Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

  My apologies. I didn’t mean to.

  It’s fine. You can pay for it by making me look like I understand art

  I’d love to, Lucien, but I have to work tonight.

  Sorry. Not getting out if that easily. It’s on all week.

  I am genuinely keen to go. Of course he was.

  Weekend then?

  We have Jennifer’s birthday. Followed quickly by: I mean I have Jennifer’s birthday, and you are invited to come but should not feel obligated. Followed quickly by: Of course you’ll be very welcome. They’d like to meet you.

  Calm down. How about Friday?

  Works for me.

  Okay. On to trying to score some premium tickets for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child at a non-exorbitant price. I was beginning to think the box office was never going to get back to me when my phone rang.

  “Hello, Luc O’Donnell speaking.”

  “Hullo, Luc.” It was Alex from the front desk. Which meant somebody was trying to call me but there was about a 50 percent chance he’d already hung up on them. “Got a slightly queer chappy on the line for you. Okay if I transfer him?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Righto. Any idea how I…you know…do that?”

  I didn’t sigh. I felt very proud of myself for not sighing. “Did you already press Transfer before you called my extension?”

  “Yes. I remembered to do it that way around because I’ve got a clever mnemonic. I just remember the phrase Sic transit gloria mundi, then I remember that you press Transfer first because ‘transit’ is the second word in the old memory aid. Deuced thing is, I can’t remember what comes next.”

  “Hang up.”

  Alex seemed hurt. “Steady on, old chap, no need to be like that. Just because a fellow has a bit of a tricky time remembering how to use the telephone machine doesn’t mean you should just tell him to hang up out of nowhere.”

  “If you hang up the phone,” I explained, “it will transfer automatically.”

  “Really? That’s dashed clever on it. Thanks a jillion.”

  “No problem. Thanks, Alex.”

  There was the briefest click of a line reconnecting, and then Jon Fleming’s legend-of-rock voice rumbled down the line at me. “Hello, Luc. I don’t think Sunday went the way either of us wanted it to.”

  That was the problem with reaching out to people. Sometimes they reached back. And while I was mostly trying to be a kinder, gentler, nicer person, Jon Fleming was the exception. “No fucking shit.”

  “I’m back in London. I said I’d look you up.”

  “Well, you have. Congratulations on partially following through on a commitment.”

  “So how’ve you been?”

  There was no way I was telling him about, well, anything. “Good, as it happens. Which, I should clarify, has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

  There was a slight pause. “I can see you’re still carrying a lot of anger with you. I was the sa—”

  “Don’t even think about telling me you were the same when you were my age.”

  “As time passes, you learn to be more accepting of things that aren’t as you’d wish they were.”

  “Did you want to talk”—I cradled my office phone awkwardly against my shoulder as I ran down a list of other auction possibilities—“or are you practicing sound bites for the next time you’re on Loose Women?”

  “I was wondering if you’d be free to meet up while I’m in town.”

  Oh fuck. I’d just about made my peace with the idea that I’d reached out and it hadn’t worked and I was never going to see Jon Fleming again. And the fucker hadn’t even given me that. “Um. Depends. How long are you here for?”

  “There’s no hurry. We’ll be filming for the next month or so.”

  I glanced around my office, which was a carnage of pre–Beetle Drive prep. “I don’t suppose,” I tried, since by all rights there should be some upside to having a famous father, “you want to come to a fundraiser for the charity I work for.”

  “I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you one-on-one. I’d like an opportunity to set things right.”

  “Look, I…”

  Note to self: Don’t start sentences you have no idea how to end. I absentmindedly flicked the release, and my swivel chair sunk about three inches—pretty much matching my mood right down to the weary hiss. Basically, I had no idea what a “setting things right” conversation with Jon Fleming would even begin to look like, but I had a creeping suspicion that it would end with him feeling better and me feeling worse.

  I’d obviously left a really audible thinking gap because he said, “You don’t have to decide immediately,” in this tone that made it sound like he was doing me a massive fucking favour.

  “No, it’s fine. We can get dinner or something. I’ll find out when Oliver’s available.”

  Another pause. From him this time.

  “I’m glad Oliver’s in your life, but do you not think it’d be easier if it was the two of us?”

  Easier for him maybe.

  “Besides,” he went on, “I know barristers have very busy schedules. It might be difficult to find a window we can both make.”

  As was so often the case when it came to Jon Fleming: I just couldn’t. Was I supposed to be flattered that he wanted me all to himself? Or creeped out that he was acting like someone off To Catch a Predator? I mean, nothing good ever began with “and be sure you come alone.”

  And there was another of my “I’m very conflicted, please talk into this silence” gaps.

  Whether out of sensitivity to my needs or a love of his own voice, Jon Fleming talked. “I’m aware I’m being selfish here. Of course you can bring your partner if that’s what you feel you need.”

  Great. Way to make me feel weak and codependent.

  “But the truth is”—he hesitated, as if he was sincerely struggling with something—“it’s not easy for someone like me to admit when I’ve done wrong. And it’ll be that much harder in front of an audience.”

  “W-wait. What?”

  “This isn’t the kind of conversation we should be having over the phone.”

  He was right. But this was the closest I’d ever come to getting anything even halfway real from my father. And I didn’t know how not to just…grab at it. Except I couldn’t. Because how could I be sure he wouldn’t disappear like a gateway to Narnia the moment I went looking for him? There’d been a time when I’d wanted this so much, and maybe that made it worth the risk.

  Or maybe it really, really didn’t.

  “Can I…” I asked. “Can I think about it?”

  There was a longer-than-I-would-have-liked pause. “Of course you can. I’ll send you my personal number, and you can contact me on your own terms. Just remember, I’ll be here for you until…until the end.”

  And with that helpful little reminder he had cancer, Jon Fleming hung up.

  Chapter 35

  Oliver seemed to genuinely enjoy Gavin’s exhibition, although I could have done without his first words as we went through the door being “Ah, so you meant the Merthyr Tydfil Rising of 1831.” In any case, while it wouldn’t have been my first, second, or indeed twelfth choice for an evening out, I was quite enjoying being the sort of person who took his socially acceptable barrister boyfriend to pop-up dining experiences and indie art events. Also, it gave me a bunch of culture points that I immediately cashed in by treating myself to a Twix McFlurry on the way home. Which, despite his objections to both the contents of the dessert and the business ethics of the company that sold it, I generously shared with Oliver.

  It was a bit disorientating getting back to his house and realising that it was Friday night, and I wasn’t at home alone being miserable or out at a party being miserable. It was even more disorientating being in bed before one. Then again, Oliver’s bed had
compensations—Oliver being the most obvious—but I’m pretty sure his sheets were Egyptian cotton, and were usually freshly laundered.

  “Um,” I said, from where I was tucked under his arm, “you know that thing where I was going to be open and honest about, like, my feelings and stuff?”

  “I hope you’re making that sound unnecessarily ominous.”

  I cringed. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s always ominous in my head.”

  “What is it, Lucien?”

  “My dad rang. He wants to meet up for some one-on-one father-son bonding.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “I don’t know, that’s the problem.” I tried to shrug, but it turned into more of a…nestle? “I told him I needed to think about it.”

  “Probably wise.”

  “Yeah, get me with my probable wisdom.”

  Oliver’s fingers drifted soothingly up and down my spine. “Do you have any sense which way you’re leaning?”

  “Really not. It’s one of those things where I want to but I don’t want to. Every time I decide to just walk away, I get this little voice in my head saying ‘He’s got cancer, you knob.’ And I know I’d be an idiot to trust him and I know it’s probably going to suck. But I think—shit, I might actually be vomiting a little in my mouth as I say this—it’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “I understand.”

  Of course he did. “Of course you do.”

  “I can’t work out if I feel appreciated or taken for granted.”

  “A little of both?” I wriggled down and nuzzled into his neck. “I mean I guess I’m taking it for granted that you’re going to be amazing. But that doesn’t mean it’s not amazing.”

  He gave an embarrassed little cough. “Thank you. Although I should add I’m not completely unconcerned. I know I’ve only met your father once, but I can’t say he made a good impression.”

  “I don’t think he likes you either.”

  “I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I de-nuzzled and kissed him instead. “You always make things better. And I’m not sure I’d be into anyone Jon Fleming actually got on with.”

  “Even so, I fear I’ve burned a bridge that didn’t have to be burned.”

  “It was a shit bridge, Oliver. And I’m still not completely sure which side of it I want to be on.”

  “I’m sure you don’t need to be told this,” he said, after a moment, “but there’s a chance he could hurt you again.”

  I twisted my head, gazing up at Oliver with the sort of intensity you could only really get away with when you were both in bed and mostly naked. “It’s a very good chance, isn’t it?”

  “Again, I’m rather stating the obvious here, but I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “I’m not mad keen on it myself. I guess I just feel like…I’m in a place where even if it goes wrong, I’ll be okay. Like it won’t utterly wreck me.”

  “That’s”—he gave me a slightly crooked smile—“strangely reassuring.”

  * * *

  Sitting on Oliver’s freshly made bed the next day, I was starting to think I might have overstated my case utterly-wrecking-me-wise. It had been comparatively easy in my sort-of-a-bit-fake-sort-of-a-bit-real boyfriend’s arms to claim I was okay. I was not feeling okay right now. But eventually I got enough of my shit together to phone Jon Fleming on the number he’d had his people send my people. Well, me. I’m kind of my own people.

  “Jon here,” rumbled my dad, with the confidence of man who knows he’s the only Jon that matters.

  “Um. Hi. It’s me.”

  “Me who? It’s not a good time, I’m about to go on set.”

  “Me your son. You know, the one you want to connect with.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” Oh, he wasn’t talking to me, was he? “What was that, Luc?”

  “I was just ringing to say—”

  “Yeah. No. That’s great, thanks. Appreciate it.” Still not talking to me.

  “Look,” I said, “if you want to meet up, I’m free sometime this week.”

  “I’d like that. How about Wednesday? Do you know The Half Moon in Camden?”

  “Well, no, but I can Google it.”

  “I’ll see you there at seven. On my way, Jamie.”

  And he was gone. If I’d been superstitious, I would have said it wasn’t the best sign that the last thing he’d said to me was “On my way, Jamie” but I guess I was committed now. And I had an appointment with Jon Fleming. My dad. On my own. So he could maybe tell me he was sorry he left me.

  There was no way that was happening, was there?

  My first instinct, born from years of practice, was to… Actually, I didn’t know. Five years ago, I’d have gone out, got wasted, and got laid. Six months ago I’d have gone home, got drunk, and got under my duvet. Now I just wanted to be with Oliver.

  And I could? Because he was downstairs?

  This semblance of a healthy lifestyle was going to take some getting used to.

  I found him sitting at the kitchen table, elaborately hand-wrapping a wholesale carton of Kinder Happy Hippos.

  “I can’t believe,” I said, “I ever thought you were boring.”

  He gave me what I’d come to recognise as his “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be insulted” look. “You mean because when I give somebody a gift, I like to pay attention to its presentation?”

  “I’m not being sarcastic, Oliver. This is delightfully strange of you and not what I was expecting to see today.”

  “I’m wrapping a present. What on earth is strange about that?”

  “It’s the fact you’re going full Love Actually cinnamon stick on a job-lot of cheap German chocolate.”

  He gave a little cough. “Italian.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Italian.”

  “Isn’t Kinder German for ‘child’?”

  “Yes, but the company is based in Italy.”

  “I’m so glad we’re focusing on what matters here.” I folded myself into a chair opposite him. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

  “It’s for Jennifer’s birthday.”

  “Oh yes,” I affirmed convincingly. “That is a thing I definitely remembered.”

  He gave me one of those annoying looks that people give when they’re not disappointed because they know and care about you, instead of not being disappointed because they have incredibly low expectations. “How was your father?”

  “Dick like always.” I fiddled pointlessly with the vase of newly refreshed table flowers. “And I know I’m trying to be better at this, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You don’t have to. And I’d understand if you weren’t feeling up to the party tonight.”

  “No, I want to. If only for the expression on your friend’s face when she discovers you’ve bought her five hundred loosely hippo-themed wafer treats filled with a gooey substance that vaguely resembles chocolate.”

  He blinked petulantly. “It’s not chocolate. It’s a milk and hazelnut cream. And they’re what I always get her.”

  “And yet somehow you remain friends?”

  “She likes them. And it’s sort of a tradition.”

  I ran my toes up his shin. “I somehow thought you’d be too…grown-up or something to have a shit gift ritual.”

  “I think you’ll find I can be just as quirky as you can, Lucien.” He haughtily attached a sprig of lavender to his exquisite creation. “When I choose to be.”

  “Yeah, but I thought straight people were into, y’know, bottles of wine. Or, I don’t know, toast racks.”

  He covered his mouth with his hand. I wasn’t sure if he was laughing or appalled. “Lucien, you work with heterosexuals. Your mother is heterosexual. Bridget is heterosexual.”


  “Yeah, and I always buy them wine.”

  “But”—he actually wagged a finger at me—“and please be honest with me when you answer this question: never toast racks.”

  I sank lower in my chair and nearly wound up on the floor. “I…I…panicked, okay? Yes, I know some straight people. But I’ve never chosen to hang out socially with a large number of them all at once. I’m scared.”

  “What do you think they’re going to do? Put bees on your face?”

  “I don’t know. What if they don’t like me? And think you should go out with a woman or a better gay?”

  “They’re my friends, Lucien. They’ll be happy I’m happy.”

  I stared at him. “You’re…you’re happy? I make you happy? That’s a thing I do?”

  “You know it is. Just maybe don’t grill them about their toast racks. They might think you’re a tad peculiar.”

  This opened a whole new chasm of anxieties. “What do I talk to them about, then? I don’t watch any sports.”

  “Well, neither do most of them. Jennifer’s a human rights lawyer who likes hippos. Peter’s a children’s illustrator who likes Jennifer. They’re just people. I’ve known them for a long time. And at no point have they threatened to ostracise me if I couldn’t tell them…tell them…” He paused for a long moment, frowning. “I was going to cite some obscure piece of sporting information, but, as you can see, I don’t know any and that’s perfectly all right.”

  I sighed. “Fine. So I’m being silly.”

  “You are, but explicably so. And you are being rather charming about it.”

  “I think,” I admitted, “I’m fixating on the straight thing because…these people are important to you. And I don’t want to fuck this up.”

  “The way I see it”—it was Oliver’s gravest voice so I braced myself for an onslaught of sincerity—“either you won’t, which will be nice. Or you will, which will be funny.”

  I burst out laughing.

  And then, pushing the beautifully wrapped hippos gently aside, leaned over the table to kiss him.

  Chapter 36

  That evening, I was standing with Oliver and an over-decorated box of hippos on the doorstep of a very suburban-looking house in Uxbridge. And I already felt incredibly out of place.