Boyfriend Material(30)

“And”—Oliver’s eyebrows got all mean and pointy—“they’re more likely to conclude that we concocted an elaborate fictional relationship than that you changed your mind about me?”

“It doesn’t have to be elaborate. You’re the one who’s making it elaborate.”

“While you’re putting no thought into it whatsoever.”

“Yep, that’s how I roll.”

He folded his arms ominously. “In case you’ve forgotten, there are two of us in this fake relationship. And it won’t be a very successful fake relationship without real work.”

“Jesus, Oliver.” In my frustration, the flowers got it again. “I might as well actually be dating you.”

At this point, he edged me out of the kitchen and started reconstructing his centrepiece in a way I found, frankly, passive-aggressive. “As we’ve agreed, that is an outcome neither of us want.”

“You’re right. That would be awful.” Except for the French toast. And his cuddly Sunday afternoon jumper. And the rare moments when he’d forget he thought I was a dick.

“Still, now we’re committed, we should do this properly.” He jammed a tulip into place slightly too hard, splitting the stem. “And that means not telling everybody that the whole affair is a pathetic hoax invented by two lonely men. And also getting used to spending time together like we would if we genuinely got on.”

I was starting to fear for the rest of the flowers so I sidled back up to the table and pried them from his fingers. “I’m sorry I let the cat very slightly out the bag. I won’t do it again.”

He was silent for a long moment so I started sticking things back into the vase. They didn’t look good, but at least nothing snapped.

“And,” I added grudgingly, “we can do all the logistics and stuff that you think we need. Just let me know when you want to…logist with me and I’ll be there.”

“I’m sure we can negotiate matters as they arise. And you’re still welcome to stay. If you’d like. If you have no other engagements.”

Engagements? Oh, Oliver. “There was this tea dance I was meant to go to in 1953, but I can probably skip it.”

“I should warn you”—he gave me a cool look, apparently unimpressed by my dazzling wit—“I shall be quite busy with work.”

“Can I help?” Honestly, I’m not a big fan of helping in general. But it seemed only polite to offer. And anything was better than going back to my empty, barely habitable flat and thinking about how the father I hated-slash-was-indifferent-to might be dead soon.

“Not remotely. It’s confidential, you have no legal training, and I saw the mess you made of the washing up.”

“Right. So I’ll sort of…sit then? In the name of learning to put up with each other.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.” He seemed to give up on the flowers. “And please make yourself at home. You can read, or watch television, or… Actually, I’m sorry, this was an awful invitation.”

I shrugged. “It’s probably what I’d be doing anyway. Just in a nicer house with more of my clothes on.”

“Keeping your clothes on is probably for the best.”

“Don’t worry. I know the drill: no kissing, no dick pics, no nudity.”

“Yes. Well.” His hands moved absently. “I think any of those would unnecessarily complicate the fake boyfriend situation.”

“And I’m never unnecessary or complicated.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“So,” he asked finally, “are you staying?”

And, God knows why, I nodded.

We settled down in the living room, me sprawled out on the sofa, and Oliver sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by papers, with his laptop balanced on his knee. It wasn’t exactly awkward, but it wasn’t exactly not awkward either. We were still figuring out how to talk to each other without having a fight, so working out how to enjoy a comfortable silence was a bit next level for us. Or maybe it was just me. Oliver had vanished into the law—his head lowered and his fingers flurrying occasionally across the keys—and for all I knew, he’d already forgotten I existed.

Snagging the remote, I turned on the TV, sheepishly installed ITV Catchup and bopped through the recentlys until I found The Whole Package. There were two episodes now. Joy.

I pressed Play.

And was immediately treated to a thirty-second montage of how great my dad was: clips of him performing interspersed with sound bites from people I assumed were famous music types, but either far too old or far too young for me to have any idea who they were, and all saying stuff like “Jon Fleming is a legend in this business” and “Jon Fleming is the elder statesman of rock music—prog, folk, classic, he can do it all” and “Jon Fleming’s been my hero for thirty years.” I almost turned it off, but then another montage kicked in and I realised they were saying basically the same things about Simon from Blue.

Once they’d finished shamelessly promoting the judges, we cut to the studio where the four of them performed a frankly bizarre take on Erasure’s “Always” before a live audience who reacted like it was a cross between Live Aid and the Sermon on the Mount. My unqualified hot take was that it was the kind of track that could just about take a spurious flute solo, but definitely did not need a rap break from Professor Green.