Boyfriend Material(45)

Miffy looked rather dreamy. “You know, I was just thinking, I really fancy a tart.”

Were they doing this deliberately? They had to be doing this deliberately.

In any case, it turned out they could talk about pudding basically indefinitely, swapping childhood anecdotes, and squabbling over the merits of cobblers versus crumbles. They had, at least, finally hit on a topic—or rather, Oliver had introduced them to a topic—that I knew more than nothing about. And if I’d been a better person, I would have given them my hot take on which order you put the jam and cream on a scone. (It’s jam, then cream). Unfortunately I’m a mediocre person at best. And so sat there, trying not to sulk into my pineapple upside-down cake.

We finished up our desserts, and I was about to be relieved that it was nearly over when one of the Jameses came around with cheese, then coffee, then brandy, then cigars. We eventually exhausted the topic of pudding, but Oliver kept stubbornly guiding the conversation back towards accessible subjects. I was sure he meant well and, after the fuss I’d made, wanted to make sure I was included.

But between my dad, my job, Justice Mayhew, and all the ways I’d made a complete mess of tonight, I didn’t quite have the energy to be grateful.





Chapter 18


Eighty-seven thousand, five hundred and sixty-four gazillion hours later, we were finally allowed to leave the Cadwallader Club. Given how terribly the evening had gone, I was really looking forward to taking a quiet cab ride home, sticking my head under a duvet, and dying. But, of course, the whole point of the evening had been to get me photographed standing next to socially acceptable people. Which meant the moment we stepped outside, we were swarmed by a mixture of high-end paparazzi and low-end journalists.

My vision sheeted white as far too many cameras went off in my face. I froze. Normally when people took my picture, they had the decency to sneak around so they could catch me fucking against a wheelie bin or vomiting in a pub car park. This was a whole other level of attention. And I’d not particularly liked the old level.

“Who are you wearing?” someone yelled from the crowd.

Okay. They were definitely not talking to me. My clothes were much closer to a “what” than a “who.”

Miffy tossed back her hair and reeled off something incomprehensible that I assumed was a list of designers.

This was fine. I was fine. I just had to look vaguely like I belonged in this nice world where nice people could have nice things. How hard could it be?

“Have you set a date yet?”

“The eighteenth.”

Relax. But not too relaxed. Smile. But not too much. I tried to remind myself that journalists were like tyrannosauruses. Their vision was based on movement.

“Eighteenth of what?”

“Yes,” Miffy said.

Were they getting closer? I was sure they were getting closer. Also not sure I could breathe. I must have been photographed enough by now, right? Good publicity was starting to feel worse than bad publicity. At least bad publicity, or the sort of bad publicity I was used to, didn’t pin you into a corner and yell at you.

I scanned the jostling horseshoe of newspersons, looking for a gap between the bodies. But I could hardly see for the after-images, and the idea of being grabbed at and pulled at as I tried to force my way through a pack of strangers made my stomach twist. I was this close to throwing up. On camera. Again. Another crackle of silver, and when the starbursts faded, I realised I was looking this one guy straight in the eye. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. “Is that Jon Fleming’s kid?” he yelled. “You into Rights of Man, Miffy?”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

“I’d so love to chat”—her voice ebbed and flowed in my ears like the tide—“but I have to see a horse about a man.”

“Which horse?”

“Which man?”

Another lightning storm of flashes—this time pointed much more squarely at me. I threw an arm across my face like a vampire trying to dab.

“What’s the matter, Luc?”

“Overindulged?”

“Making the old man proud?”

“N-n-no comment,” I muttered.

“Have you joined the Cadwallader Club?”

“What have you been drinking?”

“Are you turning over a new leaf?”

No way was any of that not a trap. “No…no comment.”

“Cat got your tongue, Luc?”

“Are you coked up right now?”

“Where’s your bunny ears?”

“That’s enough.” There was suddenly an arm around my waist. And then I was being drawn against Oliver’s side—right up against that warm, gorgeous, um, coat. It was the most pathetic thing I’d ever done, possibly the most pathetic thing in the world, but I turned in to him and hid my face against his neck. The scent of his hair, so clean and, somehow, so him, slowed the panicked racing of my heart.

“What’re you hiding from?”

“Come on, mate. Give us a smile.”

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

“My name is Oliver Blackwood.” He didn’t shout, but he didn’t have to. There was something about the way he spoke that sliced through the clamour. “I’m a barrister at Middle Temple, and I suggest you get out of my way.”