Boyfriend Material(57)

“Aren’t those both sets of four?”

“There’s a technical difference, but I don’t have time to go into it right now. Anyway, the point is, it was all going really well, and Netflix was interested in optioning books three, seven, and nine, and we were trying to get them to look at one, two, and six and I think they were about to pick them up. But now Kavanagh has also died. And Raymond Carlisle and Roger Clayborn are both saying that he wanted them to take over, and they’re refusing to collaborate with each other.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that sounds…complicated.”

“I know. And I’m probably going to be on a conference call all day. If I can’t get them to work it out, I’m definitely going to get fired.”

I rolled my eyes, only because she couldn’t see me. “You’re not going to get fired, Bridge. You never get fired. They keep getting you to deal with this sort of nonsense because you’re actually fantastic at your job.”

There was a long silence. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

“I can’t remember the last time you said something nice about, well, anything.”

I thought about this for slightly longer than I was comfortable having to think about it. “When you got that new haircut. The one with the cute fringe. I told you it looked really good on you.”

“That was three years ago.”

I gasped. “It was not.”

“Luc, I can remember when fringes were in.”

“Jesus.” I sank down onto the arm of my sofa. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I’m saving these stories for when I’m best man at your wedding.”

“You might be saving them for a long time.”

“Then it’s going to be a very long speech. And I have to go. But please tell me how much you like Oliver first.”

“Nothing,” I insisted, “is happening with Oliver.”

She squeaked happily. “Ah, but you’re not complaining about how pompous and boring he is. That means it’s going exactly according to plan. Must dash. Ciao, darling.”

She was gone before I could ciao back.

Twenty minutes later, the James Royce-Royces appeared, James Royce-Royce with an actual picnic basket.

“Oh, Luc.” He gazed around in dismay. “I hadn’t realised it had got this bad. I’m not sure I’ll feel safe eating in here.”

“People eat in fields,” I pointed out. “Like, places where cows shit. No cows have shit in my flat.”

“Are you familiar, sweet pea, with the term ‘damning with faint praise’?”

“Did you come here to help or take the piss?”

He shrugged. “I thought I’d try a bit of both.”

A rumble outside heralded the arrival of Priya, her girlfriend, and her pickup truck. I mean, the rumbling was the truck. Her girlfriend was scary in other ways, what with being a legit grown-up and everything. By the time all five of us were crammed into my front room, surrounded by the detritus of the last five years, I was feeling pretty epically low.

“Welp.” I made a helpless gesture. “This is my life. And I wish I hadn’t invited you to come and look at it.”

“You know,” said Priya. “I’d normally say something mean. But you’re so pathetic right now, it wouldn’t be satisfying.”

Her girlfriend, whose name was Theresa, but who I had a hard time thinking of as anything but Professor Lang, elbowed her in the ribs. “That’s still mean, dear.”

“You like me when I’m mean.”

James Royce-Royce shooed at them gently. “I’d tell you to get a room, but as we can see, there isn’t one.”

“It’s not that bad.” Professor Lang picked up a sofa cushion and then put it down again very quickly. “I lived in worse in my student days.”

“Luc’s twenty-eight.” Ah, I could always count on Priya to boost me up when I was down.

“Well”—to my surprise, Professor Lang shot me a mischievous smile—“considering that when I was twenty-eight, I was lying to my husband, denying my sexuality, and pretending work would solve all my problems, I don’t feel in any position to judge.”

I stared at them both. “I have no idea how Priya wound up with someone so much less of an arsehole than her.”

“I’m a tortured artist,” Priya shot back. “And I’m fucking incredible in bed. Now how do we tackle the pile of unadulterated skank you call your home?”

There was a humiliatingly long silence.

Then James Royce-Royce spoke up unexpectedly. “We prioritise things that need to be thrown away. Recycling over there”—he pointed to a moderately empty corner—“refuse over there”—another point, another corner—“waste, electronic and electrical on that table. Then Priya, Luc, and Theresa will go to the dump, while James and I start on the dishes. By the time you get back, there’ll be enough space to be going through the laundry. Clean”—it was pointing time again—“dirty whites, dirty colours. From there we’ll regroup and start on the surfaces.”

We all took a moment to remind ourselves that there were some jobs James Royce-Royce was scarily good at.