Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

  So why not take it?

  Chapter 40

  The day of the Beetle Drive, I was in the office from eleven and the hotel from three. Insurance and table decorations I had sorted—the insurance by a lot of stressed-out telephone conversations and the table decorations by staying up all night making them with Priya and James Royce-Royce—but I’d come up blank on music. And I was telling myself that no one would mind because posh people mostly just liked the sound of their own voices when Rhys Jones Bowen poked his head into the cubicle where I was frantically pulling on my formalwear.

  “I heard,” he said, paying absolutely no attention to the fact I was in my underwear, “you were having a spot of bother in the music department.”

  “It’s fine. We’ll do without. We had a string quartet last year, and nobody cared.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, I’ll tell Uncle Alan we don’t need him after all.”

  “I feel like I’ve missed the middle of this conversation. Who is Uncle Alan, and why would we need him or otherwise?”

  “Oh, you see, I was talking to Becky the volunteer, who was talking to Simon the volunteer, who was talking to Alex, who was talking to Barbara who was saying the band you wanted had pulled out and you couldn’t get a replacement. So I thought, why don’t I ask Uncle Alan. So I rang him up, and he says to me that he and the boys are in town anyway because they’re on Songs of Praise and they’d be happy to help us out.”

  I resigned myself to being trouserless for the rest of the encounter. “Okay, Rhys. One more time: who is Uncle Alan?”

  “You know who Uncle Alan is. I’ve told you about Uncle Alan before. I’m always talking about Uncle Alan.”

  “Yes, but I’m never listening.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Ah, there was me forgetting what a bellend you are. Uncle Alan is the managing director of the Skenfrith Male Voice Choir. They’re quite big in male voice choir circles.”

  “And you’re only mentioning this now because…?”

  “I didn’t want to get your hopes up if it wasn’t going to come through.”

  I surrendered to the unstoppable power of Rhys Jones Bowen and his seemingly limitless supply of talented Celts. “Fine. Can you get them settled in and give them whatever they need. And…” I realised with a sinking feeling I was experiencing a moment of genuine gratitude towards Rhys Jones Bowen. Again. “Thank you. Sorry I’m a bellend. I really do appreciate your help.”

  “Happy to oblige. Nice boxers, by the way. Are they Markses?”

  I squinted downward. “I’m not sure I track my pants that closely.”

  “Right you are then.”

  And with that, he ambled off, presumably to wrangle a choir. I returned my attention to dressing and had, once again, got into the yoga position necessary to get one leg into my trousers without sitting down, falling over, or dropping anything in the loo. Then Alex burst in.

  “For God’s sake,” I yelled. “I’m not a peep show.”

  Alex seemed unperturbed. “Um, quick question. You know that one job I had?”

  “You mean, the job of not losing the earl?”

  “Yes, that job.” He paused. “Roughly, how inconvenient would it be if I hadn’t a hundred percent discharged it to the full extent of my abilities?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you did lose the earl?”

  “Only a little bit. I don’t know exactly where he is, but I have an increasingly comprehensive list of places he isn’t.”

  “Please, Alex.” I practiced some calming breathing. “Just find him. Now.”

  “Rightio. Sorry to, ah, interrupt. Nice boxers, by the way. Very chic.”

  “Go. Away.”

  He went. Away. And I began hopping in a small circle, trying to drag my inconveniently clingy trousers over my inconveniently long legs with their inconveniently bendy knees when I heard the door open again behind me.

  “Alex,” I snapped. “Please will you fuck off for five minutes.”

  “Oh, I say,” said a voice that was much older than Alex’s, but not much posher. “I’m terribly sorry. I think the lock must be broken. Though now you mention it, I have misplaced a chap called Alex. Do you know where he is?”

  I shuffled back around, still very much under-trousered, to face the patron and primary donor of CRAPP, the Earl of Spitalhamstead. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I thought you were somebody else.”

  “I gathered that when you called me somebody else’s name.”

  “Ah yes. How very astute of you.”

  “I enjoyed the swearing, though. I do like a bit of swearing.”

  “We strive to please. If you give me ten seconds to put my clothes on, I’ll take you upstairs and we’ll find Alex together.”

  “It’s no bother. I’m sure I’ll track him down myself.”

  “No, no,” I insisted. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  The Earl of Spitalhamstead was ninety if he was a day, barmy in a way that only the aristocracy were allowed to be, and had a habit of getting into what Alex described as “scrapes.” The last time we’d let him wander around unattended at the Beetle Drive, he’d taken a wrong turn into the hotel bar, ordered an obscene amount of champagne “just to be polite,” and wound up flying to Vienna with someone he’d completely failed to recognise was a prostitute. Apparently they had a lovely time, but it did rather put a dent in our fundraising.

  Ten somewhat hairy seconds later, I was mostly dressed and shepherding a peer of the realm somewhere vaguely in the direction of where he needed to be while he told me a long story about an elephant, a racing monoplane, and the time he slept with Marilyn Monroe.

  We found Alex looking very carefully inside a potted plant.

  “What,” I began, very much aware that I was about to ask a question to which I might not want to hear the answer, “are you doing?”

  Alex looked at me like I’d said something deeply foolish. “Looking for the earl. Obviously.”

  “And you thought you’d find him inside a potted plant?”

  “Well, I think you’ve just made yourself look dashed silly, because that’s exactly where I found him.” He pointed at the Earl of Spitalhamstead, who hadn’t moved from my side for the length of the conversation. “See?”

  “Hullo, Twaddle,” said the earl cheerfully. “How’s things?”

  “Bally awkward, actually. Meant to be looking after this Earl chappie. Completely lost him.”

  “What rotten luck. Seems you’ll have to make do with me instead.”

  For a moment, this seemed to trouble Alex. “Well, I was doing this little job for Luc. But…well”—he turned to me helplessly—“Hilary’s a jolly old family friend so I’d really probably better take care of him if that’s all right with you?”

  I patted his shoulder. “You know, I think that might be for the best.”

  “Huzzah. Victory for common sense.” Alex took the earl’s arm gently. “Come on, old bean. I’ve got oodles of chaps—and chappesses for that matter; no need to be sexist, it is the twentieth century—simply dying to have a chinwag with you.”

  “Marvellous,” returned the earl. “One so seldom gets to talk about dung beetles to an appreciative audience. You know, they shot me down in the Lords again. Shortsighted bastards…”

  I slumped against a pillar as they vanished into the function room—from within which I could already hear the melodious sounds of a male voice choir warming up with the Welsh national anthem. Chances were, this would be the last opportunity I got to droop and catch my breath for the rest of the evening, so I was damn well making the most of it. I did, however, adjust my posture into something approaching respectability because I was fairly close to the lobby, the guests were already beginning to arrive, and “shagged out before you’d even begun” wasn’t a confidence-inspiring look in a fundraiser. Which was unfortunate because “sha
gged out before I’d even begun” was pretty much how I was feeling.

  Basically, though, it was fine. Everything had come together. It always kind of did. And, if I was being honest, it was nice seeing the whole team weirdly united in their support for our technically important but thoroughly unglamorous cause. To say nothing of the annual treat that was Rhys Jones Bowen in a suit. And by “treat” I meant “subtle headfuck” because he always managed to look like an undercover Marxist.

  Although, speaking of treats of suits, I couldn’t quite resist checking out the tuxedo-wrapped piece of manhunkery who’d just come in and was asking the receptionist for directions to the CRAPP fundraiser. And then immediately felt guilty because I had a possibly-actually-real boyfriend now. And then the confused opposite of guilty when I realised the tuxedo-wrapped piece of manhunkery was my possibly-actually-real boyfriend.

  I lifted my hand in an “I am definitely not overwhelmed by how hot you are” wave. And Oliver came striding over in a flash of black and white and gorgeous.

  “You are ridiculously good-looking,” I said, attacking him with my eyes, “you know that?”

  He smiled at me—all jawlines and cheekbones. “Normally I’d say the same to you, but at the moment you look like you got dressed in a toilet stall.”

  “Yeah, there’s a fairly obvious reason for that.”

  “Come here.”

  I came there and Oliver made a number of swift, certain adjustments to my clothing that I found weirdly sexy despite being entirely SFW. He even redid my bow tie. And from the front and everything. You had to admire a man with coordination like that.

  “There.” He leaned in and kissed me chastely. Apparently, somehow we’d gone from people who needed to practice any sort of physical contact to the ever-challenging appropriate workplace smooch. “Ridiculously good-looking.”

  I was probably gazing at him pathetically. “Well. Not ridiculous. Maybe slightly absurd. In the right light.”

  “On the contrary, Lucien. You’re always captivating.”

  “Okay. You’re sailing perilously close to the wind here. Because if you keep this up, I’ll need to shag you in the nearest closet, and I’m technically supposed to be doing my job here.”

  “And”—another of his killing-me-to-pieces smiles—“I’m supposed to be helping you with it.”

  “Got to be honest, I’m fifty-fifty on the job thing right now.”

  “You know that’s not true. You’ve worked very hard for this.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, okay. But you better make it up to me later.”

  “I fully intend to.”

  Then he slid his arm around my waist and we went in together.

  Chapter 41

  Professor Fairclough’s welcome speech ended, as it always did: “Please give generously because Coleoptera are, by any objective measure, more important than any of you.” Which, y’know, was very her and I liked to think it was part of the CRAPP experience. I mean, at what other high-end fundraiser would you be told, to your face, that you were worth less than an insect? She stood down to a polite smattering of applause and then Rhys Jones Bowen’s Uncle Alan and the Skenfrith Male Voice Choir took the stage and began singing soulfully in Welsh about, well, I didn’t know because it was in Welsh.

  “So”—I leaned in to Oliver—“we’ve got about half an hour to an hour of networking before dinner. The trick, basically, is to never look like you’re trying to get money out of people so that they can feel good about themselves when you eventually get money out of them.”

  He frowned. “That sounds rather outside my skill set. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stand next to you and look respectable.”

  “Yeah, and if you could occasionally talk middle class at people, that’d be helpful too.”

  “So, eaten any good quinoa recently—that kind of thing?”

  “Perfect. Just slightly less sarcastic sounding.”

  We circulated—it was mainly “hello, so glad you could make it, how’s your business/child/novel/horse” type stuff, but occasionally people would want to stop me for a longer conversation, which meant I got to introduce my pointedly appropriate but genuinely wonderful new boyfriend. I was relieved to see that while a couple of our most, how can I put this politely, “traditional” donors had stayed away, we’d still done pretty well, at least in terms of turnout. A handful of new developments, including Ben and Sophie, had shown up, and despite all the posturing, most of the concerned-about-your-values crowd appeared to have backpedalled—either because Alex’s plan had somehow worked or because they’d been full of shit from the beginning. So thanks for that, fuckers.

  “Adam,” I bonhomied, “Tamara. So glad you could make it. Don’t you both look lovely.”

  Adam gave one of his acknowledging nods. “Thank you. The suit’s black bamboo hemp.”

  “And this,” added Tamara, indicating her annoyingly gorgeous gold silk caftan, “is by one of my favourite designers. She’s very new, so you won’t have heard of her yet, but she runs a made-in-Africa social enterprise, working closely with local artisans who specialise in traditional techniques.”

  I gave her my best smile. “That’s so you.”

  “Well”—Adam almost looked like he’d never been an investment banker—“you know how Tamara and I believe in living our principles.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” I said, “I haven’t introduced you to my partner yet. Oliver, these are Adam and Tamara Clarke. Adam and Tamara, this is Oliver Blackwood.”

  Handshakes, air-kisses, and entirely one-sided Namastes followed.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Oliver had his good-at-social-situations face on. “You’re the couple behind Gaia, aren’t you?”

  They both lit up like locally sourced Christmas trees.

  “Yes.” Tamara’s eyes grew soft. “It’s been our whole life for five years.”

  Another of Adam’s nods. “Our mission’s always been to bring ethical values to the convenience food sector.”

  I clutched at Oliver’s hand in a way that I hoped signalled “I’m in real danger of laughing right now” and he squeezed back in a way that suggested he got it.

  “That’s very admirable,” murmured Oliver, “especially considering how many businesses in that sector have unethical values.”

  “I know,” replied Tamara with absolute sincerity. “It’s terrible.”

  Adam seemed oddly distracted considering that their business, and by extension themselves, had always been the Clarkes’ favourite topic of conversation. Then I noticed his gaze kept catching on my hand, still resting in Oliver’s. And, y’know, that gave me a bit of a dilemma. Because, from a certain point of view, it was my job to make these people comfortable. But, from a different point of view, fuck him. I’d jumped through a stack of hoops over the past couple of weeks to satisfy the Adam Clarkes of this world, but not holding hands with my boyfriend—my very nice, very respectable boyfriend who nobody could possibly disapprove of—was a hoop too far. And if Adam and Tamara decided to take their chequebook home because they went to a party and saw two guys being mildly affectionate to each other, well, then they could explain that to all their trendy leftie friends.

  “So”—he gathered himself—“Oliver. What is it that you do?”

  “I’m a barrister.”

  “What kind?” asked Tamara.

  “Criminal.”

  That earned an indulgent chuckle from Adam. “The sort that locks up innocent people or the sort that puts murderers back on the streets?”

  “Well, both, but mainly the murderer sort.” Oliver offered a placid smile. “I’d say the money helps me sleep at night, but it’s not even that well paid.”

  “If you ever need help finding peace”—Tamara’s earnestness could have stripped bone—“I could put you in touch with a number of excellent yogis.”

 
Before Oliver had to work out how the hell to respond to that, Adam chimed in with “I used to be in a very similar situation myself. I mean, financial sector, obviously, not legal. But Tamara really helped me find my path.”

  “Thank you,” said Oliver, with an impressive air of meaning it. “I’ll look you up if I ever feel ready.”

  They made appreciative, if slightly condescending, noises, congratulated me on the authenticity of the Welsh male voice choir, and finally let us go. I cast Oliver an “I’m sorry, they’re the worst” glance but couldn’t risk saying it out loud, just in case they—or let’s be fair, anybody else—heard me dissing some people who were about to give me a very large sum of money.

  “Don’t worry.” He leaned in, somehow managing to whisper without looking shady. “If I can pretend to respect Justice Mayhew, I can pretend to like the Clarkes.”

  “You shouldn’t have to.”

  “It’s exactly what you needed me for.”

  Well. Didn’t that feel all complicated and confusingey? Because he was right—having someone who could convincingly fake an interest in me and my donors had been the whole plan. But seeing it in action, especially now I genuinely liked him, made the whole thing…icky. “You’re better than this.”

  “Better than what, Lucien?” His eyes gleamed softly at me. “Better than being polite to people I don’t particularly care about at my partner’s work event?”

  “Um, yes?”

  He brushed his lips against my brow, hiding his smile. “I’ve got news for you. For those of us not raised by ’80s rock legends, this is just…life. It’s fine. I’m happy to be here with you, and later we can go home and laugh about it all.”

  “When we go home,” I told him firmly, “there won’t be time for laughing. You have no idea how good you look in those trous—Oh shit.” Across the room, I saw to my horror that Dr. Fairclough was interacting with a guest. Which never, ever ended well. I grabbed Oliver by the elbow. “Sorry. This is an emergency. We have to go.”