Boyfriend Material(40)

Oliver gave a faint smile. “That’s an understandable position but, interestingly, one that is seldom shared by lawyers.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Do you really want to leave your fate in the hands of a dozen people you don’t know, none of who want to be there, on the off chance one of them pulls a Henry Fonda?”

“In real life, juries aren’t made up of eleven bigots and an angel. And I would far rather leave my fate in the hands of a cross-section of the public than a single person who sees the law entirely in abstract terms.”

I adopted what I hoped was a thoughtful pose, but was largely motivated by a desire to stop my left buttock going to sleep. “But don’t you want someone to see the law in abstract terms?” What was that line from Legally Blonde? “Didn’t Socrates say, ‘The law is reason free from passion’?”

“Actually, it was Aristotle. And he was wrong. Or rather, he was right in a way, but the law is only one part of justice.”

Oliver was looking distractingly intense. I guess I could admit that, under most circumstances, he was a better-than-okay looking man. But when he was being passionate about shit, and his eyes got all sharp and his mouth got all interesting, he probably got upgraded to hot. And this was just about the worst possible time to start noticing that because, while I was noticing how attractive he could be, he was noticing what a complete piece of human garbage I was.

“Oh?” I said intelligently, while not staring.

“The point of a jury trial is that reasonable people—and before you say anything, most people are reasonable—get to decide whether the defendant truly deserves to be punished for their actions. The letter of the law is, at best, half of that question. The other half is compassion.”

“That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I think what I’d meant was, That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard. But I couldn’t admit that and now wished I’d said nothing because Oliver had snapped closed like a fan in the hands of an angry drag queen. “Fortunately I don’t need you to validate my beliefs.”

Great. Now I had Dad, a random donor, and Oliver all coming at my self-esteem from different directions. And, yes, I deserved it in Oliver’s case, but that wasn’t making me feel any better.

“This is jolly interesting,” piped up Alex. At this point the odds were fifty-fifty that he still thought we were talking about badgers. “But I can’t help feel a chap is still better off with a judge. I mean, just seems more likely to be a chap’s sort of chap, you know?”

Oliver turned back to him with an effortless smile. “In your specific case, Alex, I very much agree.”

“Gosh. Really? Well, look at me. See, I’m always a bit less wrong than people think. Like a stopped clock. Oh I say, it’s Miffy.”

Alex leapt to his feet, followed more gracefully by Oliver with the instinctive courtesy of the properly brought up. I stumbled after them, listing a little because of the buttock issue.

“Hello, boys.” An immaculate gift box of a woman—mostly eyes, cheekbones, and cashmere—was gliding towards us. “So sorry I’m late. Had a beastly time getting through the photographers.”

There followed a brief flurry as she and Alex exchanged a surprisingly complex sequence of air kisses. “Don’t worry, old girl. I kept them entertained. This is Oliver Blackwood—he’s a lawyer. Frightfully clever fellow.”

More air kisses, which Oliver fielded expertly. Because apparently everybody got to touch my boyfriend—I mean, my fake boyfriend—except me.

“And this is Luc O’Donnell, who I’ve told you all about.”

She came in to kiss me and I moved my head wrong and we banged noses. “Gosh,” she said. “You look very young to be Speaker of the House.”

“Um. No. That’s not me.”

“Are you sure? That’s definitely who Ally was telling me about.”

“Is it possible,” I asked, “he’s told you about more than one person?”

She blinked. “Possibly, but that would get terribly confusing.”

“Anyway”—that was Alex again, and for possibly the first time in my entire life I was relieved he was speaking—“Luc and Oliver are boyfriends. Only not really. They just have to pretend until the Beetle Drive. It’s the most tremendous wheeze.” He blushed modestly. “My idea actually.”

“Oh, Ally. You are a smarty-pants.”

“Only don’t tell anybody because it’s a gigantic secret.”

She tapped the side of her head. “Video et taceo.”

“And this,” Alex went on, “is my… I say, Miffy, are we engaged?”

“I don’t recall. I feel like we probably should be. Let’s say we are for now and work out the details later.”

“In which case, this is my fiancée Clara Fortescue-Lettice.”

I knew I was going to regret this. But I said it anyway. “I thought she was called Miffy?”

“Yes.” Alex gave me a what-is-wrong-with-you look. “Miffy, short for Clara.”

“But it’s the same number of sylla… Never mind.”

Alex drew Miffy-Short-for-Clara’s arm through his with easy confidence. “Shall we tootle into the dining room?”