Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

  Oliver stopped walking abruptly. “My parents raised me. My father worked every hour God sent, and my mother gave up her career entirely. I don’t want to have an argument with you, especially not here, and especially not now, but I’d thank you not to insult them in their own home.”

  “I’m sorry, Oliver.” I hung my head. “I didn’t mean to. I’m here to support you.”

  “Then …”—he made a this-conversation-is-over gesture—“accept how things are. This is my life. It’s not like your life. Please respect it.”

  I wanted to say that it didn’t seem to respect him.

  But I didn’t quite dare.

  We’d just reached the patio when a couple, who I assumed from age and context were Christopher and Mia, stepped through the French windows. He was definitely Oliver-like around the edges though he was slightly taller, his eyes bluer and his hair lighter. The combination of a slightly tousled look and a well-defined three-day stubble gave the impression of somebody who very much wanted you to know that he was too busy saving lives to worry about little details like shaving. His wife, by contrast, was shortish and pretty-ish, in a takes-no-shit way, and sporting a ruthlessly practical pixie cut.

  Oliver offered a weird little nod. “Christopher.”

  “Hi, Ollie.” His brother grinned. “How’s the law?”

  “Much as ever. How’s medicine?”

  “Right now, intense as fuck. We’re exhausted and frankly”—his gaze drifted resentfully over the lawn—“I can’t believe they dragged us back here for this.”

  One of Oliver’s eyelids twitched. “Well, of course they want you here. They’re extremely proud of you.”

  “But not so proud that they’ll let me stay where I need to be and do the things they’re proud of me for doing.”

  “Yes, yes, we’re all very aware how special and important your work is. It’s not unreasonable to expect you to make time for your family occasionally.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Ollie. Why do you—”

  “Hello,” I announced. “I’m Luc. I’m Oliver’s boyfriend. I work for a beetle charity. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Mia detached herself from her husband and shook my hand enthusiastically. “Good to meet you too. I’m so sorry. We’ve been on a plane for thirteen hours, which I know makes it sound like I’m bragging about my exciting jet-setting lifestyle but I really mean I’ve spent a long time trapped in a metal box.”

  “God.” Christopher ran a hand through his hair. “I’m being a dick, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” said Oliver. “You are.”

  A snort from Christopher. “Can I just point out that you’re the one who was too busy reaming me out to introduce his own boyfriend?”

  “It’s fine.” I waved my hands in what I hoped was a situation-defusing fashion. “Oliver’s told me all about you anyway. I can introduce myself.”

  “Ollie’s told you about us, has he?” Christopher’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “Go on then. What’s he said?”

  Whoops. “Um. You’re doctors? That you’ve been in… I want to say Mumbai but I think that’s wrong. And that you’re very nice people and he cares about you very much.”

  “Yeah, I think he maybe said one of those things if you’re lucky.”

  “I’m sorry, Christopher.” It was Oliver’s coldest voice. “You’re not that interesting a topic of conversation.”

  “I’d be devastated by that comeback, except you never say anything about anyone. You’ve told us more about Luc than you have about your last six boyfriends, and all you told us about him was his name.”

  I put a hand to my heart. “I feel so special.”

  “You should.” Mia smuggled a smile across the no-man’s-land between the siblings. “He mentioned you without being asked and everything.”

  Christopher was scrutinising me in a slightly awkward way. “He’s not your usual type, Ollie. Which is probably a good thing.”

  “Hard as it may be for you to believe,” Oliver sneered, “I don’t choose my romantic partners to please you.”

  “True.” Christopher had good pause game. “You choose them to please Mum and Dad.”

  There was a deeply nasty silence.

  “I hear from Father,” said Oliver placidly, “you’re starting a family.”

  There was another somehow even nastier silence.

  At the end of which, Mia fixed her brother-in-law with an irate glare. “Fuck off, Oliver. I’m getting a drink.”

  She fucked off and got a drink.

  “What the hell”—Christopher rounded furiously on Oliver—“is wrong with you, you sanctimonious little shit?”

  Oliver folded his arms. “It was a perfectly civil question.”

  “No, it was stirring, and you know it was stirring.”

  “There wouldn’t be anything to stir if you stopped dangling the possibility of grandchildren over our parents.”

  “That is not—”

  “Oh, it absolutely is. You can’t bear the idea of them not worshipping you.”

  Well, this was fun. And I had sort of signed up to have Oliver’s back here, but I didn’t think that stretched to watching him be a dick to his brother. Who, to be fair, was being equally dickish. But this was getting way too much.

  “You know”—I forced myself briefly into the conversation—“I think I need a drink too.”

  And before anyone could stop me, I made a dash for the big tent.

  Chapter 45

  I found Mia in a corner, with a glass of champagne in each hand.

  “Good plan,” I told her, and immediately copied it.

  She gave me a rueful look. “Cheers.”

  We double-clinked. And drank heavily for a few moments in silence.

  “I think,” said Mia finally, “this might be worse than usual.”

  God help me. “There’s a usual?”

  “They tend to set each other off.”

  “I’ve never seen Oliver act that way.”

  “And Chris only acts that way around Oliver.” She shrugged. “It’s kind of their deal.”

  I finished my backup drink in a single gulp and wondered if I could get away with a third. Truthfully, I was almost angry at how little Oliver had prepared me for this. But, at the same time, I could see why he hadn’t—and that alone made me feel sorry for him. “I guess”—I had to play this carefully—“it must be difficult for Oliver because it’s pretty clear David and Miriam have a way easier time with Christopher’s life choices.”

  “Hah.” Mia drained her glass too.

  “Okay, I’m getting the feeling I’m missing something.”

  “They’re definitely supportive.” It seemed like Mia was being as careful as I was. “And they make sure he never forgets just how supportive they’re being. Anyway, sorry I yelled at your boyfriend. I’m usually not so… Actually I probably am, but fuck it. The Blackwoods bring out the worst in me.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to think that’s a pattern. Though,” I added quickly, “for the record, David really did say the family thing.”

  She drove her toe into the perfectly kept lawn. “Of course he did. But it was still cheap of Oliver to go there.”

  “He…he…doesn’t seem to be handling today very well.”

  “I can see how much you like him. Still not feeling particularly forgiving right now.”

  “I take it…God, I don’t even know how to ask this.”

  “It’s not this big sensitive issue. Or at least it’s only sensitive because, from where I’m standing, it’s crystal fucking clear. We don’t want kids. David and Miriam want us to have kids, and they seem to think that their opinion matters as much as ours does.”

  “Shit. That’s…shit.”

  “Especially because now it’s this cold war where they act like it’s just a matter of time
and Christopher feels guilty for disappointing them and I’m pissed off that he won’t shut it down.”

  “To be fair, they seem like hard people to shut down.”

  She shrugged. “Oh, it’s always been like this. And, obviously, the last thing I want is for him to feel he has to choose between his parents and his wife.”

  “Well”—I risked a grin—“you’re clearly a lot better for him than they are, so maybe it would be an improvement.”

  That made her laugh. “It’s a nice idea, but he’s been trying to hang onto their approval for nearly thirty years. That’s not something you just walk away from.”

  “I wouldn’t know. My dad fucked off when I was three.”

  “And I’m increasingly glad my parents are normal, well-adjusted human beings.”

  “Wait. Those exist?”

  Before she could answer, Oliver and Christopher stuck their heads into the marquee, looking, I was pleased to see, appropriately sheepish.

  “Ollie’s got something to say,” said Christopher, with a touch more aggression than the statement warranted.

  Oliver shuffled. “I’m very sorry, Mia. I was angry and I lashed out, and I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s fine.” Mia waved a hand. “I know Chris was being a dick to you.”

  “Hey,” protested Christopher. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “For fuck’s sake. The fact you think there’s sides is the entire fucking problem.”

  I went gladly back to Oliver and snuck my hand into his. “Do you want to…give me a tour maybe?”

  “Of course, Lucien. I’m sorry I’ve neglected you.”

  “Actually, I think you’ll find I ran away from you. Because it was like Gunfight at the O.K. Corral back there, and I thought I was going to get caught in the verbal crossfire.”

  “I’m… I…I know. I’m very aware I’m behaving badly.” He glanced back to his sister-in-law. “Mia, I really do apologise. It won’t happen again.”

  We left the marquee and went for what would, under other circumstances, have been a nice walk around the garden. It was a bright, summery day, and I’d had champagne, and there were flowers and butterflies, but Oliver was vibrating like my gentleman’s massager without the fun side.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, for about the thousandth time. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  “Come on, I’m not doing that badly.”

  “No, I mean. I’m not at my best. And I don’t want you to see me not at my best.”

  “Oliver, you’ve seen me having all kinds of freak-outs. I think I can handle you being a bit snarky at a garden party.”

  He got even more vibratey. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this shirt.”

  The problem was, he’d said that about every shirt, and he’d tried twelve—nearly making us not ridiculously early in the process. “For the last time, the shirt is fine.” I stopped and tugged him round so we were facing each other. “You know, we can go home if you want to?”

  He looked at me as if I’d suggested a murder-suicide pact. “We’ve barely got here. What would my parents think?”

  “Right now, I don’t really care. All I know is that being here is making you unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy. It’s my parents’ anniversary. I’m not…handling things very well.”

  I wasn’t sure how to say “You’re not handling things very well because your parents are being arseholes to you.” I wasn’t even sure it was my place. So instead I tried, “I don’t think it’s you. I mean, Christopher isn’t exactly covering himself in glory either.”

  “Christopher is always covered in glory. At least as far as our parents are concerned.”

  “You mean, apart from the fact they keep pressuring him to have kids when he clearly doesn’t want kids?”

  “That’s aimed at me, not him. My parents are very understanding about my sexuality, but I can’t help but be aware that it has come with attendant disappointments.”

  “Look”—I flung up my hands—“this is purely hypothetical because it is way too early in the relationship for this conversation, but if you want kids, you can have kids.”

  “You mean, I could adopt children. That’s not the same thing. At least, not from my parents’ perspective.”

  Okay, this was a whole other can of problematic worms. And now was not the time to open it. “You see, this is why you need queer friends. If you knew more gay people, you could always cut a deal with a lesbian.”

  “If you’re trying to be funny, Lucien, this is in poor taste.”

  “Sorry, that got flippant. I’m just trying to say that you can live your life however you want. And your parents’ expectations shouldn’t factor into that. And I’ll bet you any money you like that Chris and Mia are having this exact same conversation right now.”

  He iced up. “I very much doubt that.”

  “Oh for—”

  A fork tinkled against a glass and we dutifully drifted over the patio, where David and Miriam were standing with about-to-make-a-speech faces on. Joy.

  “Thank you,” began David, “thank you all for coming to help Miriam and myself celebrate our Ruby Wedding Anniversary. I remember the evening all those years ago when I walked into our common room at the LSE, and I saw the most ravishing woman I’d ever imagined sitting across the way from me. And I said to myself, right then, that’s the lady I’m going to marry.” A pause. A joke was coming, wasn’t it? Rumbling towards us like a disappointing freight train. “And Miriam was two seats away from her.”

  We all laughed dutifully. Except Uncle Jim, who seemed to find it legitimately hilarious.

  “Of course we didn’t get on at first, because anybody who knows Miriam knows that she’s—shall we say—a woman of strong opinions. But she soon warmed to me once I started pretending to agree with her about everything.”

  Another round of polite laughter. I thought Uncle Jim might actually piss himself.

  “Over our forty years of marriage, we’ve been blessed with two wonderful sons—”

  “And Oliver and Christopher,” I murmured under my breath.

  “—and Oliver and Christopher. But, seriously, we’re tremendously proud of both our boys, one a doctor, one a lawyer, but somehow neither of them making any bloody money.”

  Laughter again. Uncle Jim literally slapped his thigh.

  “Over the years our family has continued to grow, our most recent addition being the lovely Mia, Christopher’s wife, and also our last best hope for grandchildren on account of Oliver being a screaming bender.”

  I stifled a sigh. You see, it’s okay because it’s the ironic kind of homophobia.

  “But enough about the boys,” David went on. “Because today is about Miriam and myself. And I, for one, couldn’t ask for a more beautiful wife. I mean, I could ask, but I probably wouldn’t get one.” He lofted a glass. “To Miriam.”

  We obediently Miriamed back.

  “To David.” Miriam’s speech at least had the virtue of being short.

  “To David,” we echoed.

  While I put an arm around Oliver and looked for a hole we could hide in.

  Chapter 46

  The afternoon, well, it happened, dragging itself along like a dog with worms. I handled it by standing meekly at Oliver’s side while he made polite small talk with various friends and relatives. It was boring as fuck but it would have been okay if I hadn’t also had to watch him getting quieter and smaller with every conversation. Maybe I’d had too much champagne but, honestly, it felt like losing him. And all I wanted was to get him back home where he could be prissy or grumpy or funny or secretly wicked. Where he could be my Oliver again.

  Eventually, we ended up back on the patio. Miriam and David were holding court from a set of fancy garden furniture, and Oliver and Christopher had just presented th
em with their joint anniversary gift—a pair of ruby earrings for her, a pair of ruby cuff links for him, which had been offered with an awkward sense of obligation and received with complacent gratitude. Fun times.

  “Oliver, darling.” Miriam patted the space beside her. “It’s so nice to be able to catch up.” She glanced to Uncle Jim who, somehow, contrived to always fucking be there. “He hardly speaks to us, you know. At least with Christopher it’s because you know he’s saving babies in some dreadful malaria-ridden swamp.”

  Oliver settled in beside her. There was nowhere for me, of course, so I perched on the arm, which drew me an immediate look of disapproval. I briefly considered getting up out of respect, but I’d been on the fast lane to fuck it all afternoon and had just crossed the border.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said. “I know I’m not saving babies, but I have had rather a lot going on.”

  Miriam’s eyes alighted on me very briefly, and then skittered away. “So I see. What happened to the other fellow?”

  “Andrew and I broke up.”

  “Shame. He seemed like such a nice young man.”

  “It wasn’t working out.”

  “I suppose”—she paused frankly indelicately—“it’s more difficult in your situation. I mean, you have to be so careful.”

  “I’m…I’m not sure that’s entirely the case.”

  “You know best, darling.” Apparently it was time for a knee pat. “I just worry because I’m your mother. And you see such horrible stories in the newspapers.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I think Lucien’s been good for me.”

  “You look very tired.”

  Yeah, that would be because he hardly slept last night. In the boring tossing, turning, going for a run at 3:00 a.m. way. Rather than the exciting doing sexy things way.

  “I told you”—a line had appeared between Oliver’s brows—“I’m fine.”

  Miriam blinked rapidly as if to say “I’m trying not to cry, but it’s hard because you’re being so horrible to me.” “You won’t understand this because you’ll never have children of your own, but it’s very difficult for me to see you boys not taking care of yourselves.”