Husband Material (London Calling #2)(61)

I gave Oliver a pleading look. “Is it too late to go home?”

“Significantly, I’m afraid.” Taking me by the hand, Oliver climbed elegantly over the fence and then waited for me to do the same.

Well, to do the same in that I also climbed, but I was way less elegant about it.

Squelching down on the other side, I let Oliver wrap his free arm around me, leaned my head against him, and tried to believe that Rhys was right and that this was an adventure. Not just a gigantic pain in the arse.





RHYS HAD NOT BEEN RIGHT. This was not an adventure. My feet were wet. I was trying really hard not to think about what happened when you partially flooded a field full of cowpats, and like most bits of the countryside in the dark, the house was much farther away than it seemed. Or I walked much slower than I thought. One of the two.

Probably the second one. I was both tired and unfit.

Rhys found the key under the mat because apparently we were in a part of the world where you could still do that without having your TV stolen, and we all hurried very gratefully inside. Well, nearly all.

“I’ll join you soon,” said Professor Fairclough. She was at least as drenched as any of us, but it didn’t seem to faze her at all. Hell, it made her look like the heroine at the end of a romantic comedy, waiting for some jerk to show up and do a big apology scene at her.

“Large areas of stagnant water attract mosquitoes, and I’m interested in observing how the weather affects their behaviour.”

“Have a nice time, then,” said Rhys, who seemed to have decided that since this was his friend’s house he was host by proxy.

“Everybody else, who fancies a cuppa?”

Cuppas were duly provided. A dubious advantage of having worked with the same pack of misfits for more than five years was that everybody knew how everybody else liked their tea. Of course none of us ever actually bothered to put that knowledge into practice, but I preferred to think it was sort of an unspoken pact we had, like the opposite of buying a round at the bar. I won’t complain if you put too much milk in if you don’t complain that I let it stew too long.

We dumped our coats in the hall and our bags under the stairs, then settled down in the sitting room to dry off. Whoever Rhys’s friend was, he’d done well for himself because he’d wound up with a cosy little cottage in the borders, with an inglenook fireplace, exposed beams, and tastefully chosen furniture. I flopped down in an armchair with Oliver sitting in front of me, his back resting against my knees.

“I admit,” I said, “it was tough getting here but this is pretty okay.”

“You’ve got to realise”—Rhys turned to Ana with one n—“that ‘pretty okay’ is about the closest Luc ever gets to being nice about anything.”

Ana with one n made an oh-that-makes-sense kind of noise that I’d have been offended by if it hadn’t been totally fair.

“What does this Charlie guy do, anyway?” I asked.

“He’s in something,” explained Rhys, in a not-very-explanatory sort of way.

“Broadmoor?” suggested Barbara Clench, who was occupied with Gabriel. As far as I could tell, Gabriel’s role in their marriage basically involved standing around, looking decorative, being disproportionately into Barbara, and letting her do most of the talking.

Rhys shook his head. “Consulting, I think.”

I sipped my tea and did my best to enjoy the atmosphere. We were, after all, in a nice house, and listening to rain drumming on the windows was always relaxing. “Still,” I said, “it’s a shame Miffy’s dad couldn’t have been earl of somewhere more convenient.”

Barbara nodded. If she was going to keep being on my side about things, I was going to need to see a doctor because something was clearly wrong with me. “Yes. I hope you’ll be more considerate when you’re picking a venue for your wedding.”

“Our wedding?” I asked.

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Oh, not you as well. I thought it was only Alex who forgot he was getting married.”

“No, I remember I’m getting married,” I began, and then the realisation crept up on me that this conversation was about to go to a very uncomfortable place. “I just wasn’t sure what you meant about a considerate venue.”

“Well, you’ve got to admit, Luc,” said Rhys, “it’s been a lovely trip but it was a bit of a palaver.”

Definitely going to an uncomfortable place. “Yes, I–I agree with that. It’s just that our wedding isn’t necessarily… We’re not going to necessarily…”

“You’re both local, though, aren’t you?” observed Rhys. “To London, I mean, not to here. So I’m assuming you’ll be having the ceremony somewhere everybody can get to easily.”

“Yeees…” This wasn’t going well. “For everybody who’s invited.

It’s just…”

“It’s just we haven’t discussed the guest list in detail,” said Oliver, who was always way better at being diplomatic than I was. “And a lot of the venues we’re looking at are rather small.”

Even though Oliver had been the one to say it—or rather imply it strongly enough that they got the hint—they all turned to me.

“I hope”—there was a genuine tremor in Rhys Jones Bowen’s voice—“that you are not suggesting what I think you are suggesting.”