Boyfriend Material(90)

Another pause. From him this time.

“I’m glad Oliver’s in your life, but do you not think it’d be easier if it was the two of us?”

Easier for him maybe.

“Besides,” he went on, “I know barristers have very busy schedules. It might be difficult to find a window we can both make.”

As was so often the case when it came to Jon Fleming: I just couldn’t. Was I supposed to be flattered that he wanted me all to himself? Or creeped out that he was acting like someone off To Catch a Predator? I mean, nothing good ever began with “and be sure you come alone.”

And there was another of my “I’m very conflicted, please talk into this silence” gaps.

Whether out of sensitivity to my needs or a love of his own voice, Jon Fleming talked. “I’m aware I’m being selfish here. Of course you can bring your partner if that’s what you feel you need.”

Great. Way to make me feel weak and codependent.

“But the truth is”—he hesitated, as if he was sincerely struggling with something—“it’s not easy for someone like me to admit when I’ve done wrong. And it’ll be that much harder in front of an audience.”

“W-wait. What?”

“This isn’t the kind of conversation we should be having over the phone.”

He was right. But this was the closest I’d ever come to getting anything even halfway real from my father. And I didn’t know how not to just…grab at it. Except I couldn’t. Because how could I be sure he wouldn’t disappear like a gateway to Narnia the moment I went looking for him? There’d been a time when I’d wanted this so much, and maybe that made it worth the risk.

Or maybe it really, really didn’t.

“Can I…” I asked. “Can I think about it?”

There was a longer-than-I-would-have-liked pause. “Of course you can. I’ll send you my personal number, and you can contact me on your own terms. Just remember, I’ll be here for you until…until the end.”

And with that helpful little reminder he had cancer, Jon Fleming hung up.





Chapter 35


Oliver seemed to genuinely enjoy Gavin’s exhibition, although I could have done without his first words as we went through the door being “Ah, so you meant the Merthyr Tydfil Rising of 1831.” In any case, while it wouldn’t have been my first, second, or indeed twelfth choice for an evening out, I was quite enjoying being the sort of person who took his socially acceptable barrister boyfriend to pop-up dining experiences and indie art events. Also, it gave me a bunch of culture points that I immediately cashed in by treating myself to a Twix McFlurry on the way home. Which, despite his objections to both the contents of the dessert and the business ethics of the company that sold it, I generously shared with Oliver.

It was a bit disorientating getting back to his house and realising that it was Friday night, and I wasn’t at home alone being miserable or out at a party being miserable. It was even more disorientating being in bed before one. Then again, Oliver’s bed had compensations—Oliver being the most obvious—but I’m pretty sure his sheets were Egyptian cotton, and were usually freshly laundered.

“Um,” I said, from where I was tucked under his arm, “you know that thing where I was going to be open and honest about, like, my feelings and stuff?”

“I hope you’re making that sound unnecessarily ominous.”

I cringed. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s always ominous in my head.”

“What is it, Lucien?”

“My dad rang. He wants to meet up for some one-on-one father-son bonding.”

“And what do you want?”

“I don’t know, that’s the problem.” I tried to shrug, but it turned into more of a…nestle? “I told him I needed to think about it.”

“Probably wise.”

“Yeah, get me with my probable wisdom.”

Oliver’s fingers drifted soothingly up and down my spine. “Do you have any sense which way you’re leaning?”

“Really not. It’s one of those things where I want to but I don’t want to. Every time I decide to just walk away, I get this little voice in my head saying ‘He’s got cancer, you knob.’ And I know I’d be an idiot to trust him and I know it’s probably going to suck. But I think—shit, I might actually be vomiting a little in my mouth as I say this—it’s something I’ve got to do.”

“I understand.”

Of course he did. “Of course you do.”

“I can’t work out if I feel appreciated or taken for granted.”

“A little of both?” I wriggled down and nuzzled into his neck. “I mean I guess I’m taking it for granted that you’re going to be amazing. But that doesn’t mean it’s not amazing.”

He gave an embarrassed little cough. “Thank you. Although I should add I’m not completely unconcerned. I know I’ve only met your father once, but I can’t say he made a good impression.”

“I don’t think he likes you either.”

“I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I de-nuzzled and kissed him instead. “You always make things better. And I’m not sure I’d be into anyone Jon Fleming actually got on with.”