Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

“You can stop thanking me, Lucien.”

  “But you were amazing. You were nice to everybody, and everybody liked you, and you talked to Dr. Fairclough and you didn’t punch the Clarkes…”

  “You shouldn’t listen to Sophie.” He shifted a little uncomfortably. “I don’t need you to act like…like this was anything special.”

  My brain stumbled over something but was too foggy to see what it was. “Why are we talking about Sophie?”

  “We’re not. I just didn’t want you to think that I think that… I don’t know.”

  “I’m really not thinking much at all right now. But this evening went really well for me, and part of that was you.” I remembered something else important. “Also you look really hot in black tie. And the moment we get in, I’m going to… I’m going to…”

  The next time I was aware of, well, anything, I was in bed, and Oliver was taking off my clothes in a tragically unerotic way.

  “Come here.” I made a plaintive pawing motion. “We’re going to do all of the sex things.”

  “Yes. Lucien. That’s exactly what’s happening now.”

  “Good. Because you’re so wonderful…and I really want…and did I mention you look really hot in that…”

  Then I opened my eyes and it was dawn and Oliver was fast asleep beside me—looking all peaceful and stubbly and perfect. And, on the one hand, I was annoyed I’d been too knackered to fuck him six ways to, from, or possibly on Sunday. But there he was, warm and curled up against me, holding me tight, in this strangely protective, strangely vulnerable way.

  And, y’know, I guess that was okay too.

  Chapter 43

  “Knock, knock,” I said to Alex.

  “Oh, I know this one.” He paused. “Who’s there?”

  “The interrupting cow.”

  “The interrupt—”

  “Moo.”

  “—ing cow who?” He continued to look at me expectantly. “This is your bit.”

  “No, no, I did my bit.”

  “Sorry, did I miss it? Shall we try again?”

  “I’m honestly not sure that will help. You see, and”—I was starting to get that sinking feeling—“now that I find myself having to articulate it, I’m beginning to realise that this was probably a poor choice. The interrupting-cow joke is sort of a subversion of the knock-knock joke form.”

  “Ah. You mean like Ulysses?”

  “Probably? But more about a cow and less about…I’m going to go out on a limb and say sad Irish people?”

  Alex thought about this for a long moment. “And so I’m led by the intrinsic structural features of the knock-knock joke medium to anticipate that the punch line will be delivered following my delivery of the expected reply ‘the interrupting cow who’ but because the interrupting cow is an interrupting cow, it instead delivers its punch line during said response, thus confounding my expectations with hilarious consequences.”

  “Um. I think so?”

  “It’s rather good.” He leaned sideways. “I say, Rhys. Come in here.”

  Rhys Jones Bowen’s head appeared in the doorway. “What can I do you for, fellows?”

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  Alex shot me a conspiratorial look. “The interrupting cow.”

  “The interrupting cow who?” asked Rhys Jones Bowen.

  “Moo!”

  There was a pause. He stroked his beard. “Ooh, I like it. It’s rather Dadaist. You see, I was expecting you to interrupt me during the final line because you’re an interrupting cow. But you didn’t, so I was surprised, and that made it funny. I’ll be chuckling about that all day, I will.”

  They were doing this deliberately, weren’t they? They were evil geniuses who’d been playing me for years. Before any of us could go back to what we laughably called our jobs, Dr. Fairclough appeared from upstairs and to my dismay (but not my surprise), Rhys Jones Bowen stopped in the doorway and turned to her.

  “Got a joke for you, Doctor F,” he announced.

  Her reply was wordless and discouraging, but he was not discouraged.

  “Knock, knock.”

  To my surprise, she did in fact reply at once with a curt and formal: “Who’s there?”

  “The interrupting cow.”

  “Thank you, but mammals are not my area of interest. Excellent job last night, O’Donnell.”

  “Moo?” Rhys finished somewhat limply.

  “Thank you?” I said, trying and failing not to sound like this was the first remotely supportive thing I’d ever heard her to say.

  “Good. I hope you are motivated by this positive reinforcement. If not, I can put a jar of sugar solution in the break room.”

  “Um, I think I’m okay.”

  Dr. Fairclough literally checked her phone. I wondered how many seconds she had allocated to taking an interest. “I additionally commend your choice of Mr. Blackwood. He was by far the least insufferable part of Saturday evening. Maintain a relationship with him and bring him next year.”

  “Just to check”—I did not like the way this was going—“am I fired if I don’t?”

  “No. But I may suspend your sugar solution privileges.” At which point, her phone beeped an alarm. “I hope you all feel valued as employees. I’m done with you now.”

  Thus reassured of my value as an employee, I wandered back to my office and began to tackle the substantial post-Beetle Drive housekeeping. There were pictures of the event to curate and send to Rhys Jones Bowen, so he could add them to the pile of things he was supposed to be doing social media with. There were donors and, with my more mercenary hat on, donations to follow up. Payments to be made. Apologies and thank-you’s to be issued depending on circumstances. Basically a bunch of T’s to dot and I’s to cross—and, for reasons I couldn’t quite articulate but I was sure had very little to do with Dr. Fairclough’s new, improved management style, I found myself surprisingly happy to get on with it.

  And I also made a sneaky booking at Quo Vadis for the day after Oliver’s parents’ do. Which, yes, was embarrassingly sentimental. But the alternative was turning to him in the car on the way home and saying “Hi, how about being my fake boyfriend for real?” And that didn’t feel like…enough? Of course, this might be too much. But given the choice between making Oliver think I didn’t care about him and making him think I was a creepy weirdo—actually those were both really bad. Fuck.

  This was hard. Romance was hard. How did you romance?

  More to the point, how did Oliver want to be romanced? I thought about asking Bridge but she would have told me to take him up the Seine—not a euphemism—in a candlelit rowboat or save his sister from being dishonoured at the hands of a dashing rake. And I wasn’t in any position to do either. Besides, I was pretty sure he didn’t have a sister.

  Wait. Did Oliver have a sister? He’d told me this, but that was back when I didn’t give a shit. I think he’d said he had a brother? And that was when I realised how little I actually knew about him. I mean, I knew he was hot and nice and a barrister and he liked it when I… Okay that definitely wasn’t helping. But he’d met my mum, and my dad, and seen me cry several times. How did I wind up being the one who did all the intimacy here?

  On top of which, I was less than a week away from having to hang out with his family, and what a shitty boyfriend I was going to look if I had no idea who any of them were. And probably Uncle Battenberg was going to come up to me and be all “Ah, you must have met Oliver through his water polo team” and I’d be all “What-er-polo-what?”

  Okay. New plan.

  Demonstrate how much I care about Oliver by learning a bare minimum of information about his life. Unfortunately, he had a way of distracting me. Well. Several ways of distracting me.

  So on Thursday, a little after midnight, I collapsed over Oliver’s chest, and with�
��I’ll admit—not the world’s best sense of occasion, said “So, tell me about your family.”

  “Um”—he seemed, I suppose, about as confused as I would have expected—“now?”

  “Not necessarily exactly now. But maybe before Sunday? On account of me, y’know, meeting them then?”

  He frowned. “How long has this been on your mind? Because I’m a little concerned.”

  “Couple of days, on and off? And,” I added quickly, “we’ve just been in an off.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not… I…” Wow. I really did suck at taking an interest. “I thought it would be nice? To know more about you?”

  Normally Oliver was happy for me to sprawl over him as long and as much as I wanted, but he half shifted me, like I was being tucked into a corner. “There’s very little to know that you don’t already.”

  “What? You mean you’re just an immaculate vegetarian lawyer with a gym routine and a good line in French toast?”

  “Is something troubling you, Lucien? I hope you don’t feel trapped with me now your event’s over.”

  I sat up like I’d been stung. “No. Not at all. You make me incredibly happy, and I want to be with you. But, like, what are you scared of? When was the last time you cried? What’s your favourite place in the world? What’s the thing in your life you most regret? Are you on a water polo team?”

  He gazed at me warily, monochrome in the half light. “No. I’m not on a water polo team. Where is this coming from?”

  Honestly? From liking him way more than I was used to liking anyone. From wanting him to like me back the same sort of way. From a whole wet splat of feels I couldn’t put into words. “I guess I’m just nervous. I don’t want to make a dick of myself in front of your parents.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.” He drew me back into his arms, and I went gladly enough. “It’s a garden party, not a job interview.”

  “All the same. There are logistics here. You’re not going to send me out all unprepared and un-logistics-ed.”

  I’d thought the logistics thing would be a winner. But he seemed less excited by it than I’d hoped. “Very well. What information do you think is pertinent?”

  “I don’t know.” Way to put me on the spot, Oliver. “Who’s going to be there?”

  “Well, my parents, obviously—David and Miriam. He’s in accountancy. My mother used to be a fellow of the LSE but gave it up when she had me.”

  This wasn’t helping. “You told me that when we first met.”

  “We can’t all be the children of infamous rock legends.”

  “No, I know. But, like, who are they? Do they have any interests? Or, y’know, personality traits?”

  “Lucien”—great, now he sounded borderline narked—“they’re my parents. My father’s a keen golfer. And my mother does a lot of charitable work.”

  My heart sank. I was upsetting Oliver and this already sounded awful—but I’d gone too far to back out of either the event or the conversation. “What about your brother? Is your brother coming?”

  “Yes. Christopher will be there.” He sighed. “As will Mia. I believe they’re flying in from Mozambique.”

  “You…” Here’s hoping I didn’t make it worse “You don’t seem entirely happy about that.”

  “My brother is very…accomplished. It makes me feel self-conscious.”

  “You’re accomplished,” I pointed out. “You’re a fucking barrister.”

  “Yes, but I don’t go into war zones and save lives.”

  “You make sure that people get fair representation in court when they wouldn’t otherwise.”

  “You see? Even you can’t make it sound glamorous.”

  “That’s because I’m not you. When you talk about it, your eyes all light up, and you make it seem like the most important thing in the world. And then I want to do you right there.”

  He blushed. “Please tell me you won’t say anything like that at the party.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m planning to say at the party. My opening line is going to be ‘Hello Miriam, I’m Luc, I really enjoy doing your son.’” I rolled my eyes. “I know how to behave in polite company, Oliver.”

  “Forgive me, I’m tired. It’s getting late, Lucien, and I’m in court tomorrow.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m being weird and keeping you awake.”

  Despite the mess we’d made—or probably I’d made—of the pillow talk, Oliver wrapped me up and held me like he always did. So I guess we were okay? Except I still felt kind of unsettled, and I wasn’t sure why or where it was coming from. Much less what to do about it. And maybe the problem was that there wasn’t a problem, and I was just so not used to that, my brain was trying to make one for me.

  Fuck you, brain.

  I nestled closer to my immaculate vegetarian lawyer and told myself to sleep.

  Chapter 44

  When Oliver had said his parents lived in Milton Keynes, I’d assumed that they, well, lived in a house in Milton Keynes. Not in a bijou mansionette so far on the outskirts of town that it was surrounded by rolling countryside as far as the eye could see.

  Thanks to Oliver’s crippling fear of being late, we’d shown up way early and had to sit around in the car for about forty-five minutes in order to arrive at anything like an appropriate time. And I was super mature about it and didn’t tell anyone I’d told them so.

  But, eventually, we were in a back garden that was just small enough not to qualify as “grounds” but still big enough to hold an absurdly overattended party in. There was bunting, with a tasteful ruby theme, and one of those big fancy tents, to say nothing of waitstaff with trays of champagne and canapes (none of which were vol-au-vents). The booze was clearly expensive, but on that perfectly chosen borderline between noticeable and showy. My tie already felt too tight.

  Miriam and David Blackwood looked exactly like you’d expect a couple called Miriam and David Blackwood to look. Which was to say kind of like if the Tesco Finest range did people: basically exactly the same as everyone else, but with a faint air of being slightly better. I reached for Oliver’s hand, but somehow missed it, as we trooped over the grass to where his parents were chatting pleasantly to a small knot of people in their late fifties and early sixties.

  “Happy anniversary,” he said, kissing his mother on the cheek and shaking his father by the hand.

  “Oliver.” Miriam straightened his tie. “We’re so glad you could come.” She turned to one of the other guests. “He’s been having such a hard time at work lately, we were worried he wouldn’t be able to make it.”

  Oliver shifted slightly at my side. “Work’s been fine, Mother.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m sure you’re coping very well. I’m just concerned.” Again, a glance to someone else. “He’s not like his brother, you know. Christopher thrives under pressure.”

  “I understand, but I’m all right, really.” Oliver didn’t quite push me forward but didn’t quite not. “This is my boyfriend, Lucien O’Donnell.”

  “Oliver’s gay,” Oliver’s father explained helpfully to the group.

  I shot Oliver a surprised look. “Are you? You never told me.”

  I’d say my attempt at humour had fallen flat but that suggested it had somewhere to fall from.

  “And what is it you do, Lucien?” asked Miriam after an uncomfortably long pause.

  “I work for a charity that’s trying to save the dung beetle.”

  “Well”—from the painfully jovial tone I suspected this comment was coming from an uncle—“at least you’re not another bloody lawyer.”

  Miriam subjected the speaker to a cool glance. “Now, now, Jim. Oliver works very hard and we can’t all be doctors.”

  “Works hard putting criminals back on the streets.” David’s smile said he was joking
. His eyes said he wasn’t.

  I opened my mouth to protest, but then remembered that I was here to be nice and that—having seen him do it before—Oliver could do a much better job defending his profession than I ever could.

  “Is Christopher here yet?” he asked. “I should probably say hello to him.”

  “He’s inside with the wife getting changed.” David jerked his thumb towards the house. “They’ve been travelling all day.”

  “They’ve been doing disaster relief,” added Miriam, for whose benefit I wasn’t certain.

  David nodded. “In Mozambique.”

  “Yes, I know.” Oliver sounded oddly brittle. “He emailed me.”

  “Though,” David continued cheerfully, “she’ll be doing less of that kind of thing now they’re starting a family.”

  Miriam addressed her little audience again. “The truth is, until Christopher met Mia, we despaired of ever having grandchildren.”

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. Given how well my joke had gone down earlier, I didn’t think anyone was going to welcome my pointing out that gay people could have kids, too, thank you very much. Besides, if Oliver could put up with the Clarkes, I could put up with this.

  No, really. I could put up with this.

  “I…I should go and find Christopher.” And, with that, Oliver turned away and started walking towards the house.

  I actually had to chase him.

  “Are you okay?” I tried.

  He cast me a rather impatient look. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Um. Because that was… awful?”

  “Lucien, please don’t be difficult. My parents belong to a different generation. My mother worries about me a lot, and my father tends to be very direct.”

  I found myself sort of tugging at his sleeve. “Excuse me, my mum belongs to that generation.”

  “Yes. Well. Your mother is quite an unusual person.”

  “Yeah but she…but she…” There was something I desperately needed to tell him—something I was sure he needed to understand—but I couldn’t quite work out what it was. “She wouldn’t talk to anyone like that?”