Boyfriend Material(83)

“Ah yes.” He gave me one of his cold looks. “The most important part of any apology.”

Rainwater slithered from the tips of my hair and down my face. “Oliver, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I’m sorry for losing my shit. I’m sorry for locking myself in the bathroom like an emo teen at a bad party. I’m sorry I suck at apologies. I’m sorry I’ve been a crap fake boyfriend. And I’m sorry I keep showing up on your doorstep begging you to give me another chance.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture…well, gestures”—he was doing the temple-rubbing thing that meant he had no idea how to deal with me—“but I don’t understand why this keeps happening. Honestly, I don’t even understand what happened tonight.”

“Which is why,” I yelled, brandishing the phone again, “I tried to give you context.”

He glanced from me to the phone and back again. “You should probably come in.”

I came in and stood in his hallway dripping. Neither of us seemed entirely sure what was meant to happen next.

Then Oliver said, “Why don’t you take a moment to dry off. And I’ll have a look at this article, if you’re still comfortable with that.”

I wasn’t comfortable with that at all, but having shoved it under his nose, it was a bit late to back out now. Besides, I was committed to being honest and transparent and oh, help.

Trying not to panic, I let Oliver shepherd me upstairs, where he took a towel from the airing cupboard because, of course, he had an airing cupboard. And, of course, the towel was all fluffy and sweet-smelling. I hugged it needily.

He gave me a little nudge towards the bathroom. “There’s a dressing gown behind the door. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Feeling both drier and floatier, I came down a few minutes later, wrapped up in navy-blue fleece, and found Oliver at the table frowning at my phone.

“Lucien”—he looked up with a less encouraging expression than I might have hoped—“I’m still confused. From your reaction, I assumed you’d read something that, at the very least, put one of our careers in danger. This is a contentless piece of self-serving fluff by an obvious hack.”

I slid awkwardly onto a chair opposite. “I know, but it felt really true in the moment.”

“I’d say I’m not unsympathetic, but since you locked yourself in a bathroom and dumped me over it, I am finding sympathy difficult.”

“I…I get that.”

Oliver crossed one leg over the other, looking prim and serious. “I think what I need you to understand is that even though we are not in an official relationship, we have made a commitment to each other that we are both relying on. And when you behave unreliably it has real consequences for me, logistically and”—he gave a tight little cough—“emotionally.”

This was everything I thought I didn’t like about Oliver Blackwood: severe, stern, headmastery and not in a kinky way, and with that faint edge of superiority that suggested he would never flake out or fuck up. But I knew him better now and I knew I’d hurt him. “I realise I’ve treated you badly, and I realise my many, many issues aren’t an excuse for that. And I wish I could tell you I won’t do this again, but I can’t because I’m worried I will.”

“While I appreciate your honesty,” he said, still rather coldly, “I’m not sure where that leaves us.”

“I can’t tell you where it leaves you, but where it leaves me is I want to give this another go and I’ll try to do better.”

“Lucien…” He gave a soft sigh. “I really don’t want to go alone to my parents’ anniversary. But it’s a little late for me to find anybody else now.”

That wasn’t quite the falling back into my arms Bridget had led me to expect. “If that’s what you need, and that’s all you want, I can still do that for you. I think I know you well enough that I could pass as your boyfriend for one party, even if we don’t speak until then.”

“What about your work function?”

“It’ll be fine.” I shrugged. “I’ve got most of the donors back. And, you know, I’m starting to think that if they come for my personal life again, I might actually be able to face taking them to an employment tribunal.”

Oliver was looking at me, his eyes all silver-grey and searching. “Why couldn’t you before?”

“Because getting fired just felt like something I deserved.”

“And it doesn’t now?”

“Sometimes. But not so much.”

“What changed?” he asked, with a quizzical look.

I groaned. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” His foot flickered impatiently. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not at my most perspicacious, but I’ve only had three hours sleep.”

“Which I notice is still enough sleep to say ‘perspicacious.’ Oliver, you. It was you. You’re what changed. And now I’ve blown it. And I’m sad.”

He softened for about a second. And then unsoftened abruptly. “If I’ve been such a positive influence, why on earth did you dump me through a bathroom door over a nothing article in a newspaper famed for its misspellings?”