Husband Material (London Calling #2)(93)

For a moment, I just stroked him in what I hoped was a comforting way. “Listen,” I said finally. “You know how I said this was a no-judgment zone? Well, I’m going to say some really naff things now, and I need you not to tell anybody or laugh at me.”

He turned his face slightly towards me. “I shall make a sincere attempt, but it depends how naff they are.”

“Right,” I naffed. “I know your parents brought you up a certain way, but you can’t—oh, for fuck’s sake—live your life trying to be good enough for other people. You have to be good enough for yourself. Although, for the record, you’re definitely good enough for me.”

“Lucien, Lucien, Lucien.” I couldn’t tell if he meant it as affection or admonition. “That was exceptionally naff.”

I rolled my eyes at him in mock rebuke. “Sometimes true things are naff and naff things are true. It’s one of the many ways in which reality is bobbins.”

There was a tiny pause. “And,” he said, “and…you’re sure this is…okay?”

“What’s okay?”

“Saying these things. I’m not just convincing you that you’re about to marry a whiny prick?”

“You’re not being a whiny prick.” I went back to my hopefully comforting stroking. “This shit is clearly messing with you. It would mess with anyone.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “It would mess with anyone in similar circumstances. But I’m deeply aware ‘Oh woe is me, my affluent parents whose cultural and literal capital gave me significant unearned advantages that most people can never access and which I largely took for granted were sometimes a bit emotionally unsupportive’ isn’t exactly the stuff of tragedy.”

I was starting to feel like I’d misplayed noughts and crosses and now Oliver had the centre and two corners and wherever I went next, he was going to win. “Oliver. I understand this is complicated, but you’re forcing me to either be naff again or shit on your dead father, and I don’t want to do either.”

“It’s the room of hate, remember.” Oliver made a small encircling gesture. “So you can do both.”

“Okay, fine. Naff thing: Your pain matters, even if other people have it worse. Shitting-on-your-dead-father thing: Your parents were more than just sometimes a bit emotionally unsupportive. They’re total fuckers who made you feel inadequate your whole life. And they’re kind of homophobic.”

“Well,” said Oliver, “at least I only have one of them to deal with now.”

My eyes went wide. “Wow, really taking advantage of the safe room, aren’t you?”

“As you may have noticed, Lucien”—something like a smile touched his lips—“I seldom do things by halves. Besides, my mother’s currently being difficult enough for the both of them.”

Curling closer, I waited for Oliver to unleash himself.

“Obviously I sympathise. And it’s natural that she’s taking Dad’s death quite…hard. But as well as expecting me to organise everything, she also seems to blame me for everything. Up to and including the crematorium being busy, Christopher not being in the country, and—of course—the small matter of my father’s death.

Which”—he scowled into the middle distance—“she hasn’t said outright was directly caused by my standing up to him. But she has implied it several times.”

I made a nervous squeaky noise. “Um. You know she’s, like, wrong, right?”

The pause that followed was longer than I would have preferred.

“I do, actually. Although, I can’t lie, it’s difficult when the last words you said to someone before they passed away were ‘Go fuck yourself.’”

That hung there for a little bit, like neither of us knew what to do with it.

“I’m so sorry,” I said finally, falling into cliché and platitude.

“Don’t be.” Oliver shrugged. “While, of course, I regret that we didn’t have any kind of reconciliation before…before he…well…

before that became impossible, what I mostly regret is that I didn’t say it years ago.”

That also hung there for a little bit.

“Too much?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not even close. I mean, I’m just glad you’re not feeling guilty.”

“Oh, I’m feeling guilty as well. But I’m rather hoping that will pass.”

There was ring of finality in his voice. And I suppose that was all you could do with grief: stick it out until you got used to it.

Oliver squared his shoulders in a stiff-upper-lippy, pull-yourself-togethery sort of way. “In any case,” he went on, “given how brilliantly our wedding planning is going, I don’t suppose you’d also like to help me organise a funeral?”





"DAVID BLACKWOOD," SAID OLIVER, "WAS a loving husband, a devoted father, and an absolute demon on the golf course. We all remember him as a fair and generous man, even if he didn’t always suffer fools gladly. I remember when I was, perhaps, fourteen we went to this restaurant somewhere in Berkshire, and the menu was all in French and”—he adopted a posture of studied relaxation —“well, anybody who knew my father would know that languages were not his strong point. So when he ordered what he thought was a fillet steak and the waiter brought him fish, the poor fellow got quite the earful. Of course, the manager was very apologetic, and I seem to recall we actually got a free bottle of wine by way of apology. I remember quite distinctly when we got home and I looked it up and discovered that filet de flétan did indeed mean halibut fillet, he looked me squarely in the eye and said: Well, it just goes to show, Oliver. It always pays to stand up for yourself.