Boyfriend Material(68)

“Freddie Mercury?” I offered.

Judy’s mouth dropped open. “He was never? But he had a moustache and everything.”

“Famously so, I’m afraid.”

“Well, stone me if you don’t learn something new every day.” She turned to Oliver with a terrifyingly interested look in her eye. Oh God. “What about you, old man? Have you ever sissied that walk?”

“Do you mean,” he asked, “have I ever done drag?”

“Is that an insensitive question? They’re doing it on TV now, so I assumed it was fine.”

Oliver did his contemplative frown. “I’m not sure I want to set myself up as an authority on what’s insensitive. I mean, for what it’s worth, most people don’t, and I personally never have. It’s honestly not something I see the appeal of.”

There was a small pause.

“Well, it’s all larks, isn’t it?” said Judy. “Like those parties we used to have in the ’50s where the boys would get up in dresses and the girls would get up suits, and then we’d drink far too much fizz, sneak off into the bushes, and do naughty things to each other.”

Oh dear. I was perilously close to using the phrase “it exists on a spectrum” to Mum and Judy. “It’s complicated,” I tried instead. “What’s a lark for one person can be really important for another. And really problematic for someone else.”

“I think for me”—Oliver shifted slightly uncomfortably—“and I should stress I’m speaking entirely personally, I’ve never wholly identified with that particular way of signalling your identity. Which always makes me feel like I’m letting the side down a little bit.”

Mum patted him reassuringly. “Oh, Oliver, that is a sad way to think. I am sure you are one of the best gays.”

I glanced back to find Oliver looking faintly flustered. “Mum, stop ranking homosexuals. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I am not ranking anybody. I’m just saying, you should not have to feel bad because you do not like to watch men in dresses telling blue jokes. I mean, I enjoy it, but I am French.”

“Yeah,” I said, “very important part of French culture that. Along with Edith Piaf, Cézanne, and the Eiffel Tower.”

“Eh, have you seen what our kings used to wear? Their faces were beat for the gods and their heels were sickening.”

Oliver laughed. “Thank you. I think.”

“It is true. You should never let anyone tell you it is wrong to be how you are.” Mum was watching him with an expression I recognised from every childhood setback I’d ever had. “It is like the special curry. Luc has been telling me for years that it has too much spice, that I should not put sausage meat in it, and that I should never make it for guests.”

“Where are you going with this story?” I asked. “Because all those things are true and your curry is terrible.”

“Where I am going with this, mon caneton, is that I don’t give a shit. It is my curry, and I will make it the way I fucking well want to. And that is the way Oliver should live his life. Because the people who matter will love you anyway.”

“I…” For the first time since I’d known him, Oliver seemed genuinely speechless.

“Come along.” Mum reached for the remote. “Let us watch episode three. The queens are going to be in a horror movie.”

Apparently deciding that bzns had become srs, Judy got up and dimmed the lights. As we all settled in for what was probably going to become a Drag Race marathon, I really wasn’t sure how I felt or was meant to be feeling. Life with Mum and Judy had been this bubble I’d kept other people away from, partly because I was worried they wouldn’t understand, but also because, I guess, in some odd way, I wanted it to stay mine. This private space where Mum would always be cooking—or saying—something awful, and she and Judy would always be far too into whatever hobby or book or TV show had caught their attention this week, and I would always be welcome and safe and loved.

I’d brought Miles to visit, of course, but I’d never tried to make him part of our world. We’d usually gone down to the village pub and had scampi and chips on our best behaviour. But here I was with Oliver, and while it was a little exposing and a little unnerving, it was also… What’s the word? Nice. And he hadn’t run away yet, despite Mum and Judy being at pretty much peak Mum and Judy.

I let my head rest against his knee, and, somewhere between the mini-challenge and the runway, Oliver’s hand began stroking softly through my hair.





Chapter 27


Oliver was still busy with his case (which he couldn’t talk about, but refused to let me pretend was a murder) for the next few days. And I, of course, had a weekend with my dad looming and, as a fabulous aperitif for that three-course shit banquet, I also had to meet Adam and Tamara Clarke. Hopefully at an excitingly trendy pop-up vegan dining experience, rather than something Rhys Jones Bowen had just made up in his head.

I got there well ahead of time so that I could scope the place out and, in an absolute emergency, come up with a flimsy excuse to cancel. Thankfully, it seemed to be legit. Yes, from the outside the venue was your typical, generic pop-up space—a white-painted shop front with a sign over the awning reading “By Bronwyn”—but inside it was full of hanging baskets and repurposed furniture that hopefully the Clarkes would find ethical and carbon neutral and stuff.