentally better person than me.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. Although”—his expression grew grave in the flicker of the city lights—“I found your behaviour tonight somewhat…surprising.”

  “Because I was supposed to sit there and take it while you completely ignored me in order to chat up Alex Fucking Twaddle?”

  Now he did the Lucien is being terrible temple-massaging thing. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was trying to make a good impression because I understood that to be the purpose of the exercise.”

  “Then you succeeded,” I retorted with more vehemence that perhaps made sense in context. “They clearly thought you were just ducky.”

  “I’m confused. You’re angry because I did too well at reflecting positively on your taste in boyfriends?”

  “Yes. I mean. No. I mean. Fuck you, Oliver.”

  “I don’t see how that’s helpful.”

  “It’s not meant to be helpful.” My voice bounced off the walls of the taxi. “I’m angry. I don’t understand why you’re not angry too. Because this was clearly a shit evening for both of us.”

  “Actually, I thought your friends were rather charming, as long as you didn’t expect them to be anything they weren’t. What made it a shit evening for me was your eagerness to demonstrate how little you think of me.”

  I…had not expected that. And, for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. “Um, what?”

  “I’m very conscious that you wouldn’t be with me if you had any other choice. But this will not work if you can’t hide your contempt for me in public.”

  Oh God. I was the worst human. “I tease you all the time.”

  “It felt different tonight.”

  I wanted to say that was on him. Except it wasn’t. I guess I hadn’t expected him to notice. Let alone care. Fuuuck. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Thank you for the apology. But, right now, I’m not sure it’s helping.”

  Yeah, that had been a bit lacklustre. “Look”—I addressed myself to the floor—“I really don’t believe any of the shit I said.”

  “You acted as if you believed it.”

  “Because I…I thought it was going to be different.”

  “What was going to be different?”

  “I thought it would be like when it’s just the two of us. But you wouldn’t look at me. You didn’t know how to touch me. And you were supposed to be bonding with me over what a posh twerp Alex is. Not bonding with him over how I didn’t go to Oxford.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Lucien,” said Oliver, in the soft, low voice that made me want to curl up inside him. Like, not in a serial-killer way. Like, in a blankety way. “I think I owe you an apology too. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable or excluded, and I will admit I didn’t quite know how to act in front of your friends because, well, I’ve never had to pretend to be someone’s boyfriend before.” He paused. “Especially in front of a pair of… What did you call them? Posh twerps who think the National Minimum Wage is the Duchess of Marlborough’s prize racehorse.”

  A laugh startled out of me.

  “You see.” Oliver gave me a rather smug look. “I can be mean too.”

  “Yeah, but where was it when I needed it?”

  “I like to make you smile, Lucien. I don’t like to make other people feel small.”

  “I guess I can live with that.” I took off my seat belt and slid over towards him.

  “You should be wearing your seat belt. It’s a legal requirement.”

  I let my head rest ever so lightly, almost accidentally, against his shoulder. “Oh shut up, Oliver.”

  Chapter 19

  Somehow, against all reason and sense of self-preservation, I invited Oliver into my flat. I mean, to give him his due, he didn’t immediately drop dead from disgust and E. coli.

  “I’m aware,” he said, “that you sometimes consider me judgmental. But I honestly can’t understand how you live like this.”

  “It’s easy. All I do is I touch something, and whether it sparks joy or not, I just leave it exactly where it is.”

  “I’m not certain I’d recommend touching anything in this building.”

  I took off my jacket and, with more situational awareness than I would have credited myself with, threw it immediately over the most embarrassing pile of underpants. “I tried to save you. But you wouldn’t be warned. You’re basically Bluebeard’s wife at this point.”

  “I thought you were ashamed of me.” Oliver was still staring aghast at the impressive collection of takeaway containers that I was definitely going to get around to washing so that I could then definitely get around to recycling them. “But it turns out you were quite rightly ashamed of yourself.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Shame is for people with self-respect.”

  He put his fingers to his brow again in his so-sad-and-disappointed gesture that was not becoming endearing in the slightest. “At least Bluebeard kept his dead wives neatly in one cupboard.”

  “I know you’re probably regretting our fake relationship pretty hard right now, but please don’t dump me again.”

  “No, no.” Oliver stiffened his shoulders like he was in a wartime propaganda poster. “It took me a moment. But I’m over it.”

  “You can leave if you want to.”

  He looked very briefly tempted. But then went back to being all Your country needs you. “For the sake of appearances, we should make sure we don’t repeat tonight’s mistakes. I don’t think either of us had thought through how to be together in public.”

  “Wow”—I threw myself listlessly onto the sofa, which was mostly clear apart from two pairs of socks and a blanket—“I really underestimated how much work this was going to involve.”

  “Yes, well, as the kids say: Suck it up, buttercup. Now do you think we should hold hands?”

  “Did you actually say, ‘Suck it up, buttercup’?”

  “I thought pointing out that this is a lot of work for me too, and that I’m not complaining, while an accurate observation, would have made me sound like a prig.”

  I eyed him, half-irritated, half-amused. “Good call.”

  “So are we holding hands or not?”

  If nothing else, you had to kind of admire his ability to stick to a point. “Um…I genuinely have no idea.”

  “It involves minimum actual intimacy, but makes it clear we’re together if we happen to get photographed.”

  “Well, I do love me some minimum actual intimacy.”

  Oliver frowned at me. “Stop being frivolous, Lucien, and hold my damn hand.”

  I stood up, picked my way back through a slalom of mugs, and held his damn hand.

  “Hmm.” Oliver adjusted his grip several times. “This seems forced.”

  “Yeah, I feel like I’m being dragged round the supermarket by my mum.”

  “So, no to hand-holding. Try taking my arm.”

  “Don’t you mean you
r damn arm?”

  He blinked aggressively. “Just. Do it.”

  I took his arm. Still weird. “Now it’s more like I’m a maiden aunt at a garden party.”

  “So I either make you feel like a child or an old lady? How very flattering.”

  “It’s not you.” I un-took his arm. “It’s the situation.”

  “Then we’ll have to be one of those couples who never touch each other when anybody’s looking.”

  “But,” I whined, “I don’t want to be one of those couples. I don’t even want to pretend to be one of those couples.”

  “In which case, I suggest you work out some way you can bear to touch me.”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t think of anything clever so I said the first thing that came into my head. “Why don’t we have sex?”

  His mouth twisted quizzically. “I don’t think that would be appropriate at a fundraiser.”

  Well. In for a penny, in for pound. “No. I mean, like now.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Jesus, Oliver.” I rolled my eyes. “Who responds to a come-on with I beg your pardon?”

  “That wasn’t a come-on. That was… I don’t even know what that was.”

  “I just thought,” I said with a shrug I told myself wasn’t at all self-conscious, “if we had sex, we might be less awkward about touching each other.”

  “Ah yes. Because sex is renowned for making things less complicated.”

  “Okay. Bad idea. You asked me how we could be more comfortable touching in public, and I came up with a suggestion. Excuse me for thinking outside the box.”

  He turned away from me, looking like he was about to start pacing, except my floor wasn’t pace-friendly at the best of times. So he just fidgeted for a while. “I realise that you did not meet me when I was at the pinnacle of my self-esteem, but it still takes more to get me into bed than ‘Why don’t we have sex. I mean, like now.’”

  “We had dinner first.”

  “Dinner at which you freely admit you were a dick to me and to your friends.”

  Yeah, probably not the time to be making jokes. But I was trying hard not to dwell on the fact that I’d been shot down by Oliver Blackwood again. “Tell you what. Let’s stop talking about how much you don’t want to have sex with me.”