Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

  Of course Oliver insisted he didn’t want dessert, and then ate half of my brownie anyway, after a minor scuffle over who got to hold the spoon.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked, when he tried to take it from my fingers. Again.

  “I can feed myself, Lucien.”

  “You can order your own fucking dessert as well.”

  “I told you. I’m not a big fan of dessert.”

  I glared at him. “You’re giving my brownie puppy eyes.”

  “I…I…” He was blushing. “I feel awkward not eating while you’re eating.”

  “Oliver. Is that a lie?”

  The blush deepened. “‘Lie’ seems a very strong word. It might be a little…misleading.”

  “You can’t have this both ways. You can either get the virtue points for not eating cake, or you can eat cake. And you can see which side of that equation I fall on.”

  “I suppose I just feel I shouldn’t.”

  Only Oliver could turn a brownie into an ethical quandary. Well, Oliver and Julia Roberts. “You’ll still be a good person if you have dessert.”

  “Yes, well.” He gave one of his self-conscious squirms. “There are also practical considerations.”

  “What, are you literally allergic to enjoying yourself?”

  “In a manner of speaking. The, um, V-cut you so admire doesn’t maintain itself.”

  I stared at him, suddenly feeling guilty. I guess even though I knew rationally that you didn’t get a body like that without basically killing yourself, I’d still taken it for granted. “If it helps, you’ll still get to keep turning me down for sex even if you start looking a bit more like a normal person.”

  “You say that. But it wasn’t until I had my shirt off that you expressed any interest whatsoever.”

  “Not true. What about Bridget’s birthday?”

  “That doesn’t count. You were so drunk I suspect you would have had sex with a bag of crisps.”

  “Also not true. And…for the record”—I slugged back some vegan wine—“I’ve actually been into you for quite a long time. The V-cut was just a convenient excuse. Now if you don’t want to eat brownies because of your choices about your body, that’s fine. But if you want the fucking brownie, then we can share the fucking brownie.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I…I think,” said Oliver, “I want the brownie.”

  “Fine. But as punishment for not having the guts to order your own, I’m going to feed it to you in a sexy way.”

  Aaaand the blush was back. “Do you have to?”

  “Well. No.” I smiled at him across the table. “But I’m going to anyway.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s not a sexy food.”

  “I’ve seen you eat a lemon posset. I’m going to find this sexy whether you like it or not.”

  “Fine.” He gave me a cold stare. “Give it to me, baby. Give it to me hard.”

  “You see, you’re trying to put me off. But it’s not working.”

  I leaned over the table and slipped a morsel of brownie into his slightly horrified mouth. But within seconds he had that gorgeous, blissed-out Oliver Eating Dessert look. It wasn’t until we got home afterwards, and we were lying decorously in bed next to each other, that I realised getting all sensual and chocolatey with a guy who was never going to shag me had been an epic strategic error. Because suddenly all I could think about were his lips and his eyes gone soft with pleasure and the brush of his breath over my fingertips. And I was losing my fucking mind. But I was in his house, and he was right there, so I couldn’t even wank it off.

  I don’t think I slept well. And, on top of that, Oliver made me get up at seven. Which, it is no exaggeration to say, was the worst thing that had ever happened to any human being. And I acted like it, hiding under the covers, whimpering, and calling him names.

  “But”—he actually put his hands on his hips—“I made French toast.”

  I peered at him from beneath the pillow I’d wedged over my head. “Really? Really really?”

  “Yes. Although, having just called me an offensively perky breakfast tyrant, I’m not sure you deserve any.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sat up. “I didn’t realise you’d actually made breakfast.”

  “Well, I have.”

  “And there’s actually French toast?”

  “Yes. There’s actually French toast.”

  “For me?”

  “Lucien, I don’t understand why you’re obsessed with glorified eggy bread.”

  I think I was blushing. “I don’t know. It’s just got this domestic bliss vibe to it that I find, um, nice?”

  “I see.”

  “And, honestly,” I admitted, “I never imagined anyone would actually make it for me.”

  He brushed the hair out of my eyes almost absentmindedly. “You know, you’re sometimes very sweet.”

  “I…” Fuck. I didn’t know what to do with myself. “All right, all right. I’m getting up.”

  Forty minutes later, with me reluctantly showered but full of French toast, we were on the road, bound for Lancashire. And I was slowly coming to terms with the fact that Oliver and I had signed up to take a four-hour car journey together. Or rather, Oliver had signed up to spend four hours driving me to see my dad in a car he was renting. And, once again, I was having to face up to the fact that he was taking this fake boyfriend gig way more seriously than any actual boyfriend I’d ever had.

  “Um.” I squirmed. “Thanks for doing this. I think in my head Lancashire wasn’t quite this…far.”

  “Well, I did encourage you to reach out to your father, so I suppose I really brought this on myself.”

  “I know I’ve barely met the guy, but this feels so typical of him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know. Making a big song and dance about wanting to reconnect and then dragging me all the way to Lancashire to do it. I mean, what if I didn’t have a fake boyfriend who could drive? This’d be crap.”

  “Thankfully, you do have a fake boyfriend who can drive.”

  I cast him a sidelong glance. “I know. And I’d offer to make it up to you, but you keep turning me down.”

  “Just an observation, Lucien. There are other ways to make things up to people than sex.”

  “So you say. I remain sceptical.”

  He gave a little cough. “How are you feeling about seeing your father?”

  “Inconvenienced.”

  And, ever the epitome of tact, Oliver didn’t push it. “Would you mind if I put on a podcast?” he asked.

  Obviously Oliver was a podcast person. “Okay, but if it’s a TED Talk or the New Yorker fiction podcast, I’m walking to Lancashire.”

  “What’s wrong with the New Yorker fiction podcast?”

  “It’s the New Yorker fiction podcast.”

  He plugged his phone into the dock, and the car filled up with Twilight-Zoney music and the weirdly sonorous voice of an American man.

  “Okay,” I told him, “can we add This American Life to the no-fucking-way list?”

  “Welcome to Night Vale,” said the weirdly sonorous American man.

  I stared at Oliver’s serene profile. “What is happening?”

  “It’s Welcome to Night Vale.”

  “Yeah, I got that from the guy using the words ‘welcome to Night Vale.’ Why are you listening to it?”

  He gave a little shrug. “I like it?”

  “I figured that on account of you choosing to play it in the car for what will be a four-hour journey. I just didn’t think it was the kind of thing you’d even have heard of.”

  “Clearly I have hidden depths. Also I’m rather invested in Cecil and Carlos.”

  “Genuinely? Do you ship them? Do you have a Tumblr as well?”


  “I don’t know what any of those words mean.”

  “I’d have believed that, right up until the point I discovered you’re into Welcome to Night Vale.”

  “What can I say? I sometimes need a break from listening to documentaries about current affairs and looking down on people.”

  I was about to retort but something held me back. “Did I do the bad teasing again?”

  “Maybe. I just didn’t realise you’d find it so shocking that I had an interest outside the law and the news.”

  “I’m sorry. I…I like seeing other sides of you.”

  “Is the side you normally see so objectionable?”

  “No,” I grumbled. “I like that too. Is this why you don’t have casual sex?”

  He blinked. “Because of Welcome to Night Vale?”

  “Because you’re waiting for someone with perfect hair.”

  “Yes. That is the reason.” He paused. “That, and instructions from the Glow Cloud.”

  Chapter 29

  Between Cecil’s honeyed tones and the fact I’d got up at seven, I might have fallen asleep. Oliver shook me gently awake, and I peeled myself out the car somewhere round the back of Dad’s insultingly idyllic rock-star farmhouse. To my complete lack of surprise, the parking area where we’d stashed the rental was very, very full of what looked an awful lot like a working film crew. I mean, there was even a motherfucking food truck, from which a bald man in a leather jacket was getting a baked potato.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m really looking forward to spending some quality time with my emotionally distant father.”

  Oliver’s arm went round my waist. It was worrying how natural that was beginning to feel. “I’m sure this will all be wrapped up soon.”

  “It should have been wrapped up yesterday.”

  “Then I suspect it’s overrun, which is hardly his fault.”

  “I’ll blame him if I want to.”

  We crunched over the gravel and between some outbuildings—all thatched and charming, although at least one of them had obviously soundproofed windows—and managed to nearly reach the front door before we were accosted by security.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I sighed. “I’ve been asking myself that since we left London.”

  “Sorry, mate.” The man put up a hand. “You can’t be here.”

  “We were invited,” said Oliver. “This is Luc O’Donnell.”

  “If you’re not on the show, you can’t be here.”

  I half managed to turn away, but Oliver’s arm was making it difficult. “Oh, what a shame. Let’s go. If we hurry, we can make that lovely service station in time for dinner.”

  “Luc”—Oliver wheeled me back around—“you’ve come a long way. Don’t give up now.”

  “But I like giving up. It’s my single biggest talent.”

  Sadly, Oliver wasn’t having any of it. He fixed the security guard with his best lawyer look. “Mr… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Briggs,” offered the security guard.

  “Mr. Briggs, this is Jon Fleming’s son. He has been invited and, therefore, has a right to be here. While I appreciate that it is your job to tell us to go away, we aren’t going to. If you try to physically prevent us from seeing Mr. Fleming, that will be assault. Now I’m going to walk past you into the house, and I recommend you go and speak to your manager.”

  Personally, even putting aside how little I wanted to be there, I wouldn’t have chosen the course of action that had “get assaulted” as a possible consequence. Oliver, apparently, didn’t have a problem with it. We walked round the guy and into the house.

  Where we were immediately yelled at by a red-haired woman in her early fifties. “Cut. Cut. Who the fuck opened the door?”

  We were standing in what, when it wasn’t full of boom mics and angry people, would have been a gorgeously rustic entrance hall, with stripped wooden floorboards, slightly faded rugs, and an enormous fireplace set into a stone wall.

  “My apologies for the interruption,” Oliver said, unperturbed. “We’re here to see Jon Fleming. But there seems to be a schedule clash.”

  “I don’t care if you’re here to see the fucking Dalai Lama. You don’t walk onto my set.”

  At this moment, Jon Fleming stepped through from the room beyond—a sitting room decorated in the same style, which somehow managed to look cosy despite also being enormous.

  “Sorry. Sorry.” He made what James Royce-Royce would call a mea-culpa gesture. “They’re with me. Geraldine, you okay with them sitting in?”

  “Fine.” She glared at us. “Just be quiet and don’t touch anything.”

  “Well”—I sighed sadly—“there goes my plan to scream and lick the furniture.”

  Jon Fleming gave me a look of sincere contrition, though I was sure that he was neither sincere nor contrite. “I’ll be with you soon, Luc. I know this wasn’t what you expected.”

  “Actually. It’s pretty much exactly what I expected. Take as long as you need.”

  It took him five fucking hours.

  Most of it, he spent mentoring Leo from Billericay through a soulful acoustic rendition of “Young and Beautiful.” They were sitting on one of the expansively homey sofas—Leo from Billericay, with his guitar cradled on his knee like it was a dying lamb, and Dad watching him intently with this look that said “I believe in you, son.”

  I knew shit all about music but Dad was depressingly good at this stuff. He kept making insightful, but non-pushy technical suggestions and offering the sort of praise and support that stayed with you for a lifetime. And, incidentally, also made for great TV moments. At one point he even guided Leo from Billericay’s fingers into a better position to transition between chords.

  And then we had to clear the entrance hall so Leo from Billericay could sit by the fireplace and tell the camera how amazing my dad was and how important their relationship had become to him. Which took several takes because they kept asking him for more emotion. By the end he was on the verge on tears, although whether that was because it had been such a meaningful experience for him, or because he’d been sat under hot lights for the whole afternoon with nothing to eat or drink while people shouted at him, I couldn’t say. Well, I could. But I didn’t really care.

  While they were doing whatever TV slang for tidying up is—folding the pooches or clearing the banana—I slunk off to steal a baked potato from ITV. It did not make me feel substantially better. But finally Oliver, Jon Fleming, my stolen baked potato, and I were sitting round the kitchen table, sharing an uncomfortable moment.

  “So,” I said, “what with you filming pretty much constantly since we got here, I couldn’t introduce you to my boyfriend.”

  “I’m Oliver Blackwood.” Oliver offered his hand, and my father gave it a firm shake. “It’s good to meet you.”

  Jon Fleming gave him slow nod that said You have been judged and found worthy. “And you, Oliver. I’m glad you could come. Both of you.”

  “Well”—I made a gesture that came as close as I could get to “fuck you” without literally giving him the finger—“that’s nice, but we’ll be leaving soon.”

  “You can stay the night if you want. You can take the annexe. You’ll have your own space.”

  Part of me wanted to say yes if only because I was pretty sure he was banking on me saying no. “We’ve got work.”

  “Another time, then.”

  “What other time? We had to rent a car for this, and we spent the whole afternoon watching you shoot a shitty TV show.”

  He looked grave and regretful—which, when you were a bald man in your seventies with more charisma than conscience, was very easy to do. “This wasn’t what I wanted. And I’m sorry my work got in the way.”

  “What did you want?” I stabbed my potato with a wooden spork. �
��What was the plan here?”

  “There isn’t a plan, Luc. I just thought it would be good for us to spend some time together, in this place. It was something I wanted to share with you.”

  I…had no idea what to say to that. Jon Fleming had given me nothing my whole life. And now he suddenly wanted to share, what, Lancashire?

  “It’s a very beautiful part of the country,” offered Oliver. God, he made the effort. Every. Single. Time.

  “It is. But it’s more than that. It’s about roots. It’s about where I come from. Where you come from.”

  Okay. Now I had something to say. “I come from a village near Epsom. Where I was raised by the parent who didn’t walk out on me.”

  Jon Fleming didn’t flinch. “I know you needed me in your life, and I know it was wrong of me not to be there. But I can’t change the past. I can only try to do what’s right in this moment.”

  “Are you…” It genuinely upset me that I was having to say this. “Are you even sorry?”

  He stroked his chin. “I think being sorry is too easy. I made my choices and I’m living with them.”

  “Um. That sounds a lot like a no.”

  “If I’d said yes, what would it change?”

  “I don’t know.” I made a show of mulling it over. “I might not think you’re a colossal prick.”

  “Lucien…” Oliver’s fingers brushed my wrist.

  “You can think what you like of me,” said Jon Fleming. “You’ve got that right.”

  There was this pressure building inside me, hot and bitter, like I was going to cry or vomit. The problem was, he was being so reasonable. But all I could hear was I don’t give a shit. “I’m supposed to be your son. Don’t you care how I feel about you?”

  “Of course I do. But I learned a long time ago you can’t control other people’s feelings.”

  My potato wasn’t protecting me anymore. I pushed it away and put my head in my hands.

  “With respect, Mr. Fleming.” Oliver somehow managed to sound both as conciliatory and as unyielding as my dad. “I think it’s a mistake to apply the same standards to magazine reviewers and your own family.”