Husband Material (London Calling #2)(116)

At the other end of the phone, Jon Fleming made a contemplative noise. He didn’t seem bothered exactly—it took a lot more than the threat of legal action to bother Jon Fleming—but one of my dad’s most useful qualities was a very specific kind of apathy.

If fame or money were on the line, he was unstoppable. But for everything else, he’d always take the easiest possible road to get what he wanted, and if something looked like being even the slightest bit difficult, he’d drop it like he had his marriage and his child. “I was just giving you a call,” he said at last, “to see if you wanted me at your wedding. But if you don’t”—he gave an infuriating pause—“that’s your choice. And I respect it.”

“It is.”

And, with that, I hung up. In some ways, that had gone better than any other conversation I’d ever had with my dad. But you couldn’t win with him. You could only make losing feel marginally less shitty. And so I showed up for my very special, emotionally resonant date with my fiancé who I loved, tired, hungover, late, and mentally drained from dealing with an arsehole.

Oliver was already at the table, where he’d probably been for some time. It was the same table we’d sat at nearly three years ago, and he was wearing the same pinstriped suit—including the pocket watch, that I’d since realised was another of his sly nods to a personal style that only masqueraded as conformity.

“Oh God.” I half eased, half tripped onto the banquette. “I’m so sorry. Things got out of hand last night.”

One of Oliver’s eyebrows twitched upwards in a meaner way than I was expecting. “I’m aware.”

Fuck, it really was like our first date. I was rubbish and Oliver was annoyed. “And then,” I hurried on, “just as I was getting here, my fucking dad rang.”

Oliver de-iced immediately. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Fine. He wanted to come to the wedding to prove what a big damn ally he is. I told him to piss off.”

Normally Oliver championed my taking of no shit from my dad.

But normally we had twice as many dads between us. “Lucien,” he started. Then broke off. Then tried again. “I…I’m sure you made the right decision. But I’m rather conscious at the moment that—all going well—one only has one wedding. And, indeed, in the majority of cases one father.”

He had a point. It’s just his point was about him, not about me.

And now he needed me to be all sensitive and shit. Poor bastard.

Catching the waiter’s eye, I requested literally all the water and then turned back to Oliver. “I’m really sorry your dad, y’know, can’t. But my dad is not your dad. And my dad definitely shouldn’t.”

“I do know that,” said Oliver, with the air of someone who did not, in fact, know that.

“Look.” I slid a hand across the table to take his. “I was there at the funeral. I heard the…the everything. I get that it’s a headfuck and a half to have all these questions about who your father was and what he could have been to you and not have any answers.”

Oh God. Oliver was biting his lip and his eyes had gone soft in the bad tearsy way, not the good gazing adoringly way. Not only was I late and hungover to our superspecial emotionally resonant date night, I was going to make Oliver cry in a fancy restaurant.

“But the thing is,” I added, probably too quickly, “I have those answers about Jon Fleming. You were there when I got them. When someone drops you like a secretly recorded studio album the second they discover they don’t have cancer, you know everything you need to know about them. And one of the things you know is that you don’t want them at your wedding.”

Oliver blinked rapidly. “Of course. I just… It’s our wedding and I think it’s important that neither of us look back on it with any regrets.”

“Believe me, we’d both regret inviting Jon Fleming big time.”

“I’m sure we would have. I think I meant more…in general.”

“I’ve also come to terms with not having a DJ.”

He gave the sort of smile you gave because it was expected rather than because you really felt like smiling. “And have you also come to terms with…”

“The venue?” I asked. “No balloon arch?”

“It’s more everything the balloon arch represents.”

Oh no. We were back here again. Did we have to be back here again? “At this point, Oliver, I don’t even know what the balloon arch represents. Except for trapped air and arguments.”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” he said. “And do you think it might represent, well, this?”

He passed his phone across the table, which was open at Bridge’s Instagram feed. And while the three most recent pictures were the book she was currently reading, her brunch, and a house in Knightsbridge with a pink door, there were about twenty shots from my non-gender-specific animal party. A lot of which were me. A fair few of which were me and Tyler.

I glanced from the phone to Oliver to the phone again. Surely he didn’t— Fuck.

A biley panic was rising up my throat. “Listen, that was just a guy I met at the party. And we were having fun and he knew I was engaged and I went home alo—”

“I know, Lucien. And I trust you. I wouldn’t be marrying you if I didn’t trust you.”