Husband Material (London Calling #2)(25)

I’d taken it as a good sign on a number of levels that Oliver was willing to argue quite fiercely with my mum about Drag Race. Not only did it show he cared about me enough to regularly watch reality TV with my family, but it also showed he was comfortable enough with them to be himself, instead of the perfect houseguest he’d been raised to be. He’d even stopped eating the special curry. Lucky git.

“Mum, I’m not going to get into a proxy debate about whether Lawrence Chaney’s consistently strong performance should have counted for as much as Bimini’s growing confidence.”

“Well, of course it shouldn’t,” retorted Mum. “She had no arc.

The whole point of the show is to have an arc so people can say, ‘Oh, I thought this person was rubbish, but now they are great.’”

“You say that, but that’s why mediocre dancers keep winning Strictly.”

“They are entertainment shows, Luc. I am going to vote for who entertains me. If all you wanted to see were people being good at dancing, they would take away the celebrities completely.”

She did kind of have a point. Not that I could address it because I’d rung up for a reason. “Um,” I said. “Look, there’s no good way to raise this, but do you have a private number for Dad?”

The silence at the other end of the line suddenly radiated concern. “Luc, I thought you had decided that your father was a miserable, bald, old piece of shit with a tiny penis you never wanted to speak to again.”

She had a point there too. “He is a miserable, bald, old piece of shit whose penis I’m not comfortable talking about, but I think I might”—I swallowed a gagging noise—“need him.”

“What could you possibly need him for?” There was an edge of hurt in Mum’s voice, and I couldn’t blame her. She’d given me everything my whole life, and all Dad had ever done was mess me about and screw me over.

“Bridge’s wedding venue has fallen through, and I’m hoping Dad can pull some magic celebrity bullshit for her.”

I’d tried to keep it light, but Mum still didn’t seem happy. “You know, I am a celebrity too, Luc.”

Technically that was true. And if Bridge had wanted to get married in an indie recording studio, the name Odile O’Donnell would probably have opened every door in the building. “I do know, but right now Dad’s got that…that big I’m-on-TV, give-me-free-stuff energy, and I really need free stuff.”

“I understand,” she said in a way that implied that understanding didn’t stop her resenting. “And Bridget has put up with you for a very long time, so she deserves to get something back.”

I nodded, which was unhelpful in a voice-only medium. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. It’s just, y’know, maids of honour gotta maid of honour.”

“I understand,” she said again, and this time she sounded more like she meant it. She gave me the number that Dad reserved only for people whose calls he would actually take, and after rehashing the great Lawrence/Bimini debate one last time, I rang off.

Then, hands shaking slightly, I called my dad.

At first I was relieved when he didn’t pick up, but then I felt bad for being relieved because I was doing this to fix Bridge’s wedding and I loved Bridge and wanted her to be happy. So I tried again. And again. And again.

Eventually Bridge and Liz came home, several relaxes to the wind.

“Have you and Tom had a fight?” Bridge asked with mock gravity.

I looked up with what I hoped was a not-traumatised expression.

“No, I just didn’t want him to see me before the wedding.”

“Seriously, though, what’re you doing on my doorstep?”

“Calling my dad. I thought he might be able to strong-arm a venue into taking us.”

Bridge looked at me with the biggest big eyes I’d ever seen. “Oh, Luc, you don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to. Think of it as an early wedding present.”

She stooped and hugged me. “It’s the best present.” Then after a moment she added, “But just to be clear, I do want a real present too.”

“Of course.”

Bridge opened the door, and she and Liz squeezed past me into the house. And I gave my dad one more go. Which was kind of the story of my life.

Once again it rang and once again there was n— “Hello?” There was no mistaking that voice. As if top-shelf whiskey could speak. If you liked whiskey. And if whiskey was a prick.

Part of me, the part of me that had thought this was a bad idea from the start, wanted to hang up straight away. But I’d come this far, so bottling it at the last second would have been the worst of all possible worlds. “Dad, it’s Luc.” I felt small and was worried I sounded smaller. “I was wondering if you could help me out.”

He gave me that low, narcissistic chuckle that I’d once mistaken for affection. “So you need the old man for something, do you? What can I help you with?”

“I was…I was wondering if you had any contacts who could get us…get us a nice place for a wedding at literally no notice? We were thinking maybe a park or a house with a garden? If you can’t, that’s fine.”

“No, no, that seems like it should be pretty straightforward. After all, what’s the point of being famous if you can’t help out your own family?”