Husband Material (London Calling #2)(99)
“You’re that convinced you’ll predecease me?”
“You do all the bullshit stuff you’re supposed to do to take care of yourself like flossing and taking exercise and eating vegetables without being forced.”
“True.” He lifted his brows at me. “On the other hand, I now have a family history of sudden heart failure.”
I winced. That was one of those jokes that only close relatives were allowed to make. Especially at the actual funeral. Looking around the courtyard, I noticed that most of the mourners had gone, which meant we should probably be goneing too. “Do you feel…” I started. “Are you okay to go to the wake?”
Before Oliver could reply, I noticed that one of the few people who hadn’t gone was Christopher, who had just come out of the crematorium and was now bearing down on us with Mia trailing behind him like somebody who really did not want to be trailing.
“What the fuck, Oliver?” he asked the moment he was within earshot.
Oliver looked up. In his defence, he did seem at least a little contrite. “I’m sorry, Christopher, it wasn’t planned.”
Somehow, Christopher didn’t seem mollified. “I don’t care if it was planned, it was fucking selfish. You get up and do this big ‘Ooh, isn’t it weird how there’s this social convention that we don’t shit-talk people at funerals’ speech like you’re an observational comic from 2006.” He wasn’t exactly shouting. The Blackwoods hadn’t been a shouty family, or rather they’d been a family in which shouting was a monopoly tightly controlled by a man who was now dead. “And then I have to come up and read fucking Kipling like a complete knobhead so we can all get on with pretending that the stupid, selfish thing you just did never happened.”
It was pretty much the exact opposite of what Oliver’s self-esteem needed right then. He hung his head. “And I’m sorry. I really am.”
“It was one speech, Ollie. One tiny little speech to give us all a quiet life, and now I’ve got to go and stop Mum having a total fucking breakdown.”
And somewhere, the part of Oliver that had finally been ready to confront his father got off the bench. Literally, in a way, because he stood up, straightened his suit, and said: “I understand that you’re upset—”
“Don’t give me that—”
“No, Christopher.” Oliver was icy calm now in a way I had learned to be either afraid of or turned on by depending on context.
This was fifty-fifty. “I’m afraid I’m giving you exactly that. Because it wasn’t one speech, was it? It was a speech and organising the entire funeral. And staying with Mother for a full week after Father died— much of which, I may add, I spent trying and failing to contact you to tell you our father had died because she couldn’t. And it was Christmas and the Christmas before and the one before that. It was Mum’s sixtieth birthday and Dad’s sixtieth and Great-Uncle Benjy’s funeral. And everything else that you just couldn’t quite make because the first chance you got, you ran away to the other side of the world.”
Christopher folded his arms, but—although I admit I was biased —it was the kind of defiance you got from somebody who knows the other person has a point. “Ah, yes, your brilliant theory that I spent five years at medical school, went through junior doctor training, and now work for one of the most prestigious international aid organisations in the world just to stick you with our parents.”
“I’m not doubting your commitment to what you do”—Oliver’s calm was holding up, but barely—“but can you please just once admit that the consequence of your rather international lifestyle is that I’ve borne the brunt of—”
“I’ll admit no such fucking thing,” snapped Christopher. It didn’t seem like either of them were in much of a mood to let the other finish a sentence. “You moved out two years before I did, you were financially independent before I was, you didn’t have them micromanaging your wedding and your marriage and making your wife feel like shit for—”
“I’m sorry,” Oliver gave his brother the politest of smiles. “Were you about to lecture your gay brother on how hard it has been for you to put up with our parents’ opinions about your romantic relationships?”
For a moment Christopher didn’t have a reply, probably because there was no good way to answer. “That was low.”
“Oh, was it? Did the impact of our parents’ constant low-key homophobia on me somehow inconvenience you?”
“Fuck off, Ollie, I never… I always… Just fuck off.”
At last, Mia caught up with us. She hadn’t actually been that far away, but given the raised voices and intense body language, she hadn’t been in a major hurry to join the party. “Cleared the air yet?”
she asked.
“Christopher has just told me to fuck off,” said Oliver. “So no.”
Mia sighed. “Christopher, you promised.”
“He played the gay card,” Christopher protested.
I winced. “Can we maybe not say ‘gay card’? It’s kind of a right-wing talking point that needs to die in a fire.”
Somehow, it always seemed easier for the Blackwood brothers to be conciliatory with each other’s partners than each other, and Christopher continued the tradition. “Sorry, Luc. I meant…let’s stop playing the who-had-it-worst game and accept that there’s an outside chance growing up was shit for both of us.”