by Alexis Hall
Well. That was…what it was.
I listened to it again. And then immediately wondered why the fuck I’d done that to myself. I guess maybe I was hoping it would be better the second time around.
It wasn’t.
The carriage was mostly empty—it was a funny time of day to be heading into the city—so I tucked my face into the crook of my arm and shed some surreptitious tears. I didn’t even know what I was crying over. I’d had an argument with a father I didn’t remember and been dumped by a guy I wasn’t dating. Neither of those things should have hurt.
Didn’t hurt.
I wasn’t going to let them hurt.
I mean, yes, I was probably going to lose my job, and probably be alone forever, and my father would probably die of cancer, but you know what, fuck everything. I was going to go home, put on my dressing gown, and drink until nothing mattered anymore.
There was fuck all I could do about the other stuff. But I could do that.
Chapter 11
Two hours later I was in Clerkenwell, standing outside one of those dinky Georgian terraces with the wrought-iron railings and the window boxes, holding down Oliver’s doorbell as if I was worried it would fall off the wall.
“What,” he said, when he finally answered, “is wrong with you?”
“So many, many things. But I’m really sorry and I don’t want to fake break up.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you been crying?”
“No.”
Ignoring my obvious and pointless lie, he stepped out of the doorway. “Oh, for God’s sake, come in.”
Inside, Casa de Blackwood was everything I’d expected in some ways and nothing like I’d expected in others. It was tiny and immaculate, all white-painted walls and stripped wooden floors, with flashes of jewel-bright colour from rugs and throw pillows. Effortlessly homey and grown up and shit, leaving me jealous and intimidated and weirdly yearny.
Oliver closed his laptop and hurriedly tidied away a selection of already neatly stacked papers before settling onto the far end of the two-seater sofa. He was in what I guessed to be his casual mode: well-fitting jeans and a light-blue cashmere jumper, and bare feet, which I found strangely intimate. I mean, not in a fetishy way. Just in a “This is what I look like when people aren’t around” way.
“I don’t understand you, Lucien.” He rubbed at his temples despairingly. “You ditch me with no explanation—by text, because a phone call would apparently be too much. And then you turn up on my doorstep, still with no explanation because a phone call would apparently not be enough.”
I tried to pick a not-avoiding-or-crowding-you spot on the sofa and sat in it, knocking my knee against his anyway. “I should have phoned. Like, both times. Except, I guess, if I’d phoned the first time, I wouldn’t have had to phone this time.”
“What happened? I honestly thought you couldn’t be bothered.”
“I’m not that much of a flake. I get that the evidence is kind of against me here. But I do need this…this”—I gave an inarticulate wave—“thing we’re doing. And I’ll try to do better if you give me another chance.”
Oliver’s eyes were at their silverest—soft and stern at the same time. “How can you expect me to trust you’ll do better next time, when you still won’t talk to me about this time?”
“I had some family shit. I thought it was important but it wasn’t. It won’t happen again. And you signed up for a fake boyfriend, not a real basket case.”
“I knew what I was getting into.”
I wasn’t quite strong enough for Oliver’s opinion of me right now. “Look, I get I’m not what you’re looking for, but can you please stop throwing it in my face?”
“I… That…” He seemed genuinely flustered. “That wasn’t what I meant. I was just trying to say that I didn’t expect you to be something you weren’t.”
“What, like remotely reliable or sane?”
“Like easy or ordinary.”
I stared at him. I think my mouth might actually have been hanging open.
“Lucien,” he went on, “I realise we’re not friends, and that, perhaps, we’re not naturally suited to one another. That, given the opportunity, you’d have chosen to be with anybody else rather than me. But”—he shifted uncomfortably—“we’ve agreed to be part of each other’s lives, and I can’t do this if you can’t be open with me.”
“My dad’s got cancer,” I blurted out.
Oliver looked at me the way I’d like to imagine I’d look at somebody who’d just told me their dad had cancer, but blatantly wouldn’t. “I’m so sorry. Of course you had to be with him. Why on earth didn’t you say that at the beginning?”
“Well, because I didn’t know. My mum just told me something important was happening, and I believed her because…I’ll always believe her. And I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d think it was weird.”
“Why would I think it’s weird that you love your mother?”
“I don’t know. I always worry it makes me sound like Norman Bates.”
His hand settled warmly on my knee, and while I probably should have, I didn’t see any reason to shake him off. “It’s very admirable of you. And I appreciate your honesty.”
“Thanks. I… Thanks.” Wow, Oliver being nice to me was way harder to deal with than Oliver being angry with me.
“Is it all right if I ask about your father? Is there anything I can do?”
“Yeah, you can not ask about my father.”
He patted my knee in this gently sympathetic way that I could never have managed without it feeling like a come-on. “I understand. It’s a family matter and I shouldn’t intrude.”
I’m sure he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad. But he was doing a really good job of it regardless. “It’s not that. I just hate the fucker.”
“I see. I mean”—he blinked—“I don’t. He’s your father and he’s got cancer.”
“He still walked out on Mum and me. Come on, you must know this.”
“Know what?”
“Odile O’Donnell and Jon Fleming. Big passion, big breakup, small kid. Do you not read the papers? Hasn’t Bridge told you?”
“I was aware you were peripherally famous. I didn’t consider it relevant.”
We were quiet a moment. God knows what was going through his head. And I was just confused. I’d always resented people thinking they knew who I was from something they’d read or seen or heard on a podcast, but I’d also apparently got used to it. So used to it that having to actually tell a person about my life was a little bit scary.
“I can’t decide,” I said, finally, “if this is really sweet or really apathetic of you.”
“I’m pretending to date you. Not your parents.”
I shrugged. “Most people think my parents are the most interesting thing about me.”
“Perhaps that’s because you don’t let them know you.”
“The last person who knew me… Never mind.” No way was I going there. Not today. Not ever again. I let out a shaky breath. “Point is, my dad’s a dick who treated my mum like shit, and now he’s doing this big comeback where everyone’s acting like it’s okay, and it’s not okay, and it fucks me off.”
Oliver’s brow wrinkled. “I can see how that would be difficult. But if he truly might die, you should probably be sure you aren’t making any choices you can’t unmake.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that, if the worst happens, and afterwards you regret not giving him a chance, there’ll be nothing you can do about it.”
“What if that’s a risk I’m willing to take?”
“It’s your call.”
“Would you think less of me?” I coughed. “Well, even less of me.”
“I don’t think badly of you, Lucien.”
“Apart from being
the sort of self-involved arsehole who’d stand up his date for fun.”
At this, he went a little pink. “I’m sorry. I was upset and said some unfair things. Though in my defence, I’m not sure how you expected me to factor in the possibility that your behaviour was a result of your having received a cryptic message from your reclusive rock icon mother and having then learned that your estranged father, whose recent return to the limelight you profoundly resent, has a life-threatening illness.”
“Pro tip: Apologise or make excuses. Don’t do both.”
“You’re right.” Oliver leaned toward me a little, his breath whispering across my cheek. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”
It would have taken only the slightest of movements to kiss him. And I very nearly did because this whole conversation was taking me down a rabbit hole of feelings and memories and urgh—stuff I had trouble sharing with my actual friends. But he’d made it pretty clear he wasn’t up for that, so instead, I had to say, “I’m sorry I hurt you too.”
There was a long silence, with us both hovering awkwardly on the edge of each other’s personal space.
“Are we really bad at this?” I asked. “We’ve been fake dating for three days and we’ve already fake broken up once.”
“Yes, but we fake resolved our difficulties and fake got back together, and I’m hoping it’s made us fake stronger.”
I laughed. Which was crazy because this was Oliver Blackwood, the stuffiest man in the universe. “You know, I was genuinely looking forward to brunch.”
“Well…” He gave me an uncertain smile. “You’re here now. And everything’s still in the fridge.”
“It’s nearly six. That’s not brunch, it’s…brinner?”
“Does it matter?”
“Wow. You rebel, you.”
“Oh yes, that’s me. Sticking two fingers up at society and its normative concept of mealtimes.”
“So.” I tried to sound casual, but I was about to touch on something very serious indeed. “This…brunch…brinner…punk-rock rejection of the egg-based status quo… Will there be French toast?”
Oliver flicked up a brow. “There could be. If you’re very good.”
“I can be good. What sort of good did you have in mind?”
“I wasn’t… I mean, um… I mean, that is… Maybe you can set the table?”
I hid a smile behind my hand, because I didn’t want him to think I was mocking him, even if I kind of was. But I guess this was exactly what I’d signed up for: a man who probably owned napkin rings. After all, the Mail was unlikely to run with “Rock Star Love Child In Wrong Fork Shame.”
What I hadn’t expected, though, was how nice, how safe, how right it would feel.
Chapter 12
I did, in fact, set the table—though, thankfully, there were no napkin rings. We ate in Oliver’s kitchen, at a tiny circular table about three feet away from the hob, with our knees touching underneath it, because apparently we were doomed to an eternity with our legs tangled up together. I’d secretly enjoyed watching him cook for me—heating oil, chopping garnish, and breaking eggs with the same care and precision he brought to everything else. Also there was no denying he was easy on the eyes when he wasn’t judging me. Which I was starting to suspect he did way less often than I’d imagined.
“So, how many of me were you expecting?” I asked, surveying the bounty of eggs and waffles and blueberries and multiple varieties of toast, French included.
He blushed. “I got a little carried away. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to cook for.”
“I suppose, since we’re meant to be dating, we should know this sort of stuff about each other. How long’s a while?”
“Six months, give or take.”
“That’s not a while. That’s practically a now.”
“It’s longer than I prefer to go without a partner.”
I stared at him over my eggs Benedict. “What, are you some kind of relationship junkie?”
“Well, when were you last with somebody?”
“Define with.”
“The fact you’re even asking says quite a lot.”
“Fine.” I scowled. “Nearly five years.”
He gave a thin smile. “Perhaps it would be best if we refrained from passing comment on each other’s choices.”
“This is an amazing brinner,” I said, by way of a preemptive peace offering. Then launched straight into “So why did you break up?”
“I’m…not entirely sure. He said he just wasn’t happy anymore.”
“Ouch.”
He shrugged. “There comes a point when enough people have said, It’s not you, it’s me that you begin to suspect it may, in fact, be you.”
“Why? What’s wrong with you? Do you hog the duvet? Are you secretly racist? Do you think Roger Moore was a better Bond than Connery?”
“No. Good God no. Although I do think Moore is somewhat underrated.” Handling the serving spoon with irritating deftness, Oliver poured a perfect spiral of cream onto his poppy-seed waffle. “I honestly believed it was working. But then I always do.”
I snapped my fingers. “Ah. You must be terrible in bed.”
“Clearly.” He gave me a wry look. “Another mystery solved.”
“Dammit. I was hoping you’d get defensive and I’d at least find out something dirty about you.”
“Why Lucien, for someone who’s made it abundantly clear that he’s not interested, you seem quite fascinated with my sex life.”
Heat rushed to my face. “I’m…not.”
“If you say so.”
“No, really. It’s…” Urgh, this was a mess. Partly because I was maybe a bit more curious than I wanted to admit. Oliver was so self-possessed that it was hard not to wonder what he was like when he let go. If he let go. What it would be like to inspire that kind of recklessness in him. “I’m just sort of aware that anything you wanted to know about me you could Google.”
“Would it be the truth, though?”
I cringed. “Some of it. And not only the good stuff.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my line of work, it’s that ‘some of the truth’ is the most misleading thing you can hear. Anything I want to know about you, I’ll ask.”
“What about,” I said in a small voice, “when you’re mad at me? When you’re looking for reasons to think the worst of me.”
“And you believe I’ll need the papers to help me with that?”
I shot him an outraged glare, but for some reason I ended up smiling instead. Something about the way he was looking at me took the sting from his words. “Is that what passes for reassurance in your world?”
“I don’t know. Is it working?”
“Weirdly, maybe a little bit?” I distracted myself with the French toast—which was rich and sweet and dripping with maple syrup. “You’ll end up looking, though. Everyone always does.”
“Do you really think I have nothing better to do with my time than web-stalk the e-list children of c-list celebrities?”
“Again, with the…mean comforting. What the hell is that about?”
“I, well, I wasn’t sure you’d accept any other kind.” He looked slightly abashed, chasing a blueberry round and round his plate.
Honestly, he might have been right. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “Try me.”
“I’m not going to make you any promises because that just gives all this nonsense more power over you. But—”
“It’s easy for you to call it nonsense. You don’t live with it.”
He gave an exasperated little huff. “See. I said you wouldn’t want my reassurance.”
“You haven’t given me any reassurance. You’ve told me you aren’t going to make any promises and dicked on my pain.”
“It wasn’t my intent
to dick.”
We eyed each other warily over the battlefield of our breakfast foods. In many ways, our second date was going as badly as our first. Hell, in many ways it was going worse, since I’d arrived six hours late and been dumped before I got there. But it felt different. Somehow even being annoyed with him brought with it this strange warmth.
“Anyway,” Oliver went on, “you didn’t let me finish.”
“And I’m usually so considerate in that regard.”
Up went that brow of his. “Good to know.”
And, for some reason, I blushed.
He gave a little cough. “As I was saying, I recognise that the penumbra of public commentary is significant to you and has affected your life. But it is nonsense to me, and always will be, compared to you.”
“Okay…” I made an odd hoarse noise. “You were right. Go back to being snarky.”
“I really don’t think I’ll look, Lucien. I have no wish to hurt you.”
“I get I have bad taste in men, but I’ve managed to mostly avoid dating guys who actively want to screw me over. It’s not about wanting or not wanting to hurt me. But”—I tried to sound jaded and resigned, rather than horribly, horribly exposed—“you know how it is. People get curious. Or they get frustrated. Or they do that thing where they think they’re going to read it, then impress me with how totally okay with it they are, but they just get freaked out and I just feel fucked up.”
“Then if you can’t trust in my good intentions, at least trust that I’m as much of a pompous arse as you think I am and would, therefore, never touch a tabloid.”
“I don’t think you’re a pompous arse.”
“According to Bridget, it was the first thing you said about me.”
Actually, it was the second. The first was, “If I’d known your only other gay friend was that hot, I’d have agreed to meet him months ago.” Of course, that had been before the “homosexual who’s standing next to me” incident. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. “Oh yeah. Looking back, I was probably a bit harsh on you.”
