by Alexis Hall
“I panicked.”
“Also: title of your next sex tape.”
“If That’s Agreeable or I Panicked?”
“Both.”
“I take it you’re too busy? And I know we saw each other on Friday, and the papers are likely to be sick of you for at least another week… I’m sorry, I should have planned this better. And please don’t say that’s the title of my third sex tape.”
I could have teased him about his imaginary sex tapes literally forever. But there was the whole wanting-to-see-me thing. Which was…perfect? “I…I’m not… It’s not that I don’t…” Shit. I was coming perilously close to telling Oliver that I’d rather see him than watch old episodes of Drag Race with my mother, her best friend, and her best friend’s spaniels. Which, now I thought about, wasn’t the tremendous compliment I’d built it up to be in my head. Still couldn’t say it, though. “I’ve kind of accidentally told my mum I’ll go see her tonight.”
“I would like you to formally acknowledge that I have taken the moral high road and shall not suggest that Accidentally Told My Mum I’ll Go See Her Tonight is the title of your sex tape.”
“Oh, hell no,” I protested. “You don’t get credit for pretending you’re not making the joke you’re clearly making.”
“Plausible deniability, Lucien. Plausible deniability.” How could I hear him smiling? “But you should visit your mother. I know how much she means to you.”
“I mean… You could…” Help. Words were happening. And I couldn’t seem to stop them “Come? If you wanted to. It’ll be awful, because Mum already thinks you’re Nicole Kidman—don’t ask—and she’s making a curry, which she does not know how to do, but won’t admit she doesn’t know how to do, and her best friend is…this… Actually, I don’t even know how to describe her. But she once told me she’d shot an elephant in her nightdress. And when I said, ‘What was an elephant doing wearing your nightdress?’ she said, ‘It broke into my tent, and I think it got draped over its trunk.’”
“I recommend you breathe at some point in the very near future.”
He had a point. I breathed. “Anyway, you really can sit this one out. I’m pretty sure it’s too early in our fake relationship for you to be meeting my mother.”
“Well, aren’t I going to be meeting your father next week?”
“That’s different. I care about my mum.”
“I’d like to meet her, if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable.”
I opened my mouth, realised I had no idea what I was going to say, and finally settled on, “Okay then.”
Given I was already late, Oliver suggested we rendezvous at Waterloo, which I suggested sounded like a terrible love song from the forties. Then I texted Mum to let her know I’d be bringing my fake boyfriend, threw on my coat, dashed out the door, and tried not to think too hard about what it meant that I wanted Oliver to meet my mother.
Chapter 24
Half an hour later I was sitting on a train with Oliver. And it was weird. The problem was that being on public transport with someone for more than a couple of stops on the Tube fell down the uncanny butt crack between necessity and social occasion. I mean, it was basically just the two of you, sitting down facing each other, for about as long as you would if you were in a restaurant, only with much worse surroundings and without food to give the whole thing focus. Worse, I was worried I was going to blurt out something awful like “I missed you” or “I tidied my flat for you.”
“So,” I said. “How’s the case?”
“I’m afraid I can’t—”
“Talk about it?”
“Precisely.”
A pause, both of us looking anywhere except at each other.
“And—” he crossed one leg over the other and then uncrossed it when he kicked me in the knee—“your work? It’s going well, I take it?”
“Actually yes. By the low bar it sets for itself. The Beetle Drive hasn’t accidentally been relocated to a warehouse in Tooting Bec. Nothing’s caught fire in at least a couple of weeks. And some of the donors I scared off by doing the bad gay might deign to come back to us.”
“I’m glad the plan seems to be working. But I confess I’m increasingly uncomfortable with the assumptions that seem to underlie it.”
“You’d better not be getting cold feet on a train halfway to my mum’s.”
“I’m not. I just don’t think you should have to be dating someone like me for it to be acceptable to be someone like you.”
I finally met his eyes again. How had I ever found them cold? “I know, right? And what especially grinds my gonads is that it’s not even my, I will admit, real and extensive personality flaws they object to. It’s that they think I might have casual sex sometimes. Which, ironically, I’d be doing more of if I was in a healthier place emotionally.”
“I hope you wouldn’t.” He blinked several times. “That is, not in a sex-negative way. Just that, as far as I know, we never agreed this was going to be an open fake relationship.”
“What would that even be? Are you telling me that you don’t want me to have fake sex with other people when I’m fake dating you?”
“Well, I hadn’t given it much thought. But, if we were really dating, I’d want to be monogamous because that’s just, well, my preference. And so if you’re going to pretend to date me, I’m afraid you’ll have to pretend to be monogamous. Which, I suppose, when the press are following you, is going to be an awful lot like being genuinely monogamous. Is that”—he seemed to be trying to sink through the seat—“going to be a problem?”
“I wish I could say yes because I’m beating them off with a stick. But in practice, it just slightly changes the reason I’m not getting laid.”
“I thought when you said you hadn’t been in a relationship you meant, um, you hadn’t been in a relationship. Rather than you weren’t…”
I stared at him, daring him to finish that sentence.
“…getting any? As it were.”
I had to laugh. As it were indeed. “And I bet you couldn’t imagine me being any more of a loser.”
“You know I don’t think you’re a loser. But I don’t understand why you’d have difficulty…um…” He seemed to be flailing again.
“As it were?”
“In this area.”
This would have been a brilliant opportunity to build a deeper and more lasting relationship, based on trust, honesty, and mutual understanding. I could have told him about Miles. About partying like there was no tomorrow. And then waking up one day and finding out there definitely, definitely was. Oliver would have understood. It was kind of his whole jam.
“It’s complicated,” I said instead.
And he didn’t push it, because of course he wouldn’t push it, and I almost wanted him to—just so I could get it over with. But that was also the worst thing I could possibly imagine. So we went back to silence for the rest of the trip. Fun times.
I’d never been so glad to see Epsom Station (facilities lacking according to Google). Hopefully the woeful inadequacy of the station at which you couldn’t even use your fucking Oyster card would take my mind off my woefully inadequate attempts to emotionally connect with my fake boyfriend. We de-trained ourselves and struck out across the fields towards Pucklethroop-in-the-Wold.
The sun was just setting, making everything soft and golden and shiny, like it was taunting me with romance. And Oliver was all casual again: another crisp pair of jeans, into which his distractingly fabulous arse was wholesomely nestled, and a cream, cable knit jumper that made him look like he belonged on a Tumblr feed called fuckyeahguysinknitwear.
He paused with one foot on an actual stile, the wind ruffling playfully through his hair, making me briefly resentful that the fucking atmosphere was getting more action with my fake boyfriend than I was. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We should probably re
fine our boyfriend act a little before the Beetle Drive.”
“Um. What?” I was not staring at…anything. Especially not anything crotch-related. But. The stile. He had one leg on a stile. No jury in the land would convict me.
“I don’t want to let you down and… Lucien, my eyes are up here.”
“Then stop…being in my face with your…jeans.”
He took his foot off the stile. “We work well when it’s just the two of us, but we should practice being together in company.”
“Is this”—I gave him a sly look—“your way of saying you want to spend more time with me?”
“No. My way of saying I want to spend more time with you was when I rang you up earlier today and asked if I could spend some time with you.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Something struck me. “Hang on, are you telling me you want to spend more time with me?”
“Would you still believe me if I claimed it was verisimilitude?”
“Maybe. I have very low self-esteem.”
Probably aware I was watching super intently, he climbed self-consciously over the stile and waited for me on the other side. I hopped over after, taking his hand without really thinking about it as I came down.
“Of course I want to spend time with you,” he said, still holding my hand. “I’d like you to come as my date to Jennifer’s thirtieth birthday in a couple of weeks.”
We headed for Mum’s. I didn’t mention the hand thing in case it went away.
“Who’s Jennifer?”
“An old friend from university. She and her husband are having a few of us round for dinner.”
I gave him a suspicious look. “Are these your straight friends?”
“I don’t generally categorise my friends by sexuality.”
“Do you only have straight friends?”
“I know Tom. And…and you.”
“Tom doesn’t count. I mean, not because he’s bisexual. I mean, because he’s dating Bridget. I mean, not that dating a woman makes him less bisexual. I’m just saying, he’s not your friend. She’s your friend. And I’m the rando you’re pretending to date, so I’m pretty sure I don’t count either.”
He smoothed down his adorably wind-tousled hair. “My friends are just the people who happen to be my friends. There are a lot of straight people in the world. I like some of them.”
“Oh my God.” I gazed at him in horror. “You’re like one of those documentaries about, I don’t know, a pig that got lost on the edge of the village and wound up being raised by gorillas.”
“I…I think that might be insulting.”
“Pigs are cute.”
“It’s more that you seem to object to my not choosing my friends based solely on who they do, or don’t, want to sleep with.”
“But do they not just…not get you?”
“Lucien, most of the time you don’t get me.” His fingers twisted restlessly against mine. “I tried to do the…the community thing. But I went to one LGBTQ+—well, LGB as it was in those days—mixer at university, realised I had nothing in common with any of these people except my sexual orientation, and never went back.”
I half laughed, not because I thought it was funny, but because it was so alien to my experience. “When I turned up at mine, I felt like I’d come home.”
“And I’m glad for you. But I made different choices, and I’d rather you didn’t see them as mistakes.”
Honestly, it didn’t make sense to me. But I also didn’t want to upset Oliver—and I was still slightly stinging from being told I didn’t understand him. Well, I didn’t. But I wanted to.
I gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’d love to go to your straight-people party with you.”
“Thank you.” His lips twitched. “Just a quick word of advice: if you’re at a straight-people party, you should try to avoid referring to it as a straight-people party.”
I tsked. “God, it’s political correctness gone mad.”
We tromped through the next couple of fields, which—with the one we’d just been through—made up the three fields that ran onto Three Fields Road.
“Nearly there.” I pointed down the winding track. “Main Road’s down that way. And Mum’s just round the corner.”
Oliver made a noise that probably wasn’t a hiccough but did a good impression of one.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m…I’m…a little nervous.”
“You should be. Mum’s curries are… Oh fuck, I didn’t tell her you’re vegetarian.”
“It’s fine. I can make an exception.”
“Do not make an exception. In fact, if you could, please pretend you don’t want me eating meat either. You would be doing my lower intestines a massive favour.”
“I’m not sure coming across as the sort of man who polices her son’s diet would endear me to your mother.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I’m willing to take that risk.”
“I’m very much not.”
“Are you”—I peeked over at him—“actually worried about meeting my mum?”
His hand was a little clammy. “What if she doesn’t like me? She might not think I’m good enough for you.”
“Well, if you don’t walk out, leaving me alone with a three-year-old kid, you’ll be doing way better by me than my dad did by her so, y’know, not a lot to lose here.”
“Lucien”—he gave another anxiety hiccough—“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I stopped and turned to face him. “Look, you’re… I can’t believe you’re making me say this. But you’re great. You’re clever and thoughtful and hot and you went to fucking Oxford and you’re a fucking lawyer. You’re not dying of consumption or promised to a duke—don’t ask—and…you’re nice to me. And that’s really all that matters to her.”
He gazed at me for a long moment. I had no idea what he was thinking, but suddenly I was all to pieces. My mouth had gone dry and my pulse had gone wild and, in that moment, the only thing I wanted in the world was for him to—
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll be late.”
Chapter 25
I was about to put my key in the lock when the front door flew open, almost as if my mum had been lurking behind it, watching the road through the stained-glass inset. Like a total creeper.
“Luc, mon caneton,” she cried. And then turned her attention, viperlike, to Oliver. “And you must be the fake boyfriend.”
I sighed. “This is Oliver, Mum. Oliver, this is my mum.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. O’Donnell.” From anyone else, that would have sounded stilted. With Oliver, it was just the way he talked.
“Please call me Odile. You are most welcome.”
Okay. This was going well.
“But,” went on Mum, “you must clear something up for me.”
Or maybe not.
“Luc tells me that you are a fake boyfriend but not a fake gay. If that is the case, why are you not going out with my son for real? What is wrong with him?”
“Mum.” I flailed on the doorstep. “What are you doing? You don’t even know Oliver, and now you’re trying to browbeat him into dating me.”
“He looks nice. Clean, tall, he’s wearing a good jumper.”
“I can’t believe you’re trying to pimp me out to a complete stranger because you like his jumper. He could be a serial killer.”
“I’m…I’m not,” said Oliver quickly. “Just for the record.”
She glared at me. “It is the principle. Even if he is a serial killer, he should still want to go out with you.”
“To reiterate,” said Oliver. “I’m not a serial killer.”
“That does not answer my question. I want to know what is wrong with my son that you are only willing to pretend to go out with him. I mean, look at him. He’
s lovely. A bit untidy, I suppose, and his nose is a little large, but you know what they say about men with big noses.”
Oliver gave a little cough. “They make good sommeliers?”
“Exactement. Also they have big penises.”
“Mum,” I exploded. “I’m twenty-eight. You’ve got to stop embarrassing me in front of boys.”
“I’m not being embarrassing. I’m saying nice things. I said you had a big penis. Everybody loves a big penis.”
“Stop. Saying. Penis.”
“It’s just a word, Luc. Don’t be so English. I raised you better than that.” She turned to Oliver. “Luc’s father, you know, he had a huge penis.”
To my horror, Oliver got the kind of thoughtful look you never want your boyfriend to get over your dad’s dick. “Had? What’s happened to it since?”
“I don’t know, but I like to think either the drugs shrivelled it up or it got squeezed into nothing by a groupie’s vagina.”
“Mum,” I loud-muttered, like she was hugging me in front of my school friends.
“Awww, mon cher. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.” She patted my cheek. Embarrassingly. And then turned to the boy she was embarrassing me in front of. “You’d better come in, Oliver.”
I trailed after them into the hall, which was about the right size for Mum, slightly too small for Mum and me, and far too small for Mum, me, Oliver, and the four spaniels who bolted through from the front room and started nosing eagerly at him as the newest object in the building. He did that thing that people who are good with dogs do where they crouch down and the dogs squirm all over them, tails wagging and ears flopping, and it’s adorable and domestic and bleurgh. And Oliver was blatantly going to want a dog in the future, wasn’t he? Probably from a shelter. And it’d have, like, three legs, but he’d train it to catch Frisbees as well as a dog with four legs, and he’d be in the park with it, throwing Frisbees, and this really hot guy would come up to him and be, like, “Hey, nice dog, wanna fuck?” And he’d be like “Sure, because your mother’s never said the word ‘penis’ in front of me” and then they’d get a lovely semidetached in Cheltenham and Oliver would make French toast every morning and they’d walk the dog together, hand-in-hand, and have meaningful conversations about ethics and—