Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

  “You know, you could just drink less?”

  “I could, but I choose not to.”

  I mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “Iloveyoubridget.”

  “I love you too, Luc. Now go get your man.”

  “At three a.m.? How will that help?”

  “It’s romantic. You’re chasing after him in the rain.”

  “It’s not raining.”

  “Don’t ruin this for me.”

  “And you don’t think he’d prefer a polite text after we’ve both had a decent night’s sleep?”

  She squeaked in exasperation. “No. And, besides, he won’t be sleeping. He’ll be staring out the window, wondering if you’re looking at the same moon he is.”

  “How could we be looking at different moons? Also he can’t see the moon, because it’s apparently raining.”

  “Okay, now you’re just stalling so I’m hanging up.”

  She hung up.

  After she’d gone, I slowly uncurled. I still wasn’t quite ready to stand up or leave the bathroom, but I was taking my victories where I could find them. As enthusiastic as Bridge had been about the plan, I wasn’t sure that showing up at Oliver’s doorstep at stupid o’clock in the morning would come across as quite as romantic and spontaneous as she was hoping, especially since I’d done it before—although at least then it had been at a slightly more sociable time. In my defence, on that occasion he’d dumped me so, in a way, we were one for one. If we ignored the fact that he’d dumped me specifically because of my behaviour and I’d dumped him, um, specifically because of my behaviour.

  And while I got what Bridge was saying about letting him choose whether he wanted to deal with my bullshit or not, I couldn’t shake the sense that we’d hit a level of bullshittery that would make the choice kind of a no-brainer. Because this was what he was getting: someone who’d spent five years burying himself in cynicism and apathy, and honestly hadn’t been so great before then either. I didn’t want to be that person for Oliver, I didn’t want to lash out or run away every time I thought something might hurt me, but it was going to take more than a month of fake-dating and a couple of rounds of French toast to dig my way out.

  It would be easier for everyone if I never spoke to him again.

  But Bridge was right, he deserved better than easy. And if that meant I had to stand there on his doorstep again, and say I was sorry again, then I guess I’d do it. And maybe this time I could let him see me, all the ways I was messy and hurt and lost, and all the ways he made me better. Maybe he deserved that too.

  Twenty minutes later—against my better judgment—I was in a cab on my way to Clerkenwell.

  Chapter 32

  I was standing on the pavement outside Oliver’s, trying to figure out exactly how bad an idea this had been, when it started to rain. Which, at the very least, got in the way of my plan to dither helplessly for twenty minutes before wussing out and going home. I mean, I still hadn’t completely written off Operation Wuss Out but, somehow, there I was, unsexily damp and terrified, ringing Oliver’s doorbell at four in the morning.

  Oh shit, what had I done?

  I stared at Oliver’s pretty glass panels, wondering if it was too late to run away like a kid playing a prank. And then the door opened, and Oliver was standing there in his stripiest pyjamas, his face pale and his eyes red-rimmed.

  “What are you doing here?” he said in a “this is the last thing I need right now” sort of voice.

  With no idea how to answer that, I called up Cam’s article on my phone and jammed it in Oliver’s face like an FBI agent in a movie.

  “What’s this?” He squinted.

  “It’s an article about what a loser I am by some guy I met for five minutes a month ago.”

  “When you woke me up,” said Oliver, “at a time so unsociable it can’t even be called the middle of the night because that was about two hours back, I’d hoped you might at least be coming to apologise. I didn’t expect that you’d be asking me to do background reading on a wet smartphone.”

  Fuck, I was fucking this up. “I am,” I tried. “I mean, I do. I apologise. But I wanted you to know why I flipped out. For context.”

  “Ah yes.” He gave me one of his cold looks. “The most important part of any apology.”

  Rainwater slithered from the tips of my hair and down my face. “Oliver, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I’m sorry for losing my shit. I’m sorry for locking myself in the bathroom like an emo teen at a bad party. I’m sorry I suck at apologies. I’m sorry I’ve been a crap fake boyfriend. And I’m sorry I keep showing up on your doorstep begging you to give me another chance.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture…well, gestures”—he was doing the temple-rubbing thing that meant he had no idea how to deal with me—“but I don’t understand why this keeps happening. Honestly, I don’t even understand what happened tonight.”

  “Which is why,” I yelled, brandishing the phone again, “I tried to give you context.”

  He glanced from me to the phone and back again. “You should probably come in.”

  I came in and stood in his hallway dripping. Neither of us seemed entirely sure what was meant to happen next.

  Then Oliver said, “Why don’t you take a moment to dry off. And I’ll have a look at this article, if you’re still comfortable with that.”

  I wasn’t comfortable with that at all, but having shoved it under his nose, it was a bit late to back out now. Besides, I was committed to being honest and transparent and oh, help.

  Trying not to panic, I let Oliver shepherd me upstairs, where he took a towel from the airing cupboard because, of course, he had an airing cupboard. And, of course, the towel was all fluffy and sweet-smelling. I hugged it needily.

  He gave me a little nudge towards the bathroom. “There’s a dressing gown behind the door. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Feeling both drier and floatier, I came down a few minutes later, wrapped up in navy-blue fleece, and found Oliver at the table frowning at my phone.

  “Lucien”—he looked up with a less encouraging expression than I might have hoped—“I’m still confused. From your reaction, I assumed you’d read something that, at the very least, put one of our careers in danger. This is a contentless piece of self-serving fluff by an obvious hack.”

  I slid awkwardly onto a chair opposite. “I know, but it felt really true in the moment.”

  “I’d say I’m not unsympathetic, but since you locked yourself in a bathroom and dumped me over it, I am finding sympathy difficult.”

  “I…I get that.”

  Oliver crossed one leg over the other, looking prim and serious. “I think what I need you to understand is that even though we are not in an official relationship, we have made a commitment to each other that we are both relying on. And when you behave unreliably it has real consequences for me, logistically and”—he gave a tight little cough—“emotionally.”

  This was everything I thought I didn’t like about Oliver Blackwood: severe, stern, headmastery and not in a kinky way, and with that faint edge of superiority that suggested he would never flake out or fuck up. But I knew him better now and I knew I’d hurt him. “I realise I’ve treated you badly, and I realise my many, many issues aren’t an excuse for that. And I wish I could tell you I won’t do this again, but I can’t because I’m worried I will.”

  “While I appreciate your honesty,” he said, still rather coldly, “I’m not sure where that leaves us.”

  “I can’t tell you where it leaves you, but where it leaves me is I want to give this another go and I’ll try to do better.”

  “Lucien…” He gave a soft sigh. “I really don’t want to go alone to my parents’ anniversary. But it’s a little late for me to find anybody else now.”


  That wasn’t quite the falling back into my arms Bridget had led me to expect. “If that’s what you need, and that’s all you want, I can still do that for you. I think I know you well enough that I could pass as your boyfriend for one party, even if we don’t speak until then.”

  “What about your work function?”

  “It’ll be fine.” I shrugged. “I’ve got most of the donors back. And, you know, I’m starting to think that if they come for my personal life again, I might actually be able to face taking them to an employment tribunal.”

  Oliver was looking at me, his eyes all silver-grey and searching. “Why couldn’t you before?”

  “Because getting fired just felt like something I deserved.”

  “And it doesn’t now?”

  “Sometimes. But not so much.”

  “What changed?” he asked, with a quizzical look.

  I groaned. “Don’t make me say it.”

  “Say what?” His foot flickered impatiently. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not at my most perspicacious, but I’ve only had three hours sleep.”

  “Which I notice is still enough sleep to say ‘perspicacious.’ Oliver, you. It was you. You’re what changed. And now I’ve blown it. And I’m sad.”

  He softened for about a second. And then unsoftened abruptly. “If I’ve been such a positive influence, why on earth did you dump me through a bathroom door over a nothing article in a newspaper famed for its misspellings?”

  “I think what you’re underestimating here is how much better I can get and still be a complete disaster.”

  “You’re not a complete disaster, Lucien. I just don’t want to be going through this again in a fortnight—and you haven’t been able to give me any reassurance that I won’t.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay. Look, the truth is, we’re both terrible at relationships. That’s how we got into this position in the first place. But it feels to me that you’re asking for the wrong thing.”

  “Is that so?” He raised an unconvinced eyebrow. “I flatter myself that I’m asking for something quite reasonable, which is that our relationship, fake or otherwise, isn’t going to be constantly punctuated by your appearing on my doorstep apologising for your shitty behaviour.”

  “And I see why that’s not great. Except I’m not sure it’s the real problem. I don’t know how to promise you that I won’t overreact, or lash out, or say something I shouldn’t. All I can promise, and I really think it’s what I should be promising, is that I’ll be honest with you about…about what’s going on with me.” This was hell. I’m pretty sure this was hell. “That’s what I should have done tonight. And that’s why we’re here.”

  There was a long silence. It was fifty-fifty whether this was good silence or bad silence.

  “All right.” Oliver eyed me warily. “So if you had been honest with me, as you’ve suggested, what would you have said?”

  I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

  “I think,” Oliver murmured, “we’ve discovered the flaw in this plan.”

  “No. No. Give me a minute. I can do this. I can trust someone. With, like, my feelings and shit.”

  Why was this so hard? I mean, it was Oliver. Basically the most decent person I’d met in the last decade who I wasn’t already friends with. Fuck.

  “Um,” I tried. “This is probably going to sound totally bizarre, but do you mind if I go in your bathroom?”

  “Sorry, I assume you’re not asking to use the facilities?”

  “No I…I think I’d just like to go in there.”

  “If you dump me through a door again, I’ll be very angry.”

  “I’m not going to. And my end goal is to get to the stage where we can have this kind of conversation in the same room. But, y’know, baby steps?”

  He made a defeated gesture. “Fine. If that’s what you need.”

  So I went to Oliver’s bathroom, locked the door behind me, and sat on the floor with my back to it. “You can still hear me, right?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Okay.” Breathe. Breathe. I had to breathe. “This…whatever it is…that we’re having, it’s…the best thing that’s happened to me in five years. And I know it’s supposed to be fake, but it’s not felt that way to me for… I don’t know. A while. And that’s, I guess, rearranged my messed-upness in ways that are overall really, really…good. But I also feel vulnerable and frightened, like, all the time.”

  The door shuddered slightly, which took me a moment to interpret. But then I thought maybe Oliver was sitting on the other side of it, with his back to mine. “I… Lucien. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to. Just, um, listen or something.”

  “Of course.”

  “So when I saw that article, it brought up all this old stuff that I… Yeah. You see, my last boyfriend—Miles…we were together all through university and a little bit after. And I think it was one of those relationships where the stuff that keeps you together at uni doesn’t work in the real world. We were sort of going through a rough patch, but I guess I didn’t know how rough, because he went and sold his story…my story…our story…to the Daily—I can’t even remember which. For fifty fucking grand.”

  I heard Oliver draw in a breath. “I’m sorry. That must have felt awful.”

  “Pretty much. What I couldn’t hack was… I thought when you’re in love, it’s supposed to be safe, isn’t it? You’re supposed to be able to do things and try things and make mistakes, and it’ll be okay because you know who you are to each other. I genuinely believed we had that, but he took it and flogged it to the press, and they turned five years of my life into a couple of threesomes and that one time we did cocaine at a party in Soho.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Oliver whispered through the door. “This is clearly very difficult for you, and I appreciate your trust.”

  I should have been done. But, somehow, now I’d started talking about this shit, I couldn’t stop. “He met my mum. I told him about my family, about my dad, how I felt, what I wanted, what I was scared of. And he made it all so ugly and so cheap. And now everyone thinks that’s who I am. And half the time I believe it too.”

  “You shouldn’t. And I know that’s easy to say and harder to believe, but you’re far more than pictures in papers, and a couple of sad little articles written by sad little men.”

  “Maybe, but it came back on Mum as well. She’s gone through enough without the tabloids turning her into a crazy has-been.”

  “Of course,” he said softly, “I don’t know her as well as you. But she seems…resilient to say the least.”

  “That’s not the point. She shouldn’t have to pay because I trust the wrong people.”

  “One person. Who betrayed you. Which is on him.”

  My head fell back gently against the door. “The thing is, I didn’t even see it coming. I thought I knew him. Better than anyone. And he still…”

  “Again, that’s about him, and his choices. Not about you and yours.”

  “Rationally, I know that. I just don’t know when it’s going to happen again.”

  “And so you haven’t been with anyone since?”

  “Basically.” I tried to pick at Oliver’s floor like I had my own, but the grouting was too clean. “It was liberating at first. It felt like the worst had already happened, so I thought I might as well do anything I wanted. Except, then, doing what I wanted became steering into people’s worst assumptions about me. And before I knew it, I’d lost my job, alienated most of my friends, and my health was trashed and my house was a tip.”

  I felt another ripple through the door—it was weirdly comforting, like he was touching me. “I had no idea how difficult it’s been for you. I’m so sorry, Lucien.”

  “Don’t be. Because then I met you.”

  Leaving the bat
hroom still seemed like a terrifying prospect, but I was coming to the conclusion that waiting wouldn’t make it less terrifying. And while Oliver’s toilet was way nicer than, say, mine, I hadn’t quite sunk low enough that I’d be happy to live there for the rest of my life. I got shakily to my feet, opened the door, and walked straight into Oliver’s arms.

  “Yeah,” I said a few minutes later, still clinging to him, “I should probably have done this the first time round.”

  He gave me a wholesome cotton pyjama squeeze. “We can work on it.”

  “Does this mean you’ll have me back?”

  I was treated to one of his intense stares. “Do you want to come back? I’m only just beginning to understand how much this is asking of you.”

  “No, Oliver. I came to your house at whatever it is in the morning and spilled my guts all over your bathroom floor because I’m so-so about this.”

  “I find it oddly comforting that you’re feeling well enough to be sarcastic at me.”

  I risked smiling at him, and he smiled slowly back.

  Chapter 33

  A few minutes later we were back in Oliver’s tiny kitchen, and he was Olivering at the stove because he’d apparently decided that what we really needed now was hot chocolate.

  Sitting uselessly at the table, I faffed around with my phone and discovered it was well after five. “You are going to be wrecked at work tomorrow.”

  “I’m not in court. So I have no intention of actually going in.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Well, I’m technically self-employed—though the clerks tend not to see it that way—and I haven’t had a sick day in…ever.”

  I flooped. “I’m sorry. Again.”

  “Don’t be. Obviously I’d rather we hadn’t had a crisis, but I’ve come to terms with the idea that there’s something I care more about than my job.”

  I had no idea how to reply to that. Part of me wanted to point out that he probably shouldn’t put boys ahead of his career, but since I was the boy, that would have been pretty self-defeating. “Yeah, I think I’ll be pulling a sickie too.”