Boyfriend Material(64)

“It’s fine. I can make an exception.”

“Do not make an exception. In fact, if you could, please pretend you don’t want me eating meat either. You would be doing my lower intestines a massive favour.”

“I’m not sure coming across as the sort of man who polices her son’s diet would endear me to your mother.”

I thought about it for a moment. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

“I’m very much not.”

“Are you”—I peeked over at him—“actually worried about meeting my mum?”

His hand was a little clammy. “What if she doesn’t like me? She might not think I’m good enough for you.”

“Well, if you don’t walk out, leaving me alone with a three-year-old kid, you’ll be doing way better by me than my dad did by her so, y’know, not a lot to lose here.”

“Lucien”—he gave another anxiety hiccough—“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I stopped and turned to face him. “Look, you’re… I can’t believe you’re making me say this. But you’re great. You’re clever and thoughtful and hot and you went to fucking Oxford and you’re a fucking lawyer. You’re not dying of consumption or promised to a duke—don’t ask—and…you’re nice to me. And that’s really all that matters to her.”

He gazed at me for a long moment. I had no idea what he was thinking, but suddenly I was all to pieces. My mouth had gone dry and my pulse had gone wild and, in that moment, the only thing I wanted in the world was for him to—

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll be late.”





Chapter 25


I was about to put my key in the lock when the front door flew open, almost as if my mum had been lurking behind it, watching the road through the stained-glass inset. Like a total creeper.

“Luc, mon caneton,” she cried. And then turned her attention, viperlike, to Oliver. “And you must be the fake boyfriend.”

I sighed. “This is Oliver, Mum. Oliver, this is my mum.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. O’Donnell.” From anyone else, that would have sounded stilted. With Oliver, it was just the way he talked.

“Please call me Odile. You are most welcome.”

Okay. This was going well.

“But,” went on Mum, “you must clear something up for me.”

Or maybe not.

“Luc tells me that you are a fake boyfriend but not a fake gay. If that is the case, why are you not going out with my son for real? What is wrong with him?”

“Mum.” I flailed on the doorstep. “What are you doing? You don’t even know Oliver, and now you’re trying to browbeat him into dating me.”

“He looks nice. Clean, tall, he’s wearing a good jumper.”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to pimp me out to a complete stranger because you like his jumper. He could be a serial killer.”

“I’m…I’m not,” said Oliver quickly. “Just for the record.”

She glared at me. “It is the principle. Even if he is a serial killer, he should still want to go out with you.”

“To reiterate,” said Oliver. “I’m not a serial killer.”

“That does not answer my question. I want to know what is wrong with my son that you are only willing to pretend to go out with him. I mean, look at him. He’s lovely. A bit untidy, I suppose, and his nose is a little large, but you know what they say about men with big noses.”

Oliver gave a little cough. “They make good sommeliers?”

“Exactement. Also they have big penises.”

“Mum,” I exploded. “I’m twenty-eight. You’ve got to stop embarrassing me in front of boys.”

“I’m not being embarrassing. I’m saying nice things. I said you had a big penis. Everybody loves a big penis.”

“Stop. Saying. Penis.”

“It’s just a word, Luc. Don’t be so English. I raised you better than that.” She turned to Oliver. “Luc’s father, you know, he had a huge penis.”

To my horror, Oliver got the kind of thoughtful look you never want your boyfriend to get over your dad’s dick. “Had? What’s happened to it since?”

“I don’t know, but I like to think either the drugs shrivelled it up or it got squeezed into nothing by a groupie’s vagina.”

“Mum,” I loud-muttered, like she was hugging me in front of my school friends.

“Awww, mon cher. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.” She patted my cheek. Embarrassingly. And then turned to the boy she was embarrassing me in front of. “You’d better come in, Oliver.”

I trailed after them into the hall, which was about the right size for Mum, slightly too small for Mum and me, and far too small for Mum, me, Oliver, and the four spaniels who bolted through from the front room and started nosing eagerly at him as the newest object in the building. He did that thing that people who are good with dogs do where they crouch down and the dogs squirm all over them, tails wagging and ears flopping, and it’s adorable and domestic and bleurgh. And Oliver was blatantly going to want a dog in the future, wasn’t he? Probably from a shelter. And it’d have, like, three legs, but he’d train it to catch Frisbees as well as a dog with four legs, and he’d be in the park with it, throwing Frisbees, and this really hot guy would come up to him and be, like, “Hey, nice dog, wanna fuck?” And he’d be like “Sure, because your mother’s never said the word ‘penis’ in front of me” and then they’d get a lovely semidetached in Cheltenham and Oliver would make French toast every morning and they’d walk the dog together, hand-in-hand, and have meaningful conversations about ethics and—