Husband Material (London Calling #2)(86)

“Besides, I’ll have you know that the Guardian says I have a profound insight into the human condition.”

“Doesn’t the Guardian say that about everybody vaguely left-wing and artsy?” I pointed out.

To which her profound insight into the human condition enabled her to craft the eloquent rebuttal of “Fuck off.”

It was about then that the buzzer buzzed again and Bridge staggered up in a flurry of bags and apologies. “I’m really, really sorry,” she told us, unloading a bottle of ￡12.99 wine, another bar of Dairy Milk—there was a sort of unspoken code that comfort chocolate wasn’t allowed to have any distracting flavours in it—a bunch of wilted supermarket flowers, and a box of Tesco Rocket Lollies. “Also, I panic shopped. And I would have been here sooner but I was in such a hurry to get here that I jumped on a train without checking which branch it was going down and didn’t realise until I hit Bayswater.” She tore open the box of rocket lollies, fished one out, and thrust it in my face. “These are great. Try one.”

Knowing better than to spurn a rocket lolly offered in the spirit of friendship, I obediently peeled open the slightly sticky plastic wrap and began nibbling. The tip was strawberry flavoured, or rather it was that generic red flavour that coded as strawberry by default.

There was something so childish about it—brightly coloured, mildly flavoured frozen water served from a slightly soggy box—that it was, in fact, weirdly comforting. It was very hard to have a serious crisis of relationship confidence while you were sucking on a rocket lolly.

“Now tell me everything,” Bridge cried. “What happened? What about the wedding?”

Since I still had a face full of rocket lolly, Priya answered for me.

“Nothing’s happened. Oliver’s just gone a bit weird on account of his dad dying, and Luc’s freaking out because he can’t cope with emotions.”

Bridge’s eyes were wide. “Oliver’s gone weird? What kind of weird? And what about the wedding?”

“The kind of weird,” Priya explained, “you go when your dad drops dead of a heart attack a few months after he found out you were marrying a guy you knew he didn’t like, and also he was a cock but now he’s dead and you’re not allowed to think he’s a cock anymore.”

Bridge’s eyes showed no signs of de-widening. “Does this mean the wedding’s off?”

“Bridge”—I finally managed to extricate myself from the lolly —“we haven’t discussed it.” Technically we’d been discussing it, and that was part of the problem, but we were having an argument seemed such a petty thing compared to a bereavement. “The wedding’s not a priority right now. Probably it’ll be fine, but if Oliver decides he can’t go through with it, I’ll support him.”

“But you’re not meant to support him,” Bridge insisted. “Not if he wants to call the wedding off. Then you’re supposed to fight for him.

You’re meant to say, No, I love you more than anything in the universe, and we’re meant to be together forever. And then he says, You’re right. I’ve been a fool, a mad, impetuous fool.”

I divided my attention between a lolly in one hand and a beer in the other. And that was some duality-of-man shit right there. “Firstly, if there’s one thing Oliver isn’t, it’s a mad, impetuous fool. Secondly, he’d never say ‘mad, impetuous fool’ because he’d be concerned it could be considered ableist. Thirdly, demanding Oliver put marrying me above dealing with his father’s death is a total dick move.”

“Not if you really are meant to be together forever.”

Priya looked up. “No, it’s still a dick move. Partly because ‘meant to be’ is bollocks. And partly because if it wasn’t bollocks and you were meant to be together forever, you’d be together forever whether you got married or not.”

“I know.” Bridge subsided sadly. “It’s just Luc was going to get married and, well—”

“If he blows this,” Priya put in, “he’s fucked because no one else will have him.”

I would have defended myself but, secretly, I kind of agreed. It wasn’t that I was with Oliver because I thought there was no other option. It was just that imagining non-Oliver options made my heart vomit.

“That’s not true,” Bridge was yelling, “Luc’s lovely.”

“No he’s not. He’s a complete wanker.”

“Well so are you”—I got back in the game—“and you’ve got two girlfriends.”

Priya shrugged. “As established: cool job, brilliant at sex.”

“I’m brilliant at sex,” I insisted.

Her eyes met mine and called bullshit on them. “Are you, Luc?

Are you really?”

I thought about it. I’d had a lot of sex and, honestly, it had been pretty contextual. In the sense of whether it was good or not had more to do with who, when, where, and how rather than technical prowess of either party. “Solid B+,” I said.

“Yeah.” Priya opened a second beer. “Figures.”





HALF AN HOUR LATER MY flat was looking worse, but I was feeling better. That’s the thing about mess—a stack of unwashed dishes says I hate myself and you should hate me too but the pile of empty bottles next to a scattering of chocolate wrappers and ice-lolly boxes said I hate myself but I have people in my life who remind me I shouldn’t.