Husband Material (London Calling #2)(85)

SAD

Sorry—that was James Royce-Royce—James can’t make it because he’s at the restaurant and I can’t make it because I have to look after Baby J.

BRING JBABY J IT’LL BE CUTE. LUC CAN’T BE SAD IF

THERE’S A BABY1!!!!

For someone who knew me better than anyone, sometimes Bridge didn’t know me at all.

Nobody is taking my baby boy to Luc’s flat—that was James Royce-Royce somehow texting from a professional kitchen—he’ll crawl into a pile of laundry and die.

My flat is clean these days, I protested.

An incredulous digital silence followed. Then a message popped up from Priya: Only because you don’t live there.

That was depressingly close to the truth. Keeping the flat clean by the cunning strategy of staying full-time at Oliver’s had worked remarkably well, but I’d been back for four days now and it was four days in which I had done approximately zero washing up.

HES SAD YOU ALWAYS LET THINGS SLIDE WHEN YOUR

SAD

Luc must have been sad a lot.

Well, I’m sad now, I typed. Come and comfort me.

Fine. Should I bring chocolate or bleach?

I winced. Maybe both?

I’M ON MY WAY RIGH TNOW. DON’T START WITHOUT ME.

Don’t start what? I asked.

ANYTHING!!!

I made the executive decision that “anything” in this context didn’t include putting on my trousers. So I did and made a desultory start on the washing up. Except washing up reminded me of Oliver, which probably said all kinds of weird things about my habits, both in the relationship and outside of it. I just missed him. And his three different types of sponges for washing specific types of things. And the way I’d hug him from behind instead of doing the drying, and we’d both pretend it was a hundred percent affection, instead of eighty percent affection and twenty percent laziness.

Definitely not crying, I threw away my takeaway container and realised I’d thrown the fork away with it. In retrospect, that might have explained why I had so few forks.

What if I was never going to wash up with Oliver again? What if he dumped me because every time he looked at me, he saw his dead dad? And then what if every time I looked at a bottle of Fairy Liquid I saw the guy who’d dumped me for yelling at him for caring too much about what his parents thought at the exact moment one of those parents was dying of a heart attack.

The buzzer went—and, somewhat predictably, Priya stomped in.

“Where’s Bridge?” she asked.

I shrugged. “She said she was on her way right now, which means she’ll be here in about an hour.”

Slipping her army kit bag from her shoulder, Priya pulled out a bar of Dairy Milk and a bottle of Dettol antibacterial spray. “So.” She flopped down on the end of the sofa. “How fucked is your relationship?”

“Wow, I really missed your sunny, supportive disposition.”

“Fuck off, Luc. I brought beer.”

“What’s that saying? Beer, then wine, feeling fine. Beer, then antibacterial spray will ruin your day.”

She laughed and rummaged again in her bag, finally producing a four pack of whatever craft IPA she was into this week. “Seriously, though.” Flicking open the bottle opener attachment of her Swiss Army knife, she beered us both. “How fucked is it?”

I sighed. “Honestly, I can’t tell. Oliver’s never been like this with me. But then, his dad’s never died so…who knows?”

“In other words,” Priya said, “everything’s fine and you’re just getting in your head like a wanker.”

Sitting down next to Priya, I cast her a you-have-failed-to-comfort-me look. “How have you got two girlfriends? Or, indeed, any nonzero number of girlfriends.”

“Because they like that I’m creative, low bullshit, and get them off. In my experience, that’s what women are after.”

“Good to know. Although not super relevant to me right now.”

She took a long draught of a beer with a weird name. “And—just to cover the basics—you’ve tried, like, talking to him and shit.”

“I’ve tried. But he’s not really talking to me.”

“I’ll admit that would normally be a sign because you’re in one of those annoying, mature relationships where you have to make plans and share your feelings instead of just screaming and fucking. But”— and here Priya, who was being more serious than I was used to, fortified herself with some more beer—“grief’s its own thing. He’s probably feeling a lot of mixed stuff right now, especially because, from what you’ve said, his dad was a prick.”

“You’d think,” I said, “that would make it easier. I mean, not to blow my own trumpet, but I’m kind of an expert on dads who are pricks, and when Jon Fleming finally gets prostate cancer for real, I will give zero shits.”

Priya clicked her tongue stud against her teeth. “Speaking as an artist, I don’t think anyone gets to be an expert on emotions. Your thing with your dad is your thing with your dad. Oliver’s thing with his dad is his thing with his dad, and they aren’t going to work the same.”

“Oh my God.” I stared at her in horror. “When did you start getting nuance?”

“When I stopped being twenty-one. Pay attention.” She smirked.