Boyfriend Material(91)

“Even so, I fear I’ve burned a bridge that didn’t have to be burned.”

“It was a shit bridge, Oliver. And I’m still not completely sure which side of it I want to be on.”

“I’m sure you don’t need to be told this,” he said, after a moment, “but there’s a chance he could hurt you again.”

I twisted my head, gazing up at Oliver with the sort of intensity you could only really get away with when you were both in bed and mostly naked. “It’s a very good chance, isn’t it?”

“Again, I’m rather stating the obvious here, but I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I’m not mad keen on it myself. I guess I just feel like…I’m in a place where even if it goes wrong, I’ll be okay. Like it won’t utterly wreck me.”

“That’s”—he gave me a slightly crooked smile—“strangely reassuring.”

*

Sitting on Oliver’s freshly made bed the next day, I was starting to think I might have overstated my case utterly-wrecking-me-wise. It had been comparatively easy in my sort-of-a-bit-fake-sort-of-a-bit-real boyfriend’s arms to claim I was okay. I was not feeling okay right now. But eventually I got enough of my shit together to phone Jon Fleming on the number he’d had his people send my people. Well, me. I’m kind of my own people.

“Jon here,” rumbled my dad, with the confidence of man who knows he’s the only Jon that matters.

“Um. Hi. It’s me.”

“Me who? It’s not a good time, I’m about to go on set.”

“Me your son. You know, the one you want to connect with.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” Oh, he wasn’t talking to me, was he? “What was that, Luc?”

“I was just ringing to say—”

“Yeah. No. That’s great, thanks. Appreciate it.” Still not talking to me.

“Look,” I said, “if you want to meet up, I’m free sometime this week.”

“I’d like that. How about Wednesday? Do you know The Half Moon in Camden?”

“Well, no, but I can Google it.”

“I’ll see you there at seven. On my way, Jamie.”

And he was gone. If I’d been superstitious, I would have said it wasn’t the best sign that the last thing he’d said to me was “On my way, Jamie” but I guess I was committed now. And I had an appointment with Jon Fleming. My dad. On my own. So he could maybe tell me he was sorry he left me.

There was no way that was happening, was there?

My first instinct, born from years of practice, was to… Actually, I didn’t know. Five years ago, I’d have gone out, got wasted, and got laid. Six months ago I’d have gone home, got drunk, and got under my duvet. Now I just wanted to be with Oliver.

And I could? Because he was downstairs?

This semblance of a healthy lifestyle was going to take some getting used to.

I found him sitting at the kitchen table, elaborately hand-wrapping a wholesale carton of Kinder Happy Hippos.

“I can’t believe,” I said, “I ever thought you were boring.”

He gave me what I’d come to recognise as his “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be insulted” look. “You mean because when I give somebody a gift, I like to pay attention to its presentation?”

“I’m not being sarcastic, Oliver. This is delightfully strange of you and not what I was expecting to see today.”

“I’m wrapping a present. What on earth is strange about that?”

“It’s the fact you’re going full Love Actually cinnamon stick on a job-lot of cheap German chocolate.”

He gave a little cough. “Italian.”

“What?”

“It’s Italian.”

“Isn’t Kinder German for ‘child’?”

“Yes, but the company is based in Italy.”

“I’m so glad we’re focusing on what matters here.” I folded myself into a chair opposite him. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

“It’s for Jennifer’s birthday.”

“Oh yes,” I affirmed convincingly. “That is a thing I definitely remembered.”

He gave me one of those annoying looks that people give when they’re not disappointed because they know and care about you, instead of not being disappointed because they have incredibly low expectations. “How was your father?”

“Dick like always.” I fiddled pointlessly with the vase of newly refreshed table flowers. “And I know I’m trying to be better at this, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to. And I’d understand if you weren’t feeling up to the party tonight.”

“No, I want to. If only for the expression on your friend’s face when she discovers you’ve bought her five hundred loosely hippo-themed wafer treats filled with a gooey substance that vaguely resembles chocolate.”

He blinked petulantly. “It’s not chocolate. It’s a milk and hazelnut cream. And they’re what I always get her.”

“And yet somehow you remain friends?”

“She likes them. And it’s sort of a tradition.”