Boyfriend Material(44)

“None taken.” Of course Oliver wasn’t taking offence. Oliver was an angel. While I was a slime demon from the planet Jerkface.

“Well, I say it’s splendid. And, of course”—here Miffy bestowed a dazzling smile on me, which in the circumstances felt an awful lot like a participation trophy—“you’re splendid too, Luc. Since you do the same job.”

Great. So now not only did Oliver know that my job wasn’t something I was passionate about, the way he was about his, but he was also going to think you could do it with about three functioning brain cells.

“Oh no,” exclaimed Alex. “Luc’s much more important than I am. No clue what he does, but it seems terribly complicated and involves, oh, what do you call them? Things with the little boxes?”

Miffy wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “Cricket teams?”

“Not quite, old girl. Spreadsheets, that’s the word. I just muck about with the photocopier, check we don’t have more than two meetings in the same room at the same time, and keep Daisy alive.”

“Who’s Daisy?” asked Oliver, still ignoring me but, let’s be honest, I probably deserved it.

“She’s the aloe vera I’m growing in the filing cabinet. Our social media chappie burns himself on the coffee machine quite a lot, and Nurse always used aloe vera on us when we were small and it’s jolly efficacious. In fact, I’m thinking we might need two because the poor dear is looking quite denuded in the leaf department.”

“On another topic,” I announced, changing the subject with all the grace and subtlety of someone saying Can we change the subject now, “a scary old man went for me in the bathroom. I mean, yelled at me. Not, like, tried to hit on me.”

“Thank you for clarifying that.” It was Oliver’s driest tone. So far Operation Come Across as a Total Prick was running ahead of schedule.

Alex frowned. “How very rum. Did you do anything to provoke him?”

My apology window had closed an aloe vera ago. So I was basically stuck with sort of pretending I hadn’t been awful, even though I blatantly had, and trying to find the mythical middle ground between making it worse and overcompensating. “Nice to know you’re taking his side already. But, for the record, no. I was minding my own business by the sink when this mad old coot barged in and—”

“Alex, m’boy,” bellowed the mad old coot, materialising behind me like the serial killer in a horror movie. “How’s the old man?”

“Can’t complain, Randy. Can’t complain.”

“Very much enjoyed his speech in the Lords recently about, oh, what was it…”

“Badgers?”

“No, not badgers. Those other, what do you call them…immigrants.”

“Ah yes. Sounds like Daddy. Oh”—Alex gave a little start—“by the way, I should introduce you. You remember Clara, of course.”

“’Course I do. Never forget a face.”

“And these are my friends, Luc and Oliver.”

His eyes lasered over us and I wilted in my seat. “Pleasure. Any friend of a Twaddle is a friend of mine. But I should warn you, stay out the bathroom—there’s a mad Irish bastard ambushing people in there.”

“Actually, Your Honour,” said Oliver, in his best If it please m’lud, counsel is testifying voice, “we’ve met. I had a client before you last month.”

“Nonsense. Never forget a face. Got no idea who you are.” A pause. “Still”—he brightened—“did we get the bugger?”

“I was counsel for the defence, Your Honour, and the defence was, in this instance, successful.”

The judge scowled at Oliver, who met his look with studied mildness. “Well. Suppose we can’t catch ’em all. I’ll leave you to your dinner. See you at the Swan Upping, Alex, if not before.”

And, with that, the Right Honourable Racist doddered off.

“I say,” exclaimed Alex, turning to me, “it seems Randy met the same strange man that you did. Do you think we’ve got an intruder? Shall I tell somebody?”

“I suspect,” offered Oliver, “that won’t be necessary.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you know, can’t be too careful and all that.”

“I have no doubt Justice Mayhew dealt with the miscreant appropriately.”

Alex gave a fond smile. “He’s a feisty old bugger, isn’t he?”

“That’s certainly one way to put it.”

There was a brief silence, which Oliver delicately steered us over by asking if everyone was ready to move on to dessert. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he went on, “the jam roly-poly on the menu. I’ve always been rather partial.”

Alex bounced in his seat like a poorly trained beagle. “I’m a dick man, myself. Thick and solid, and piping hot, and slathered in what the French call crème anglaise.”

I was still having way too many Oliver-related emotions, but I couldn’t not steal a peek at him. And, of course, he didn’t look even the slightest bit as if he was about to die of laughter in a room named after a dead Tory.

“I’ll admit”—oh God help me, his eyes were legitimately twinkling—“that does sound good.”