Boyfriend Material(123)
Of course it struck me that getting something I thought I’d always wanted and losing something I never thought I’d want in the same week was kind of a pisstastic irony. And not the most helpful thing in the world emotional-stability-wise. Anyway, there I was, sitting at a corner table in a converted Victorian fire station, three seats away from someone I was pretty sure had been in One Direction, but wasn’t Harry Styles or Zayn Malik. And half an hour later, I was still sitting there, and the waiters were circling like very polite sharks.
After an hour, three unanswered texts, and a straight-to-voicemail call, a very nice young woman had gently informed me that I’d need to order in the next ten minutes or vacate the table. So I was left trying to work out if I’d be more embarrassed slinking away from a Michelin-starred restaurant at eight in the evening or sitting alone, working my way through an expensive three-course meal like this had totally been my plan all along.
So I left, getting heartily papped on my way out, but right then, I did not give two fucks. At least, not until one of them asked if Oliver had got bored of me, at which point I suddenly gave a whole lot of fucks. And, a few months ago, I’d have had one of those embarrassing freak-outs that the paparazzi are constantly baiting you into having so they can photograph you having them. But, apparently, the new mature me was just sad about it.
Being mature sucked.
I put my head down and walked, and this time there was nobody to wrap a coat around me and keep me safe from the flashes and the questions. Mostly I was… Actually, I wasn’t sure what I was mostly, especially now Oliver dumping me and my dad dumping me were getting mixed up in my head like a rejection smoothie. As far as Jon Fleming was concerned, I was this frustrating blend of disappointed and not at all surprised. But then there was also this bitter aftertaste, reminding me that if I got pissed off at Jon Fleming for standing me up, and then it turned out he’d tragically died of cancer that afternoon, I’d have felt shitty for possibly the rest of my life. But, apart from checking the internet for obituaries, I didn’t have any way of knowing what was really happening with him so I was stuck in this fucked-up quantum state where my dad was simultaneously an arsehole and a corpse. And Oliver…Oliver was gone, and I had to stop thinking about him.
So I rang Mum. And she made some concerned French noises, and then suggested I come over. Which I knew meant it was bad news. The question was, which bad news was it? And an hour or so later, I was getting out of a taxi on Old Post Office Road while my mum hovered anxiously in the doorway.
“He better not be dead,” I told her as I marched into the living room. “I’m going to be so annoyed if he’s dead.”
“Well, then there is good news, mon caneton. Because he is not dead. In fact, he is probably not going to be dead for many years.”
I threw myself onto the unusually dog-less but still faintly dog-smelling sofa. There was only one way this was going. There was only one way this had ever been going. “He never had cancer, did he?”
“The doctors had said some worrying things, and you know these old men. They are very nervous about their prostates.”
I put my head in my hands. I’d have cried but I was cried out already.
“I’m sorry, Luc.” She squeezed in beside me and patted me between the shoulder blades like I’d swallowed a penny. “I don’t think he was lying exactly. I’m afraid this is what it is like when you are famous. You’re surrounded by people who are paid to agree with you, so you get these ideas in your head and you forget they’re not necessarily true. Also, don’t get me wrong. The man is a total prick.”
“So…what? Now he’s not dying, he doesn’t want to know me anymore?”
“I mean”—she sighed—“yes?”
Turns out, that old saying about expecting the worst and never being disappointed super doesn’t work. Jon Fleming behaving exactly like Jon Fleming had no right to hurt this much. “Thanks for not sugarcoating that.”
“Well, look on the bright side. Now you know for certain he’s a worthless sack of shit that you don’t want in your life at all.”
“Yeah”—I looked up, slightly wet-eyed and not sure what my expression was doing—“I guess I knew that going in.”
“No, you felt it. There’s a difference. Now, you’ll never wonder. And your father cannot pull this bullshit on you ever again.”
“Mum, if that’s your idea of a life lesson, it sucks.”
“Bof. Sometimes life sucks.” She paused. “He still wants to do the album, you know.”
I stared at her. “Seriously?”
“He’s surprisingly dependable where fame and money are concerned.”
Obviously, this was the last thing I wanted. It was bad enough when he’d walked out on us. Now, apparently, he was just walking out on me. And it was stupid and selfish, but I did not want to share my mum with Jon Fucking Fleming. He did not deserve that. “It…it’d be a great opportunity for you.”
“Maybe, but I’m probably going to tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Is that,” I asked, “a good idea?”
She made another French noise. “I was going to say, ‘No but it will be extremely satisfying.’ But, actually, yes. It is a good idea. I don’t need the money and neither do you. You won’t take anything from me as it is. So I’m sure you wouldn’t if it had your father’s cockprints all over it—”