Boyfriend Material(35)

“Once again, giraffes are very large but we seem to be ignoring that for the purposes of this exercise. So I’d expect two in the… Oh no, wait. Of course, you’d have to take the elephants out first, assuming it was the same Mini.”

My universe was imploding. “Also right. Okay, final question.”

“This is splendid. It’s making a lot more sense than the jokes you usually tell me.”

“Glad to hear it. Anyway. Final question. How do you get two whales in a Mini?”

Another pause. “Gosh. It’s not really my area of expertise, but I think it’s up the M4 and over the Severn Bridge. Maybe you should check with Rhys, though, because he’s from there.”

I was about to say something along the lines of “Well, this has been fun,” meaning, of course, “I don’t know what’s just happened” when Alex cupped a hand theatrically round his mouth and shouted, “Rhys, can we borrow you for a second?”

Rhys Jones Bowen poked his head around the door of the glorified cupboard that we called the “outreach office.” “What can I do you for, boys?”

“Luc wants to know how to get to Wales in a Mini,” explained Alex.

“Well, I don’t see why it matters if you’re in a Mini or not.” Rhys Jones Bowen had even more of a look of perplexed helpfulness than usual. “But usually you’d go up the M4 and over the Severn Bridge. I mean if you were going somewhere in south Wales, like Cardiff or Swansea. But if you were going somewhere in north Wales like Rhyl or Colwyn Bay, you’d be better off going up the M40 via Birmingham.”

“Thank you?” I offered.

“Are you going to Wales then, Luc? Best country in the world.”

“Er, no. I was trying to tell Alex a joke.”

Rhys Jones Bowen’s face fell. “I don’t see what’s funny about wanting to go to Wales. I’ve known you for a long time, young Luc, and all these years I’ve never had you pegged for a racist.”

“No, it’s a pun. It’s a series of jokes about trying to get incongruously large animals into a small car, and it ends with how do you get two whales in a Mini.”

“But we’ve just told you that,” complained Alex. “It’s straight up the M4 and over the Severn Bridge.”

“Unless you’re headed north,” added Rhys Jones Bowen, “in which case you take the M40 via Birmingham.”

I threw my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, I’ve got the information now. Thank you both very much. Rhys, it was not my intent to speak ill of your homeland.”

“It’s all right, Luc. I quite understand.” He nodded in a reassuring way. “And if you did want a trip up to God’s own kingdom, I’ve got a friend who’s got a lovely little place outside of Pwllheli that he’ll let you have at mates’ rates for three hundred quid a week.”

Alex gave a little gasp. “Why don’t you take your new boyfriend?”

“Yeah, the whole idea of a getting a new boyfriend, which you ought to remember because it was your fucking idea, is to be seen dating someone appropriate. I’m not sure even the most farsighted paparazzi are going to be lurking around rural Wales just on the off chance I’m over there for a weekender.”

“Ah. Well. We could do that thing they do in Westminster.”

“Fiddle my expense claims?” I suggested. “Send pictures of my penis to journalists pretending to be teenage girls?”

“Oh Luc, I’m sure both of those situations were taken very much out of context by an unfair press establishment.”

“So what are you talking about?”

“We should leak it. The next time you’re having dinner with the CFO of an international news organisation, casually let it slip that you’re planning to go to Wales.”

I stifled a sigh. “Do we really need to have the ‘what sorts of people the average human being has dinner with’ conversation again?”

“Well, gentlemen,” announced Rhys Jones Bowen, correctly concluding that he didn’t have much more to contribute to the conversation. “I think I’ve done enough good here for one day. If you need me, I’ll be updating our Myspace page.”

And with that, he ambled off, providing me with a narrow window in which to steer things in a less ludicrous direction. “The trouble is, Alex, I’m not sure the plan’s working. And now I say it out loud, I don’t know why I ever thought it would.”

He gave one of his slow, bewildered blinks. “Not working how?”

“Well, I’ve managed to avoid getting flayed in the press for the last week or so, but I’ve tried reaching out to some of the donors we lost and nobody’s biting. So they either haven’t noticed I’m respectable now or they don’t care.”

“I’m sure they care, old thing. They care so much they dropped you like a light-fingered footman. You just need to get their attention.”

“The only attention I know how to get is the wrong kind of attention.”

Alex opened his mouth.

“And if you say, oh it’s easy, ring up the Duchess of Kensington, I will stick this biro up your nose.”

“Don’t be silly. I’d never say that. There is no Duchess of Kensington.”