Husband Material (London Calling #2)(50)

Which wasn’t Oprah. But it was something.





HERE’S THE THING. I LOVED Oliver, I really did. But there was no getting away from the fact we had irreconcilable Saturday differences. In my world, a Saturday was for sleeping until noon, having sex until two—or, y’know, half twelve depending on how close to thirty I was feeling—and then hanging out with friends or visiting my mum, or if I was in a super-domestic mood, curling up on the sofa with a movie. Oliver’s ideal Saturday involved “lying in” until nine at the latest, then going for a run or to the gym, following it up with a nutritious breakfast before doing something disgustingly productive. And some days, I could lure him with my wiles into a more Luc-friendly set of activities. Like cuddling and/or blow jobs.

Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. And when I staggered downstairs a little after one, I found Oliver on his knees on the kitchen floor—and not in a fun way. His protein shaker was drying on the rack and his hair was still damp and tousled from his post-run shower, both of which were signs of an Oliver highly committed to productivity. Plus, he was wearing his virtuous grey sweatpants and the no-longer-suitable-for-work-but-I-am-too-ethical-to-throw-clothes-away shirt that he reserved for cleaning. The marigolds were also a giveaway.

I groaned.

“Good afternoon, Lucien,” he said cheerfully.

I groaned again. “What are you doing?”

He gave me a look of what I hoped was mock disappointment.

But given how seriously he took cleaning, I couldn’t be sure. “Are you telling me you’ve forgotten what day it is?”

“Um, Saturday? And definitely not… Shit, is it your birthday?”

“Yes,” he told me. “It’s my birthday. This is what I always do on my birthdays.”

“You think you’re joking. But I wouldn’t put it past you.”

He huffed out a put-upon sigh. “It’s the first Saturday in July.”

“And?” I asked.

“So I’m cleaning my cupboards. As I did last year, if you recall.”

“Oliver, you have cleaned so many things, I didn’t realise I was supposed to be putting them on a calendar.”

He set down his bottle of multipurpose surface cleaner with a condemnatory click. “As I thought you’d have learned by now, cleaning is a lot easier when you do it regularly—which is itself easier when you have a routine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I knelt down beside him.

“Clearly, it’s much better if you leave it until all your spoons start sticking together and you hate yourself, and then get a nice boyfriend and stealth move into his place.”

“And what happens”—he twitched an eyebrow at me—“when my spoons start sticking together?”

“We’ll both have to find a new boyfriend and we can move into his place together.”

He readjusted his marigolds uncertainly. “I’m not sure that’s a sustainable strategy. And while I have no objection to polyamory in theory, I don’t think it would suit me in practice.”

Leaning in, I kissed him on the nose. “Then I faithfully promise that no matter how sticky your teaspoons get, I will still want to be with you and only you.”

“I’m not sure I want to ask…” began Oliver. Apparently, I’d successfully deflected his relationship anxiety by triggering his hygiene anxiety. “But how do teaspoons become sticky?”

“It’s not a sex thing,” I protested quickly.

“I wasn’t assuming it was a sex thing. I’d be less concerned if it was a sex thing.”

Oh God. I was disgusting. I was the creature from the disgusting lagoon. “I think,” I offered, “it’s because most of my cooking involved oil. And then if you don’t change your washing-up water properly, you’re washing everything in oily water and it comes out with kind of a… You know. Oily film? That dries? And it gets—”

Oliver had gone pale. “I think you should probably stop there.”

“Are you going to dump me now?”

He thought about it for an unflatteringly long time. “Tragically, Lucien, I will still love you even if you make my spoons sticky.” He paused. “Having said which, do not make my spoons sticky.”

“It’s not a lifestyle choice. It’s just…a consequence of other lifestyle choices.”

Laughing, Oliver squirted the cupboard again and started to scrub, with a predesignated surface scrubber. I knew it was predesignated because they lived in a separate, subtly different pot from the washing-up sponges, and I’d once made the mistake of trying to clean a plate with one. Embarrassingly, it was one of our worst-ever arguments.

As he scrubbed, his head and shoulders disappeared inside the cupboard, leaving me with ample opportunity to appreciate his arse which—sweatpants or no—was sort of jutting up perkily and moving back and forth in time with his very diligent cleaning.

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked from the interior of the kitchen unit.

“Staring at your arse?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing? But no, I mean…stealth moving.”

Honestly, I’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice that. “Well, your place is bigger than mine and it’s nicer and you wash your sheets and…you’re in it.”