Boyfriend Material(95)

Peter glanced up from the Ferrero Rocher carnage with an expression somewhere between playful and speculative. “Just out of curiosity, how are the sales?”

“Surprisingly good, actually. I think it might have crossover appeal.” She spotted me. “Oh, Luc, you’re here.”

I grinned at her. “I’m a plus-one.”

“I don’t believe it.” Jennifer Wimbledoned between me and Bridge. “Oliver brings his new boyfriend to my party, and I think, finally, I beat you to relationship gossip. Then it turns out you’ve already met.”

Bridge looked, and there’s no other word for it, smug. “Of course. Luc’s my best friend and Oliver’s the only other gay man I know. I’ve been trying to get them to date for years.”





Chapter 37


It took about ten minutes but eventually we all managed to cram ourselves round a dining table that was strictly designed for six, eight at a push, and taking the piss at ten.

“I will admit,” said Jennifer as she wheeled a desk chair in from God knew where, “I was slightly banking on a couple of people cancelling at the last minute.”

Brian manoeuvred his mead glass into position amongst the tangles of cutlery. “At the very least, you’d think Oliver would have driven his boyfriend off by now.”

“With friends like you, Brian”—Oliver gave a sigh that I worried signalled more than amused exasperation—“who needs opposing counsel.”

At which point, Amanda elbowed her husband sharply in the ribs. “Get with the programme, dude. Right now we’re in the happy-for-you space. In six to eight days, we’ll be in the mocking-you space.”

Oliver had just enough room to put his head in his hands. “Please stop helping.”

“Anyway.” That was Jennifer. “Awkward as this is, I like to feel that ‘slightly more friends than you can fit around your table’ is exactly the right number of friends to have. So I want to thank you all for having managed to avoid work crises, childcare emergencies—”

Some polyphonic bells rang out from Ben’s breast pocket and he leapt to his feet, nearly clocking Tom in the head on the way. “Fuck. Babysitter. I bet the little fuckers have burned the house down.”

And, with that, he ran out of the room.

“—mostly avoid childcare emergencies,” Jennifer continued.

Sophie finished her wine. “Darling, that’s not an emergency. That’s our life now.”

“Tell you what.” Jennifer made a fuck this gesture. “Let’s pretend I did a speech. I love you all. Let’s eat.”

Peter sailed in from the kitchen, bearing a tray of martini glasses full of gunge and lettuce. “To start,” he announced in his best MasterChef voice, “prawn cocktail. And I’m sorry, Oliver, we thought about you for the main, but we couldn’t be buggered to do a veggie starter so we just didn’t put the prawns in yours.”

“You mean,” said Oliver, “I’m starting my evening with a glass of pink mayonnaise.”

“Wow. Yes, we really screwed you on that one.”

Bridge and Tom had been whispering quietly to one another, but now she looked up in confusion. “Wait a minute. Why are we having prawn cocktail? Nobody’s eaten prawn cocktail for twenty years. And, actually, why are we all drinking Bacardi Breezers?”

“Apparently”—Sophie had poured herself yet another glass of the good wine—“this whole party is nonconsensually retro-themed.”

Jennifer squirmed sheepishly. “The thing is, I didn’t want people to feel pressured to do costumes or, well, make any effort at all. So I decided to make it a surprise. So…surprise?”

We settled down to remind ourselves why people stopped eating prawn cocktail. Spoiler: the reason is because it’s horrible. Fortunately, we all seemed to agree on that, so nobody felt compelled to politely eat it anyway.

“Don’t worry.” Peter began to clear up around us. “I think the main course should actually be edible. It’s beef Wellington, except Oliver, who gets mushroom Wellington which, I’ll be honest, we sort of made up.”

Oliver handed back his largely untouched glass of pink mayonnaise. “Which is to say the main course should be edible for everyone except me.”

“I’m sorry, Oliver.” Peter gazed at him with mock contrition. “But you should have stuck at being our only gay friend. Trying to be our only vegetarian friend as well is frankly pushing it.”

“You know,” I said, “the mushrooms sound lovely. If there’s enough, I’ll have some too.”

Bridge actually made a squee noise. “And you used to be so grumpy and unromantic.”

“I’ve never been grumpy and unromantic. I’ve occasionally been”—I tried to think of something—“brooding and cynical.”

“And now Oliver’s brought out your inner marshmallow.”

“I’m eating a mushroom, not jumping down the bleachers singing, ‘I Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’”

Jennifer toasted me with a Smirnoff Ice. “Good on theme reference.”

We were just dishing up the Wellingtons, both of which were enormous, when Ben came back looking haggard.

“Drink me.” He collapsed next to Sophie. “In the ‘give me a drink’ sense, not in the Alice in Wonderland sense.”