Boyfriend Material(105)

He frowned. “That sounds rather outside my skill set. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stand next to you and look respectable.”

“Yeah, and if you could occasionally talk middle class at people, that’d be helpful too.”

“So, eaten any good quinoa recently—that kind of thing?”

“Perfect. Just slightly less sarcastic sounding.”

We circulated—it was mainly “hello, so glad you could make it, how’s your business/child/novel/horse” type stuff, but occasionally people would want to stop me for a longer conversation, which meant I got to introduce my pointedly appropriate but genuinely wonderful new boyfriend. I was relieved to see that while a couple of our most, how can I put this politely, “traditional” donors had stayed away, we’d still done pretty well, at least in terms of turnout. A handful of new developments, including Ben and Sophie, had shown up, and despite all the posturing, most of the concerned-about-your-values crowd appeared to have backpedalled—either because Alex’s plan had somehow worked or because they’d been full of shit from the beginning. So thanks for that, fuckers.

“Adam,” I bonhomied, “Tamara. So glad you could make it. Don’t you both look lovely.”

Adam gave one of his acknowledging nods. “Thank you. The suit’s black bamboo hemp.”

“And this,” added Tamara, indicating her annoyingly gorgeous gold silk caftan, “is by one of my favourite designers. She’s very new, so you won’t have heard of her yet, but she runs a made-in-Africa social enterprise, working closely with local artisans who specialise in traditional techniques.”

I gave her my best smile. “That’s so you.”

“Well”—Adam almost looked like he’d never been an investment banker—“you know how Tamara and I believe in living our principles.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, “I haven’t introduced you to my partner yet. Oliver, these are Adam and Tamara Clarke. Adam and Tamara, this is Oliver Blackwood.”

Handshakes, air-kisses, and entirely one-sided Namastes followed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Oliver had his good-at-social-situations face on. “You’re the couple behind Gaia, aren’t you?”

They both lit up like locally sourced Christmas trees.

“Yes.” Tamara’s eyes grew soft. “It’s been our whole life for five years.”

Another of Adam’s nods. “Our mission’s always been to bring ethical values to the convenience food sector.”

I clutched at Oliver’s hand in a way that I hoped signalled “I’m in real danger of laughing right now” and he squeezed back in a way that suggested he got it.

“That’s very admirable,” murmured Oliver, “especially considering how many businesses in that sector have unethical values.”

“I know,” replied Tamara with absolute sincerity. “It’s terrible.”

Adam seemed oddly distracted considering that their business, and by extension themselves, had always been the Clarkes’ favourite topic of conversation. Then I noticed his gaze kept catching on my hand, still resting in Oliver’s. And, y’know, that gave me a bit of a dilemma. Because, from a certain point of view, it was my job to make these people comfortable. But, from a different point of view, fuck him. I’d jumped through a stack of hoops over the past couple of weeks to satisfy the Adam Clarkes of this world, but not holding hands with my boyfriend—my very nice, very respectable boyfriend who nobody could possibly disapprove of—was a hoop too far. And if Adam and Tamara decided to take their chequebook home because they went to a party and saw two guys being mildly affectionate to each other, well, then they could explain that to all their trendy leftie friends.

“So”—he gathered himself—“Oliver. What is it that you do?”

“I’m a barrister.”

“What kind?” asked Tamara.

“Criminal.”

That earned an indulgent chuckle from Adam. “The sort that locks up innocent people or the sort that puts murderers back on the streets?”

“Well, both, but mainly the murderer sort.” Oliver offered a placid smile. “I’d say the money helps me sleep at night, but it’s not even that well paid.”

“If you ever need help finding peace”—Tamara’s earnestness could have stripped bone—“I could put you in touch with a number of excellent yogis.”

Before Oliver had to work out how the hell to respond to that, Adam chimed in with “I used to be in a very similar situation myself. I mean, financial sector, obviously, not legal. But Tamara really helped me find my path.”

“Thank you,” said Oliver, with an impressive air of meaning it. “I’ll look you up if I ever feel ready.”

They made appreciative, if slightly condescending, noises, congratulated me on the authenticity of the Welsh male voice choir, and finally let us go. I cast Oliver an “I’m sorry, they’re the worst” glance but couldn’t risk saying it out loud, just in case they—or let’s be fair, anybody else—heard me dissing some people who were about to give me a very large sum of money.

“Don’t worry.” He leaned in, somehow managing to whisper without looking shady. “If I can pretend to respect Justice Mayhew, I can pretend to like the Clarkes.”