Boyfriend Material(79)

In another life, I like to think that Luc O’Donnell and I might have worked out. In the short time I knew him, I saw a man with endless potential trapped in a maze he couldn’t even name. And from time to time I think how many tens of thousands like him there must be in the world—insignificant on a planet of billions but a staggering number when considered as a whole—all stumbling about blinded by reflected glory, never knowing where to step or what to trust, blessed and cursed by the Midas touch of our digital-era divinity.

I read the other day that he’s seeing somebody new, that he’s getting his life back on track. But the more I think about it, the less I believe there was ever a track for him to be on. I hope I’m wrong. I hope he’s happy. But when I see his name in the papers, I think back to those strange, haunted eyes. And I wonder.

I put my toothbrush carefully down by the sink. Then I sank down on the cold bathroom floor, put my back to the door, and pulled my knees up to my chest.





Chapter 31


“Lucien? Is everything all right?” Oliver was still tapping politely on the bathroom door. I wasn’t sure when he’d started.

I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my T-shirt. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been in there rather a long time.”

“I said I’m fine.”

There was a sort of dithery noise from outside. “I want to respect your privacy, but I’m becoming increasingly concerned. Are you ill?”

“No. If I was ill, I would have said I’m ill. I said I was fine because I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” It was Oliver’s most patient of patient voices. “And if I’m being honest, this doesn’t seem like fine behaviour.”

“Well, it’s how I’m behaving.”

Then came a soft thunk like he’d put his head against the door. “And I’m not challenging that, it’s just… I know that a lot has happened today, and if you’re upset about anything, then I’d hope you could talk to me about it.”

With a somewhat louder thunk, I put my own head back rather harder than I’d expected. The sudden jolt of pain felt like it clarified things, but probably didn’t. “I know you do, Oliver, but I’ve talked to you too much already.”

“If you mean this evening, I… I don’t know what to say. I liked having that connection with you—I liked knowing I mattered—and I don’t think that’s something either of us should regret.”

“Shouldn’t isn’t the same as won’t.”

“You’re right. Neither of us can be certain we aren’t going to look back in five years’ time and think this was the worst idea we ever had. But that’s a risk I’m willing to live with.”

I scraped pointlessly at the grouting between the floor tiles. “That’s because when you regret something, you do it on your own in a house with a cup of tea and a bottle of gin. When I regret something, I do it on page eight of the Daily Mirror.”

“I’m aware this is a concern for you, Lucien, but—”

“This is more than a fucking concern. It’s my life.” My nail snagged and tore awkwardly, a half-moon of blood gathering on my fingertip. “You don’t understand what it’s like. Every stupid thing I’ve done. Every time I’ve been dumped. Every time I’ve been used. Every time I’ve been even a little bit vulnerable. That’s forever. For anyone. It’s not even a proper story. It’s the article you read over someone’s shoulder on the Tube. It’s the half headline you catch as you walk past a newspaper you’re not buying. It’s something you scroll through when you’re having a shit.”

There was a long, long silence. “What’s happened?”

“You’ve happened,” I snapped. “You’ve fucked me up and made me think things could be different and they can never be different.”

Another, even longer silence. “I’m sorry you feel that way. But whatever is going on right now is clearly about more than just me.”

“Maybe, but you’re the bit I can deal with right now.”

“And you’re dealing with me by having an argument through a bathroom door?”

“I’m dealing with you by telling you this isn’t working. Apparently even a fake relationship is beyond me.”

“If you’re going to dump me, Lucien”—Oliver had become very, very cold—“will you at least do it to my face instead of through two inches of plywood?”

Hiding my face against my knees, I definitely wasn’t crying. “Sorry. This is what you get. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You did, but I hoped you’d think I deserved better.”

“No, I’m that much of an arsehole. Now get out of my flat.”

The faintest of sounds, like maybe Oliver had been about to try the handle and then thought better of it. “Lucien, I… Please don’t.”

“Oh fuck off, Oliver.”

He didn’t reply. From my white ceramic cell, I listened to him dressing, heard his footsteps walking away, heard the front door closing behind him.

For a while I was too fucked up to do anything. Then I was too fucked up to do anything except ring Bridget. So I rang Bridget.