Boyfriend Material(58)

“You see,” said James Royce-Royce, kissing his husband’s cheek extravagantly, “isn’t he fabulous?”

We got to work and, holy shit, was it work. Having a system helped a lot, but it turned out I’d dropped a lot of things over the years, metaphorically and literally, and picking them all up and figuring out how best to dispose of them was surprisingly draining. It didn’t help that Priya kept sarcastically double-checking whether I was sure I wanted to get rid of something with such obvious sentimental value as the empty Twiglets tube from last Christmas or a lone Mr. Grumpy sock with a hole in the toe. Then we piled the pickup shamefully full of crap and drove it down to the tip.

I nearly sent Oliver a picture of our neatly sorted recycling piles so I could show off how sensible and mature I was being, but then I realised how much I wanted to surprise him with how sensible and mature I was being. He’d made it painfully clear sex was very much off the table, but maybe if I managed to get at least some of my shit together, he might like me enough to kiss me.

Not that I really had any right to expect that or ask for that or imagine how it might feel. Except now I’d had the thought, I didn’t entirely want to let it go. Which was an epic red flag. I’d built my whole life around not wanting things I couldn’t have and, yes, that had left me alone and bitter in a messy flat, but I was still worried the alternative was worse.

By the time we’d got back from the dump, the washing machine was thrashing through the first of what would likely be approximately twenty-seven thousand loads, and James Royce-Royce had spread a red-and-white-checked picnic blanket across my newly visible living room floor. It was laden with goodies, and there were even clean plates to eat them off. Been a while since I’d seen those.

We all flopped down and waited semipatiently for James Royce-Royce to introduce the food. I’d never quite figured out if it was a chef thing or a him thing, but he got borderline huffy if you tried to eat something he’d made for you before he’d told you all about it.

“So,” he announced, “this is a traditional pork pie with hot-water crust pastry. Sorry, not suitable for Priya, but it’s a picnic. You can’t have a picnic without a pork pie.”

Priya gave him a look. “Yes. That is absolutely true. I have all these magical childhood memories of how every summer I’d go out into the park with my family and my mum would make roti and samosas and a raita and a pie none of us could eat. Then when we got home, we’d lend it to the Jewish family next door so they could take it out on their next picnic.”

“I’m sorry, darling. That was culturally insensitive of me. But I did make you a lovely quiche.”

“Ooh.” She perked up. “Is it the broccoli and goat cheese one?”

“Caramelised red onion, cream, and Stilton.”

“Okay, I’m sold. You can keep your pie, infidels.”

“There’s also,” went on James Royce-Royce, with typical ceremony, “a kale Waldorf salad with buttermilk dressing, a selection of handmade dips, including the hummus you were so fond of last time, Theresa, some of my home-made bread, naturally, and a range of local cheeses. Then, to finish, we have individual raspberry fools in mason jars. And, don’t worry Luc, I brought my own spoons.”

Priya dragged a cooler out from behind my sofa. “Well, I brought beer.” She struck a Royce-Royceian pose. “It’s a sumptuous hops-based beverage served in a bottle.”

“I’m seeing what you’re doing there, Priya.” He mock-glowered at her over the top of his black-rimmed hipster frames. “And since I’ve already blotted my cultural copybook, I’ve always wondered why you’re okay with alcohol but not with pigs.”

“You want the long answer or the short answer?”

“What’s the short answer?”

“Fuck you, James.” She grinned.

“And,” he asked warily, “the long answer?”

“Because in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a very good Muslim. I fuck women, I drink alcohol, and I don’t believe in God. But I grew up not eating pork, and so it still feels weird to eat an animal that rolls around in its own shit all day.”

“Actually, pigs are very clean animals.”

“Yeah”—she shrugged—“still not gonna eat ’em.”

There was a brief period of calm while we all attempted to put a dent in James Royce-Royce’s characteristically excessive picnic.

Eventually, Theresa—who clearly had better manners than the rest of us—said, “Priya tells me you have a new boyfriend, Luc. Will he be joining us?”

“He’s got a work thing.” I waved a hunk of James Royce-Royce’s delicious home-made bread slightly sheepishly. “He’s a barrister.”

“What speciality?”

Help. I hadn’t prepared for the quiz. “Um…criminal stuff? He defends them and stuff.”

“That’s very admirable. I had a friend from university who went into criminal law, but he recently moved into consultancy. I understand it can be very draining and not particularly lucrative.”

“Well, Oliver’s got a lot of passion for it. I can’t imagine him wanting to do anything else really.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Then he’s lucky. Although in my experience there’s no one thing you need to make you happy.”