Husband Material (London Calling #2)(88)

Sometimes I thought Bridge’s die-hard romanticism in the face of my self-obsession was a deliberate strategy to draw me out of myself, and most of the time it worked. “To be fair,” I said, “when you put it that way, it actually sounds like a decent trade.”

“Apart from the loving-somebody-more-than-anybody-else-inthe-world part,” added Priya. “That bit can go fuck itself.”

Bridget’s eyes widened. “But what’s the point if—”

Priya cut her off. “Bridge, I know you’re just being sweet and enthusiastic, but you do remember I’m with two people right now, yeah? And I don’t love either of them more than the other.” She upended the wine, found it empty, and tossed it casually into one of my many tossing piles. “Or, for that matter, more than I love my mum or my dad or my sister.”

“You’ve got a sister?” Bridge asked, surprised but weirdly happy.

She didn’t like other people’s families quite as much as she liked other people’s romantic partners, but it was a close-run thing.

“Yeah, you’d get on. She’s really normal. Works in a bank.

Anyway, the point is that I’d appreciate it if you toned down the nobody-can-be-happy-without-that-one-special-person thing just, like, this much”—Priya held her fingers so close together they were practically touching. “Because honestly I feel sort of judged.”

The only thing in the world that made Bridge sadder than her friends being sad was the idea that she might have had a part in making her friends sad. With a wail of apology, she dropped the tail-end of the Dairy Milk she’d been picking on and threw her arms around Priya. “I’m so sorry. I’m stupid and thoughtless and a bad friend and a bad—”

“Okay, easy, tiger.” Priya was giving Bridge the kind of friendly pat on the back that looked a bit like she was tapping out of a submission hold. “I’m a big girl and can look after myself. I just wanted you to be a smidge less…normative is all.”

Still a little teary, but finally working out that she’d been aggressively hugging somebody who wasn’t super keen on being hugged, Bridge pulled back. “And I suppose really,” she said, “you’re even luckier than Luc and me. Because you’ve found your special someone twice.”

Priya leaned around Bridge and gave me a conspiratorial look.

“I’ve made it worse, haven’t I?”

“Probably.”

Bridge settled back on the sofa. “Made what worse? I just—”

From the hallway, there came the sound of the door opening, and for about eighteen seconds we were convinced it was burglars.

Eighteen seconds, it turned out, was exactly enough time for Bridge to take cover behind a chair, me to stand around gawping like one of those sharks with the big mouths, and Priya to vanish into the kitchen, only to return with the largest, sharpest knife I owned.

Three seconds later, it became clear that it wasn’t burglars at all.

For a start, we could hear them taking their shoes off and hanging up their coat, and it seemed very unlikely that a burglar would bother with those kinds of details. And to clinch it, we also heard a voice call out, “Lucien, are you home?”

Should we leave? mouthed Bridget, to which Priya mouthed back, Yes, obviously, while I was busy mouthing, It’s fine.

“I meant to text on the way,” Oliver was saying as he came closer, “but I-I suppose I forgot. I’ve been rather busy lately.” There was still something off in his voice. But of course there was. Like he’d said, he’d been busy lately, and my actual dad actually died was one hell of an excuse for being a bit awkward for a couple of weeks.

The sitting room door opened, and the three of us did our best to give Oliver the impression we hadn’t been having an intense conversation about what was wrong with him for the last several hours.

“Hi,” waved Bridge and Priya, more or less in unison.

Oliver blinked. He looked exhausted. Properly used-up, nothing-left exhausted. “Hello. Lovely to see you. Why are you armed?”

Priya made an apologetic gesture with the carving knife.

“Thought you were burglars.”

“I suppose”—Oliver ran a hand distractedly through his hair —“this is the wrong time to talk about lethal force in defence of property.”

She shrugged. “Up to you. I was sort of thinking you’d want Bridge and me to leave.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” he said at once. I might have been projecting, but I thought exposure to his parents—well, parent now— always set him about three steps backwards on the can’t-say-no scale.

“That’s code for ‘please leave,’ isn’t it?” observed Priya, passing me the carving knife.

“Not at all,” Oliver lied.

“Well, I’m getting tired anyway,” declared Bridge slightly too loudly to sound even remotely sincere. “So I should be going home.

Good night, Luc.” She hugged me, just about managing to let me put the knife down first. “Good night, Oliver.” She hugged him, rather tighter and longer. “I was so sorry to hear about your father.”

He hugged her back in a way I was trying not to read as dead inside. “Thank you, Bridget.”

“If you need anything”—she gazed up at him earnestly—“or if Luc needs anything or you want to talk or not talk…”