Husband Material (London Calling #2)(109)

My phone rang. It was Oliver, and I–I wasn’t in a space to be Olivering right now, so I let it go to voicemail. Which, again, didn’t say good things about my relationship. I bet James Royce-Royce never let James Royce-Royce’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Bridge never let Tom’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Prince Harry never let Meghan Markle’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Prince Charles never let Camilla Parker Bowles’s calls go to voicemail, although he probably should have, at least in the eighties.

Fuck, we were going to have to break up. We were going to have to tell all the nice people who had RSVP’ed months ago— because Oliver had started sending invitations out before Christmas —that actually, on second thought, we weren’t getting married after all and also we were leaving each other because we’d each independently decided the other person sucked and so now we were both available if anyone was interested. Not that anyone should be, on my end at least, because I had a crap job and couldn’t make French toast.

Then I’d get drunk, rock up at Miles and JoJo’s house, and beg Miles to take me back or at least let me in on a threesome.

Okay, there was a tiny, tiny, very slight possibility I was spiralling.

My phone buzzed. I didn’t look at it.

It buzzed again. I didn’t look at it again.

The buzzing and the not-looking continued until I ran out of not-looking energy.

Lucien I know you’re upset but I’m at your flat. Said the first text.

If you’re inside, please let me know. Said the second.

Or if you aren’t, please let me know where you are. Said the third.

Not where you are necessarily. It’s okay if you want some privacy.

I understand.

But I’m worried something has happened.

Not that I don’t think you can take care of yourself.

But well…

Sorry that was probably a bit dramatic, actually texting an ellipsis.

But well I’ve recently had a poor track record with arguing with people and then having them immediately die.

And I know rationally that hasn’t happened.

At least it’s very unlikely that it’s happened.

But I’m worried it has happened.

Which I know isn’t your fault and isn’t your problem.

But if you could just text me and let me know that you’re okay.

When you’re ready.

Sorry I’m being clingy.

Take your time.

I’m just worried.

Lucien?

Are you okay?

Lucien I’m very worried.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to get like that. Take as long as you need.

Lucien?

I shouldn’t have texted back hello i am a murderer i took lucs phone hes dead now, but I did.

I also shouldn’t have followed it up with bet you wish youd got that dj. But I did that too.

Lucien you are not funny.

who is lucien i am a murderer

For a moment I thought I’d gone too far. But eventually Oliver came back with Then how did you know about the DJ?

luc told me, I texted back, while i was murdering him. I hit Send, then immediately followed it up with he said o no if only oliver had let me have a dj i wouldnt have been walking down this dark alley where im getting murdered.

My phone rang. And this time I answered it.

“I’m sorry, I said hurtful things to you.” It was a cocktail of three of Oliver’s voices: stern poured over a base of secretly amused with a dash of contrite. “But please don’t pretend to be murdered.”

The words especially not when my dad just died hung unspoken between us. And the fact that they remained unspoken was probably a sign that we were in a slightly better space than we had been a few hours ago. “Sorry.” I lay back on the bed and shut my eyes. “For that and for, you know, I said some pretty mean things too. I think all the wedding stuff is just getting really…”

“I know.” Oliver did his best to beam understanding down the phone at me, and I caught at least some of it. “I assume you’re at your mother’s.”

“Yes,” I told him. “I’ll…I’ll stay here tonight, if that’s okay?

Because it’d feel a bit shitty to show up on her doorstep and then bail the moment it’s convenient.” Plus, if I was honest, I wasn’t totally sure we wouldn’t start setting each other off again if I went straight back.

Oliver made a kind of auditory nod. “You’re right. It’s getting late.

I’ll miss you, of course.”

“I’ll miss you too.” And it wasn’t a lie because I would. I’d miss his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breath in the dark. The way we’d sometimes roll apart naturally in the night and Oliver would always end up rolling back. The special occasions where we’d both wake up horny and work still seemed forever away. Not that there’d been so many of those lately.

But right now? There were also a bunch of things I wouldn’t miss. Like the not-quite-arguments and the not-quite compromises and the constant spectres of things not-quite-said. It was almost like one of us was cheating, except it wasn’t one of us, it was both of us, and what we were cheating with was our own wedding.

“What are we going to do?” I asked, unintentionally out loud.

Oliver sighed. “Well, having looked into it, I think that you’re right, and there’s no sense hiring a band if we can’t find one that either of us feel strongly about.”