Boyfriend Material(133)

The buzzing went on.

“You have eight seconds to deal with that,” Priya told me, “before I put a fucking drill through it.”

“I haven’t got a drill.”

“Then I’ll find something heavy and pointy and do the best I can.”

“Yeah, I think that would knacker my security deposit.”

“Then,” she growled, “you better answer the fucking door.”

I staggered out of bed and into the living room. “Hello,” I said, picking up the handset like I was afraid it might bite me.

“It’s me.” Oliver’s voice was slightly hoarse, though probably less wrecked than mine.

“And?”

“And I…came to see you. Can I come up?”

“Um, there’s a tiny, angry lesbian in my bed. So it’s not really a good time.”

There was a pause. “I’m not sure I want to have this conversation over an intercom.”

“Oliver.” Tears, alcohol, a ten-hour road trip, and a chronic lack of sleep had turned my brain to cauliflower cheese. “I’m not sure I want to have a conversation at all. Given, y’know, everything.”

“I understand that. But”—an anxious, needy little pause—“please?”

Oh fuck. “Fine. I’ll come down.”

I went down. Oliver was on my doorstep, dressed for work, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “What?”

He gazed at me for a long moment. “Are you aware that you’re wearing nothing but a pair of hedgehog-themed boxer shorts?”

Well, I was now. “I’ve had a rough night.”

“That makes two of us.” He took off his big, cashmere lawyer coat and wrapped it round me.

Obviously, pride demanded that I not let him, but—having finally restored my reputation—the last thing I needed was either getting photographed in my underpants or brought up on public indecency charges. Knowing my luck, I’d get stuck with Justice Mayhew.

Oliver drew in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry to wake you. But I…I wanted to tell you I was wrong.”

It would have a good time to say something encouraging and emotionally generous, but I’d just been buzzed out of bed after two hours sleep. “Which bit?”

“All of it. Especially when I said it wasn’t the same. Because it was.” He stared at the pavement, or possibly my bare feet. “I was shaken and upset and I pulled away, and then I was too ashamed to pull back.”

That sounded too familiar for me to be able to condemn it, even though I really wanted to. “I understand. I’m hurt, and I’m mad as hell, but I do understand.”

“I wish I hadn’t hurt you.”

“Me too but”—I shrugged—“here we are.”

There was a long silence. Oliver looked kind of uncertain and tormented, but I still wasn’t inclined to be particularly helpful.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, finally.

“Mean what?”

“Everything you said.”

I was starting to realise he did that a lot—asking you to repeat expressions of affection like he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard you right. “Yes, Oliver. I meant it. That’s why I said it.”

“You think I have an eating disorder?”

He’d better not have come all this way and woken me up and exposed me to the very real possibility that Priya wouldn’t let me back in my flat to talk about my perception of his mental health. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not a medical professional. But you’re so committed to being healthy it sometimes seems unhealthy.”

“You’ve also noticed I’m very controlling. Perhaps it’s just a symptom of my being generally uptight.”

“Is this really what you want to talk about now?”

“No,” he admitted, frowning. “I’m being cowardly again. What I really wanted to ask is…did you mean it when you said you…you know.”

“When I said”—for someone who didn’t like talking about feelings and shit, the words came easily for once—“I loved you?”

He nodded, somewhat abashed.

“Of course I fucking love you. That’s why I turned up on your doorstep and made a complete idiot of myself. Again.”

“Um.” Oliver shuffled. “I’d hope it’s obvious, but in case it’s not…I’m on your doorstep now. And I’m also feeling rather foolish.”

“You’re not the one in your underwear.” He was looking incredibly lost, and I…I was such a fucking sap I couldn’t stand it. “Oliver,” I said, “do you have something you want to tell me?”

“So many things, I hardly know where to begin.”

“How about you start with the one I clearly need to hear?”

“Then”—he gave me this amazing look, all dignity and vulnerability mushed up together—“I’m in love with you, Lucien. But it seems hardly adequate.”

I’d always figured it was, y’know, ILY that was the important bit. Except any prick could say that and a bunch of them already had. Only Oliver would follow it up with “but it seems hardly adequate.” In spite of myself, I smiled. “You’ve forgotten my incredibly low standards.”