Boyfriend Material

by Alexis Hall

  “For God’s sake, Oliver,” snapped David. “Stop upsetting your mother.”

  Oliver drooped. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “She gave up a lot for you. Show her some bloody gratitude. And she’s right, by the way. When was the last time you had a haircut?”

  Before Oliver could reply—I was hoping, in the face of evidence, he was going to tell them all to fuck off—Uncle Jim decided it was time to lighten the mood. Clapping his brother on the back, he unleashed an infuriating chortle. “Probably too busy with his new boyfriend, eh? Eh?”

  Somehow Oliver did not punch him in the face. “Lucien’s had an important work function so, yes, we have been busy.”

  “Well, you’d better be careful.” Uncle Jim pawed at Oliver in a way that I thought was meant to be affectionate. “Put on any more weight, and he’ll dump you like the rest of them.”

  “I’m not going to dump him,” I insisted, probably slightly too loudly. “He looks great. We’re very happy.”

  His mother faffed again with his tie, sighing softly. “Maybe it’s this shirt. You know blue isn’t your colour, darling.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hadn’t thought it would be possible for Oliver to shrink further but he shrank further. “I didn’t want to be late so I dressed in a hurry.”

  “We’ve still got some of your old things upstairs if you want to change.”

  Oliver visibly cringed. “I’ve not lived here since I was seventeen. I don’t think anything would fit me anymore.”

  Another hearty laugh from Uncle Jim. “See, what did I say? You’re nearly thirty now. You’ll be a fat bastard before you know it.”

  “Leave the boy alone, James,” said David indulgently. Who then totally failed to take his own advice. “Anyway, Oliver. When are you going to start doing something useful with your life?”

  I tried to catch Oliver’s eye but he was staring fixedly at his clasped hands. “Well, I’m building my reputation in Chambers and we’ll see where it goes from there.”

  “You know we only want you to be happy, darling.” That was Miriam. “But is this really where you want to be?”

  Oliver glanced up warily. “W-what do you mean?”

  “She means,” explained David, “that if this was really what you wanted to be doing with your life, you’d be putting a bit more into it. I was talking to Doug at the club, and he was telling me you should be a QC by now.”

  “That would be almost unprecedented.”

  “That’s not what Doug said. Said he knew a fellow your age got silk last month.”

  “Sorry?” asked Christopher unexpectedly. “Is this the same Doug who told you we shouldn’t take that job in Somalia because we’d get Ebola? Is he an expert on the law now, as well as infectious disease?”

  Miriam huffed. “I understand. People your age think people our age can’t know anything.”

  “That’s not what I… Oh, forget it.”

  “In any case,” murmured Oliver, “I am looking for more senior positions but they’d probably involve leaving London.”

  This was news to me. But now was probably not the time to bring that up. Also it was weirdly jarring to think of Oliver being anywhere but, well, where he was. In that absurdly pretty house in Clerkenwell, which always felt like it smelled of French toast, even when it didn’t.

  David folded his arms. “Didn’t think I raised you to be a quitter, Oliver.”

  Pretty much at the same time his wife said, “What will we do if both our sons move away? You’re going up north, aren’t you? You always said you wanted to go up north.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Oliver tried desperately.

  If David’s sigh of disappointment had been any more exaggerated, he would have passed out from lack of oxygen. “Yes, we’re aware of that, son. That’s exactly the problem.”

  “For God’s sake. Stop it.” Oh help. That was me and I really wished it hadn’t been. But everyone was staring so I was kind of committed. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?”

  There was one of those silences that made you miss screaming.

  Then Miriam was glaring at me with what I was shocked to realise was actual contempt. “How dare you try to tell us how to speak to our own son?”

  “I’m not. I’m just pointing out the blindingly fucking obvious. Which is, you’re making Oliver feel bad for no reason.”

  “Step down, Lucien.” David stood up, which lacked a certain amount of impact because he was nearly a foot shorter than me. “We’ve known him a lot longer than you have.”

  No use turning back now. “Yeah, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re being arseholes.”

  Miriam did that you-have-nearly-made-me-cry look again. “Oliver, what on earth possessed you to bring this man into our home?”

  There was no answer from Oliver. Which was fair enough because, honestly, I was asking myself the same question.

  “Leave him alone.” I…shit…I might actually have roared. “Fine, you don’t like me. Well, guess what? I don’t care. I care about the fact you’ve invited my boyfriend to a garden party and seem to be getting off on torturing him. And clearly he’s too nice or too beaten down from years of this shit to tell you to go fuck yourselves, but I’m not. So…um. Go fuck yourselves.”

  I’m not sure what reaction I’d been expecting. I mean, obviously it would have nice if they’d turned round and said, “Gosh, you’re right, we’ll go away and rethink our entire value system,” but I think that ship had sailed at around the point I told them to go fuck themselves.

  “Get out of my house” was David’s predicable and, in context, not unreasonable reply.

  I ignored him, and slid off the arm of the bench to plant myself in front of Oliver. He wouldn’t look at me. “I’m sorry I’ve fucked this up. And I’m sorry I’ve said ‘fuck’ so many times. Especially when you’ve been so amazing whenever I’ve needed you. It’s just”—I pulled in a shaky breath—“you’re the best man I’ve ever met. And I can’t sit by and watch other people make you doubt that. Even if they’re your parents.”

  Finally, he looked up, his eyes pale and unreadable in the summer sunlight. “Lucien…”

  “It’s okay. I’m going. And you don’t have to come with me. But I want you to know that…that you’re great. And I don’t know how anyone could think you’re not, y’know, great. And…like…” This was impossible. It would have been impossible if we’d been alone in a dark room. And here we were with a half-dozen people staring at us “…your job is…great and you’re really…great at it. And you look great in blue. And…” I was getting the feeling this could have gone better. “…I know I’m not your family and I know I’m just some guy but I hope you can believe that I care about you enough that…you can believe…what I’m saying about you now. Because it’s…true.”

  I fully intended to say my piece and walk out of there with my head held high and whatever was left of my dignity. But, yeah. Didn’t happen.

  I panicked.

  And ran like hell.

  Chapter 47

  I hadn’t got very far—not even to the point of having to worry how I was going to get out of Milton Keynes—when I heard footsteps. I turned to see Oliver gaining on me rapidly. Seriously, it was embarrassing how fit he was and I wasn’t. I had no idea what he was thinking, partly because everyone has the same face while they’re running, but mainly because there was no way to tell how he was going to have taken that. The fact he’d come after me was a good sign, right? Well, unless he wanted to have a go at me for being rude to his parents.

  “Oliver, I—” I started.

  “Let’s go home.”

  Did that mean “let’s go home because you’ve made me see my parents are emotionally abusive and I don’t have to stand for it” or “let’s go home because you’ve embarrassed me so much we literally have to leave tow
n”? Even his nonrunning face wasn’t helping.

  Not really knowing what else to do, I got in the car and had hardly clicked my seat belt into place when Oliver pulled away with the sort of reckless disregard for safety that I usually associated with, well, me. We got halfway to the end of the road with Oliver noticeably exceeding the speed you were supposed to stick to in a built-up area and paying way less attention to lane discipline than even I was comfortable with.

  “Um,” I tried. “Should you be—”

  He swerved to avoid an incoming cyclist and I yelped.

  “Okay, getting actually scared now.”

  With a screech and a grinding of gears, Oliver ploughed the car up the kerb and hit the brakes. Then he folded his arms across the steering wheel, laid his head against them, and burst into tears.

  Oh shit. For a second or two, I tried to do that British thing where you pretend nothing untoward is happening in the hope it’ll sort itself out quickly and amicably, and then you’ll never have to talk about it again. Except Oliver was crying, and not stopping crying, and this was definitely a boyfriend job—one that, as an aspiring boyfriend, I was failing hard at.

  It didn’t help we were in a car, both of us responsibly wearing seat belts, so I couldn’t even inadequately hug him. Instead, I was reduced to inadequately petting his shoulder like he’d come third in a primary-school sack race. And I desperately wanted to say something supportive but “don’t cry” was toxic bullshit, “it’s okay to cry” was patronising, and “there, there” had never made anybody feel better ever in the history of emotions.

  Eventually Oliver shook off my hand and turned to face me. He had that red, puffy serious-tears look about him that filled me with a hopeless desire to make everything better for him. “I wish,” he said, with a valiant effort to sound Oliver-like, “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

  “Oh my God, it’s okay. Everybody cries.”

  “Not that. Well, a little bit that. It…it’s…everything.” He gave a sad little sniff. “I’ve behaved terribly today.”

  “You weren’t the one telling everyone to go fuck themselves.”

  “No…I…I’m grateful you tried to speak up for me. But I should never have put you in that position.”

  I reached across the space between us and smoothed back his hair from his sticky eyes. “The whole deal was that you’d come to my work thing, and I’d come to your family thing.”

  “And if I’d…if I’d done better, it would have been…better.” He paused. “I knew my mother wouldn’t like this shirt.”

  “Fuck the shirt. And, and I acknowledge out of context this sounds really bad, fuck your mother.”

  “Please stop saying that. I know today was difficult, but they genuinely want the best for me. And I keep letting them down.”

  “Oliver, that is the wrongest thing I’ve ever heard.” I made a somewhat futile attempt to sound calm and rational. “Like, okay, I’m just guessing here, but have you ever gone anywhere with your parents without your mum having some complaint or other about what you’re wearing?”

  “She has very high standards.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe she’s—and I’m having trouble putting this in a nonjudgmental way—maybe she’s got into the habit of criticising you and hasn’t paid attention to how much that messes you up.”

  His eyes filled with fresh tears. Go me. “She’s not trying to upset me. She’s trying to help.”

  “And, you know what? I believe that. But you don’t need that kind of help, and trying to make you think you do is…is…mean. And don’t even get me started on your dad.”

  “What’s wrong with my father? I mean, I know he’s a bit unreformed but he’s never been violent, he’s always been there, he’s supported Christopher through medical school and me through the bar.”

  “Yeah, none of that gives him the right to call you a screaming bender in front of his friends.”

  “He was joking. He’s always been fine with my sexuality.”

  “He literally used it as a punch line.”

  “Lucien, I feel bad enough about this already.”

  “You shouldn’t be the one who’s feeling bad,” I insisted. “You’re a good person.”

  “But not a very good son.”

  “Only by the standards of the arseholes you’re unfortunate enough to have for parents.”

  He hid his face, and I had a horrible feeling he was crying again. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  Wow. I sucked at being comforting. I’d love to pretend that I’d strategically made myself the bad guy so Oliver had someone other than himself to be angry at but, firstly, I hadn’t. I’d just fucked up. And, secondly, it wasn’t working anyway. I patted him again because it was the most successful thing I’d done that afternoon.

  “Sorry.” I kept patting. “I’m really sorry. And I’m here for you. And, y’know, feel your feelings. However you need to feel them.”

  He felt his feelings for…quite a long time.

  Eventually he lifted his head. “I wish,” he said, “I could have a bacon sandwich.”

  “That”—my enthusiasm here was probably a little bit inappropriate, but I was just so fucking glad I could actually help somehow—“I can do.”

  “I meant, except I’m a vegetarian.”

  I thought about this a moment. “Okay, but in an ‘industrial farming is bad, think about your carbon footprint’ way?”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “Well,” I went on, hoping that I was putting this together right. It felt like something Oliver would say, and I thought he’d appreciate that. “If you’re avoiding meat because you’re trying to reduce the overall negative effect of meat-eating on the world, then what really matters isn’t what you eat, it’s what gets eaten. In fact, it doesn’t even matter what gets eaten, it matters what gets bought.”

  He sat up. Turns out being emotionally supportive wasn’t nearly as effective as giving him an intellectual exercise. “I might make the case that one should nevertheless take responsibility for one’s own behaviour, but go on.”

  “Well, I’ve already got bacon in my fridge. Which has already been paid for, so whatever contribution it’s making to the—I don’t know, the cured meat industrial complex or whatever—has already been made. So now it doesn’t technically matter who eats it.”

  “But if I eat your bacon, you’ll just buy more.”

  “I’ll promise not to. Pinkie swear.”

  He gave me a disapproving look. “Pinkie swear? Are you American all of a sudden?”

  “Okay, cross my heart, hope to die, stick a sausage in my eye? But you’ve got to admit I kind of win here. Also it’s very good bacon. It’s, like, ethical and free range and shit. From Waitrose.”

  “I’m sure there’s a flaw in your argument somewhere. I’m not thinking very clearly right now. Also”—his lips curled upwards very faintly—“I really want some bacon.”

  “For the record, I make an amazing bacon sandwich. I have a life hack.”

  “Perhaps I’m showing my age, but I remember when we called life hacks ‘ways of doing things.’”

  He was definitely on the mend. “Yeah, and I have an excellent way of cooking bacon. Shut up.”

  “I shouldn’t do this…”

  “Oh, come on. You want a bacon sandwich. Please let me make you a bacon sandwich.”

  He was silent for a long moment or short minute. I hadn’t quite anticipated what a big deal this was going to be for him.

  “Well,” he said finally, “all right. But you have to promise not to buy any more bacon for a fortnight.”

  “If that’s what it takes…fine.”

  He dried his eyes and straightened his tie, settling his hands back in the ten-to-two position with the air of someone who’d got past the desire to plough us off the road an
d into someone’s privet hedge. And to my relief, he drove us home very, very sensibly.

  As for me, I think I’d been put off Milton Keynes for life. And all the concrete cows in the world couldn’t bring me back.

  Chapter 48

  Surprisingly, my flat was still in pretty good nick. Obviously, not “cleaned all the things” level pristine, but also not a “what the hell is wrong with you” cesspit. It helped that Oliver had stayed over a couple of times and seemed to tidy as he went like some kind of human Roomba. Although I suppose thinking about it, a human Roomba is just a person with a vacuum cleaner.

  Oliver was still doing whatever he was doing, dwelling or processing or crying on the inside, when we got in. So I headed for the kitchen and got out my cheap frying pan and my expensive bacon. Some people would probably have had it the other way around. But some people were wrong.

  In a minute or two, Oliver—having shed his jacket and tie, but still wearing the ill-fated blue shirt that I maintain he looked fine in—came to join me. Something my kitchen was barely capable of dealing with.

  “Why,” he asked, smooshing up behind me, “is your bacon underwater?”

  “I told you. It’s a life hack.”

  “Lucien, I haven’t had bacon in several years. Please don’t ruin this for me.”

  If he hadn’t had such a terrible day, I’d have been insulted at his lack of faith. “I’m not going to ruin it. This works perfectly. I mean, assuming you like your bacon crispy and delicious, not flabby and burned.”

  “That seems like a false dichotomy.”

  I hoped the fact he was using the word dichotomy in cold blood meant he was feeling at least a little bit better. “I just mean, it’s a good way to cook bacon so it doesn’t dry out or turn to charcoal.” I half turned so that I could catch his eye. “Trust me. If there’s one thing I take seriously, it’s bacon.”

  “I do.” He kissed my neck, making me shiver. “Trust you, that is. Not take bacon seriously.”

  “Well, you did come in here to assess my bacon strategy.”