Boyfriend Material (London Calling, #1)

by Alexis Hall

I’ve never seen the point of fancy dress parties. You have two choices: either you make a massive effort and wind up looking like a dick, or you make no effort and wind up looking like a dick. And my problem, as always, was not knowing what kind of dick I wanted to be. I’d pretty much committed to the no-effort strategy. Then I’d panicked at the last minute, made an ill-fated attempt to track down somewhere that sold costumes, and found myself in one of those weirdly high-streety sex shops that flog red lingerie and pink dildos to people with no real interest in either. Which is why, when I rocked up to a party already well into the too hot, too loud, too crowded stage of its life cycle, I was wearing a pair of problematically sexualised black lace bunny ears. I swear, I used to be good at this sort of thing. But I was out of practice, and looking like a cut-rate rent boy serving a very specific fetish was not the ideal way to make a triumphant return to the scene. Worse, I’d arrived so late that all the other lonely, shit people had given up and gone home already. Somewhere in that pit of flashy lights, bleepy music, and sweat were my actual friends. I knew that because our WhatsApp group—currently called Queer Comes The Sun—had devolved into a hundred variations on the theme of “where the fuck is Luc.” But all I could see were people I vaguely thought vaguely knew people who vaguely knew me. Wriggling my way to the bar, I squinted at the chalkboard listing the night’s be...

I sighed and turned my attention back to my Comfortable Lack of a Screw. There should really be a word for the feeling you get when you do a thing you don’t particularly want to do to support somebody else but then realise they didn’t actually need you and nobody would have noticed if you’d stayed home in your pyjamas eating Nutella straight from the jar. Anyway. That. I was feeling that. And probably I should just have left, except then I’d have been the arsehole who showed up for Malcom’s T Party, made no effort with his costume, drank an eighth of a drink, and then fucked off without talking to anybody.

He grinned, looking even pointier and even foxier and even more charming. Then flicked his lapel aside to reveal a sticky label that read ‘Nobody.’ “I’m guessing that’s an irritatingly obscure reference.” “‘I only wish I had such eyes,’ the king remarked in a fretful tone, ‘to be able to see Nobody!’” “You smug git.” That made him laugh. “Fancy dress parties bring out the worst in me.” It wasn’t quite the longest I’d spoken to a guy without fucking the whole thing up, but it was definitely climbing the leaderboard. What was important here was not to panic and try to protect myself by transforming into an unbearable wanker or a gargantuan manslut. “I hate to imagine who they bring out the best in.” “Yeah, that”—another grin, another flash of his teeth—“would be Malcom.” “Everything brings out the best in Malcom. He could make people celebrate having to pay 10p for a carrier bag.” “Please don’t give him ideas. By the way…”—he leaned a little closer—“I’m Cam. But since you almost certainly misheard me, I’ll answer to any one-syllable name with a vowel in the middle.” “Nice to meet you, Bob.” “You smug git.”

“What’s wrong? Look, I know it’s not exactly a sexy job, and I don’t even have the comfort of saying ‘Someone has to do it’ because we totally don’t. But you’ve gone weird again.” “Sorry. It’s…complicated.” “Complicated can be interesting.” He went up on tiptoes to smooth a lock of hair behind my ear for me. “And we’ve got the kissing down. We’ve just got to work on the talking.” I gave what I hoped wasn’t a sickly grin. “I’d rather stick with what I’m good at.” “Tell you what. I’ll ask you a question, and if I like the answer, you get to kiss me again.” “Um, I’m not sure—” “Let’s start small. You know what I do. How about you?” My heart was racing. And not in a fun way. But, as questions went, that was harmless, right? It was information at least two hundred spambots already had. “I work for a charity.” “Wow. Noble. I’d say I’d always wanted to do something like that, but I’m far too shallow.” He turned his face up to mine, and I kissed him nervously. “Favourite ice cream flavour?” “Mint choc chip.” Another kiss. “Book that literally everyone else has read but you haven’t.” “All of them.” He drew back. “You’re not getting kissed for that. It’s a total cop-out.” “No seriously. All of them, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, anything Dickens ever wrote, All Quiet on the Western Front, that one about the time-traveller’s wife, Harry Potter…” “You really do own your illiteracy, don’t you?” “Yeah, I’m thinking about moving to America and running for public office.”

it haunted me was a Google alert that threatened to vibrate my phone off the bedside table. And, yes, I’m very aware that tracking what people are saying about you on the internet is generally the act of a tosser or a narcissist, or a narcissistic tosser, but I’d learned the hard way that it’s better to know what’s out there. I flailed, sending a different piece of vibrating technology—for gentlemen wishing to explore a more sophisticated kind of pleasure—spinning to the floor, and finally managed to close my fingers round my phone with all the grace of a teenager trying to hit second base. I didn’t want to look. But if I didn’t, I was going to throw up the sticky mess of dread, hope, and uncertainty that had turned my insides to baby food. Probably it was less bad than I feared. Usually it was less bad than I feared. Except occasionally it…wasn’t. Peeping through my eyelashes like a small child braving an episode of Doctor Who from behind the sofa cushions, I checked my notifications. And I could breathe again. It was okay. Though obviously in an ideal world, pictures of me lying in the gutter outside The Cellar in my bunny ears wouldn’t have been splashed across every third-rate gossip site from Celebitchy to Yeeeah. And in a truly ideal world my definition of okay wouldn’t have sunk quite that low. But, with my life being a never-ending pit of suck, my dismaydar has gone through some serious recalibrations over the years. I mean, at least the pictures showed me fully cl...

Stumbling out of bed, I adopted out of long-ingrained habit the Quasimodo pose required for anyone over 5’6” to move around my flat without getting clocked in the face by an eave. Which, given I’m 6’4”, is the accommodational equivalent of having chosen to drive a Mini Cooper.

“Allô, Luc, mon caneton,” said Mum. “Did you see your father’s whole package last night?” I gave a gasp of actual horror before remembering The Whole Package was the name of his stupid TV show.

“Twaddle”—her gaze flicked sharply to Alex—“minutes.” He jumped. “Oh. Um. Yes. Absolutely. Does anybody have a pen?” “Over there. Underneath the Chrysochroa fulminans.” “Splendid.” Alex had the eyes of Bambi’s mother. Possibly after she’d been shot.

Dr. Fairclough folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “This gives me no pleasure, O’Donnell…” I couldn’t tell if she meant having to talk to me or what she was about to say. Either way, it didn’t bode well. “Shit, am I fired?” “Not yet, but I’ve had to answer three emails about you today, and that’s three more emails than I normally like to answer.” “Emails about me?” I knew where this was going. I’d probably always known. “Is this because of the pictures?” She gave a curt nod. “Yes. When we took you on, you told us that was behind you.” “It was. I mean, it is. I just made the mistake of going to a party the same night my dad was on ITV.” “The consensus among the press appears to be that you were lying in a drug-fuelled haze in a gutter. In fetish wear.” “I fell over,” I said flatly, “in a pair of comedy bunny ears.” “To a certain class of person, that detail adds an especial element of deviance.” In some ways, it felt almost like a relief to get angry. It was better than being terrified I was about to lose my job. “Do I need a lawyer? Because I’m beginning to think this has more to do with my sexuality than my sobriety.” “Of course it does.” Dr. Fairclough made an impatient gesture. “It makes you look like entirely the wrong sort of homosexual.” Alex had been watching the conversation as if it was Wimbledon. And I could now hear him murmuring “wrong sort of homosexual” under his breath as he scribbled. I did my best to offer my reply in the most reasonable tone I c...

“Do you want a hug?” “No.” But somehow I ended up in his arms anyway, having my hair awkwardly patted. Alex was supposed to have been a serious cricketer at school or university or something—whatever serious meant for a sport that was basically five days of eating strawberries and walking slowly—

Currently they’re trying to adopt, so the conversation very quickly became about the “truly hellacious” (James Royce-Royce’s term) amount of paperwork involved in what I’d naively assumed was the straightforward process of getting babies from people who don’t want them to people who do want them. I honestly couldn’t tell if it was more or less alienating than talking about actual children.

“Seems like”—Priya paused to retie the rainbow lace on her Docs—“you’ve got two options. Get fired or get grafting.” This earned her an over-the-glasses look from James Royce-Royce. “Priya, my darling, we’re trying to be emotionally supportive.” “You’re trying to be emotionally supportive,” she said. “I’m trying to be useful.” “Emotional support is useful, you Technicolour reprobate.”

I need you all to get on board and find me a man.” There was a worryingly long silence. Finally Tom broke it. “Okay. If that’s what you want. But you’re going to have to narrow the field a little. What are you looking for?” “Didn’t you hear me? A man. Any man. As long as he can wear a suit, make small talk, and not embarrass me at a fundraiser.” “Luc, I…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I really am trying to help. But that’s a terrible attitude. I mean, what are you expecting me to do? Call up my ex and be like, Hey, Nish, great news. I’ve got a friend with incredibly low standards who wants to go out with you?” “Well, the last time I had high standards, the guy dumped me for my best friend.” James Royce-Royce sucked in an audible breath. And, suddenly, everyone was studiously looking in different directions. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I… Sorry. I’m a bit upset right now, and I use being a prick as a defence mechanism.” “Not a problem.” Tom went back to his beer. It took me a second or two to realise I wasn’t sure if he meant “not a problem because I’m not offended and don’t consider you prickish” or “not a problem you’re a prick because we’re not actually friends.” Fucking spies. And it’s not like he was wrong. I was asking a lot here. “The thing is”—I started picking the label off the nearest bottle—“I’ve not been able to do the relationship thing for…for a while. And probably you’re all going to spend the next thirty years arguing with your partners over who gets stuck w...

Three days later, against my better judgment and despite my protests, I was getting ready for a date with Oliver Blackwood. The WhatsApp group—One Gay More—was alive with advice, mainly about what I shouldn’t wear. Which seemed to amount to everything in my wardrobe. In the end I went with my skinniest jeans, my pointiest shoes, the only shirt I could find that didn’t need ironing, and a tailored jacket. I wasn’t going to win any fashion awards, but I thought I’d struck a nice balance between “has made no effort” and “is disgustingly desperate.” Unfortunately, too much texting, faffing, and selfie-taking for the approval of the peanut gallery had made me late.

Silence stretched between us, as socially discomforting as mozzarella strings. Oliver was much as I remembered him: a cool, clean, modern-art piece of a man entitled Disapproval in Pinstripes. And handsome enough to annoy me. My own face looked as if Picasso had created it on a bad day—bits of my mum and my dad thrown together without rhyme or reason. But Oliver had the sort of perfect symmetry that eighteenth-century philosophers would have taken as evidence for the existence of God. “Are you wearing eyeliner?” he asked. “What? No.” “Really?” “Well, it’s the kind of thing I think I’d remember. I’m pretty sure this is just what my eyes look like.” He looked slightly affronted. “That’s ridiculous.” Thankfully, at this juncture a waiter materialised with the menus, giving us an excuse to ignore each other for a few happy minutes.

broadsheet,

broadsheet /ˈbrôdˌSHēt/ noun 1. a large piece of paper printed on one side only with information; a broadside. 2. (also broadsheet newspaper) — a newspaper with a large format regarded as more serious and less sensationalist than tabloids. A broadsheet is the largest newspaper format and is characterized by long vertical pages, typically of 22.5 inches (57 cm) in height. Other common newspaper formats include the smaller Berliner and tabloid–compact formats.[1] Comparison of some newspaper sizes with metric paper sizes. Approximate nominal dimensions are in millimetres. A Soviet soldier reading Pravda, a broadsheet newspaper, in 1941 Historically, the broadsheet format emerged in the 17th century as a means for printing musical and popular prints, and later became a medium for political activism through the reprinting of speeches. In Britain, the broadsheet newspaper developed in response to a 1712 tax on newspapers based on their page counts. Outside Britain, the broadsheet evolved for various reasons, including style and authority. Broadsheets are often associated with more intellectual and in-depth content compared to their tabloid counterparts, featuring detailed stories and less sensational material. They are commonly used by newspapers aiming to provide comprehensive coverage and analysis of news events. The format allows for a more expansive layout, often featuring multiple stories on the front page, with the most important ones positioned "above the fold". In the 21st century, some newspapers have switched from the broadsheet format to smaller sizes, such as the Berliner or compact formats, to improve convenience for readers, especially commuters. This trend has been observed in various countries, including the UK and the US, where notable broadsheets like The Independent and The Times have adopted smaller formats. Description edit Many broadsheets measure roughly 28 by 22+3⁄4 in (711 by 578 mm) per full broadsheet spread, twice the size of a standard tabloid. Australian and New Zealand broadsheets always have a paper size of A1 per spread (841 by 594 mm or 33.1 by 23.4 in). South African broadsheet newspapers have a double-page spread sheet size of 820 by 578 mm (32.3 by 22.8 in) (single-page live print area of 380 x 545 mm). Others measure 22 in (560 mm) vertically. In the United States, the traditional dimensions for the front page half of a broadsheet are 12 in (305 mm) wide by 22.75 in (578 mm) long. However, in efforts to save newsprint costs, many U.S. newspapers[2] have downsized to 11 in (279 mm) wide by 21 in (533 mm) long for a folded page.[3][4] Many rate cards and specification cards refer to the "broadsheet size" with dimensions representing the front page "half of a broadsheet" size, rather than the full, unfolded broadsheet spread. Some quote actual page size and others quote the "printed area" size. The two versions of the broadsheet are: The full broadsheet typically is folded vertically in half so that it forms four pages (the front page front and back and the back page front and back). The four pages are called a spread. Inside broadsheets are nested accordingly. The half broadsheet is usually an inside page that is not folded vertically and just includes a front and back. History edit The broadsheet, broadside, was used as a format for musical and popular prints in the 17th century. Eventually, people began using the broadsheet as a source for political activism by reprinting speeches. Broadsheet newspapers developed in Britain after a 1712 tax was imposed on newspapers based on their page counts. However, larger formats had long been signs of status in printed objects and still are in many places. Outside of Britain the broadsheet developed for other reasons unrelated to the British tax structure including style and authority. With the early mechanization of the 19th century came an increased production of printed materials including the broadside, as well as the competing penny dreadful. Newspapers all over Europe were then starting to print their issues on broadsheets. However, in the United Kingdom, the main competition for the broadside was the gradual reduction of the newspaper tax, beginning in the 1830s until its eventual dismissal in 1855.[5] With the increased production of newspapers and literacy, the demand for visual reporting and journalists led to the blending of broadsides and newspapers, creating the modern broadsheet newspaper.

“Are you going to expect me to trim your cigar later?” “Is that a euphemism?” “Only in Gigi.” I sighed.

The conversation hadn’t so much died on us as been taken out back and shot in the head. And I knew I should be playing paramedic but I couldn’t quite bring myself to or work out how. Instead, I crunched on some of the baked salsify and parmesan that had just arrived (which was delicious in spite of the fact I had no idea what salsify was, and didn’t want to give Oliver the satisfaction of asking him) and wondered what it would be like being here with somebody I could actually stand.

salsify /ˈsalsəfē ˈsalsəˌfī/ I. noun 1. an edible European plant of the daisy family, with a long root like that of a parsnip. Also called oyster plant. [Tragopogon porrifolius, family Compositae. See also scorzonera.] 2. the root of the salsify plant used as a vegetable. – origin late 17th cent.: from French salsifis, from obsolete Italian salsefica, of unknown ultimate origin. Salsify may refer to: Tragopogon, a plant genus Tragopogon porrifolius (purple/common salsify), a plant with linear leaves cultivated for its light-skinned edible root and herbal properties Pseudopodospermum hispanicum (black salsify), a plant with lanceolate leaves cultivated for its dark-skinned edible root…

The fish sarnie, when it showed up, turned out to be pretty much the most perfect thing I’d ever eaten: buttery sourdough wrapped around smoky slabs of eel, slathered in truly fiery horseradish and Dijon mustard, and served with pickled red onions just sharp enough to cut through the meaty intensity of the fish. I think maybe I genuinely moaned. “Okay,” I said, once I’d inhaled it. “I was too hasty. That was so good I could pretty much marry you now.” Maybe I was seeing the world through eel-tinted glasses, but right then, Oliver’s eyes had a touch of silver in them. And were softer than I’d thought. “I’m happy you liked it.” “I could eat one every day for the rest of my life. How could you know these exist and give them up?” “I…thought it was the right thing to do.” “I can’t tell if that’s really commendable or really tragic.” He lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug. And the silence between us, while still not comfortable, seemed slightly less jagged. Maybe this was going to be okay. Maybe we’d been saved by a dead fish.

His ankle brushed against mine as we rearranged ourselves. And it had clearly been way too long since I got laid, because I damn near fainted. Dragging my attention away from our under-table negotiations, I found him watching me with this crooked half-smile—as if we’d single-handedly (-footedly?) brought peace to the Middle East. And all of a sudden he was a lot more bearable. Enough more bearable that I could almost see myself putting up with a man who smiled like that, and bought me amazing eel sandwiches, even if I didn’t have to. Which was way, way worse than not liking him.

“Your…your job?” I asked with all the smoothness of a bowl of granola. “Ah. Yes. Well, I”—this time, his foot only stroked the side of mine as it jiggled under the table—“specialise in criminal defence. And you might as well get it over with.” “Get what over with?” “The question that everyone asks when you tell them you work in criminal defence.” This felt uncomfortably like failing an exam. In a blind panic, I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. “Do you have sex in the wig?” He stared at me. “No, because they’re very expensive, very uncomfortable, and I have to wear mine to work.” “Oh.” I tried to come up with another question. Except now all I could think of was “Do you have sex in the robe?” and that obviously wasn’t going to help. “The question

A few minutes later, with me looking out the window and Oliver looking at his hands, the waiter came to clear our plates. And a few minutes after that, a lemon posset, topped with rhubarb arrived. It was exquisitely simple—this little white ramekin full of sunshine-yellow cream, topped by a pile of pinkish spirals. I felt awful. “Nothing for you?” I indicated the empty space in front of Oliver. “I’m not a fan of desserts. But I hope you’ll like this one. It’s very good.” “If you’re not a fan, how do you know it’s”—I wriggled my fingers into air quotes—“‘very good’?” “I… That is… I…” “Do you want to share it with me?” It was the closest I could get, right then, to an apology. Because it wasn’t like I could say, Sorry I’m so desperate for this to work, and so terrified of this working that I’m lashing out at you over things like you being quite nice, and not wholly unattractive, and having had an ordinary childhood. He was eyeing the lemon posset the way I’ve always wanted someone to look at me. “Maybe I could have a little? Let me ask for more cutlery.” “No need.” Okay. It was, at the eleventh and a half hour, time to get my sexy on. I broke the pristine surface of the cream, mounding it perfectly onto the spoon, along with a few pieces of rhubarb. And, holding it out to Oliver, I offered him my very best, most hopeful smile. Whereupon, he took the spoon from my fingers, crushing me so utterly I couldn’t even enjoy the way a taste of lemon posset made his whole face go drea...

I was still in a daze of self-loathing as we trooped onto Dean Street, where we hovered in mutual uncertainty. All the lovely things I’d eaten had turned to rocks in my stomach. I’d fucked this up. I’d fucked this up so badly. All I’d had to do was smile, be nice to him, convince him for a handful of hours I was a semiworthwhile human being. But no. I’d curled up like a hedgehog on a motorway in front of the only man in London willing to go out with me. And now I was going to get fired. Oliver cleared his throat. “Well. Thank you for…for that.” He was wearing the full-length overcoat that every posh person in London owned. Except it suited him. Gave him this air of effortless quality. While I was standing there in slutty jeans. “Anyway,” he went on, “I should—” No. Help. No. If he walked away now, that was it. I’d never see him again. And I’d never have another job again. And my life would be over. I needed a plan. I didn’t have a plan. So I lost my fucking mind and threw myself at him, fastening my mouth on his with all the grace and charm of a barnacle on a whale’s flipper. It lasted seconds before he pushed me away, a knee-buckling blur of heat and softness, that, for the sweetest of moments, tasted of lemon posset. “What the hell was—Christ.” In his zeal to get away, Oliver collided with one of the potted plants outside the restaurant, just about managing to grab it before it came crashing down. Which basically meant he’d spent more time voluntarily touching a ficus th...

“It was a kiss,” I said, with a nonchalance I was far from feeling. “Why? Haven’t you had one before? People sometimes exchange them on dates.” He turned on me with such ferocity that I actually took a step back. “Is this a game to you? What has Bridget told you?” “What? N-no.” “Tell me what’s going on.” “Nothing’s going on.” We were sort of dancing down the street at this point, me skipping backwards over the pavement as he stalked after me, shoes clicking and coat flying. There was clearly something very, very wrong with me because it was kind of hot. His eyes gleamed. “Now.” I tripped over the kerb as it flattened unexpectedly at a side street. But Oliver caught my wrist before I could fall, yanking me against his body and holding me there. Making me, I guess, equivalent to a plant in his estimation. God, his coat was cosy. “Please stop playing with me, Luc.” Now he just sounded tired. Maybe even a little sad. “What’s this really about?” Fuck. The jig was beyond up. “I…I’ve been in the papers again recently. So I need a respectable boyfriend or I’ll lose my job. Bridge suggested you.” And, of course, Tom had been right all along. It sounded terrible. I ducked my head, barely able to look Oliver in the face. “I’m sorry,” I went on, inadequately. “I’ll pay you back for dinner.” He ignored that. “Bridget thought I’d be good for you?” “Well”—I flapped a hand at him—“look at you. You’re…you’re perfect.” “I beg your pardon?” “Never mind.” I had no right to touch anything so n...

“And you seriously want to take me? To meet your folks?” “Why not?” I barked out another laugh. “How long have you got?” “If you don’t want to do it, Luc, you can tell me.” He was never going to call me Lucien again, was he? He was going to respect my wishes like some kind of arsehole. “No, no.” I hastily flung up my hands. “I’ll do it. I just think you’re making a terrible mistake.” “That’s for me to decide.” He paused, a flush crawling over the sculpted arch of his cheekbones. “Obviously, maintaining the fiction will require a certain degree of physical contact between us. But please don’t kiss me again. Not on the mouth, anyway.” “Why? Are you Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman?” His blush deepened. “No. I simply prefer to reserve that intimacy for people I actually like.” “Oh.” Sometimes, you can half believe you’ve been hurt so much you’ve basically been vaccinated. Rendered immune. And then someone says something like that to you. I forced my mouth into a grin. “Well, as you’ve seen, that’s not a problem for me.” My only consolation was that Oliver didn’t look very happy either. “Apparently not.” “But don’t worry. Despite recent evidence, I can keep my lips off you.” “Good. Thank you.” Silence sloshed heavily between us. “So,” I asked, “what now?” “Brunch at mine? This Sunday?” Twice in a week? He’d be sick of me before we even made it to the Beetle Drive. And I’d either be sick of him or I wouldn’t. And “wouldn’t” was too scary to handle right now.

This was why relationships sucked: they made you need shit you’d been perfectly happy not needing. And then they took them away. He gave me one of those too-searching, too-sincere looks. “Well, if that’s what you want.” I nodded, quietly hating myself. “It’s what I want.” “Then, I’ll see you on Sunday…” He smiled. Oliver Blackwood was smiling. At me. For me. Because of me. “…Lucien.”

“That reminds me. How did your date go?” “It was awful. We have nothing in common. I think I might have sexually assaulted him. But we’re going to pretend to give it a go anyway because we’re both desperate.” “I knew you’d work it out.” I rolled my eyes, but only because she couldn’t see me. “That’s not working something out. That’s making something up.” “Yes, but you’ll slowly discover that you’re not as different as you initially assumed, and then he’ll surprise you with how thoughtful he is, and then you’ll come to his rescue in an unexpected moment of need, and you’ll fall madly in love with each other and live happily ever after.” “That’s never going to happen. He doesn’t even like me.” “What?” I could hear the look on her face. “Why would he agree to go on with a date with you if he didn’t like you?” “Remember that bit where we’re both desperate?” “Luc, I’m sure he likes you. How could anybody not like you? You’re lovely.” “He told me he didn’t when I tried to kiss him.” She gave a little squeak. “You kissed?” “No, I attacked him with my lips, and he was so repulsed he jumped into a potted plant.” “Maybe he was surprised.” “I was surprised when you guys threw me a surprise birthday party. Okay, I wasn’t surprised because James Royce-Royce accidentally told me. But I didn’t pull away in horror, saying I only go to parties with people I like.” “Wait. He actually said that?” “Pretty much, if you replace go to parties with kiss.” “Oh.” There was a moment’s silence. “I th...

Giddy from a rare sense of accomplishment, and swept along by a rush of something that was either optimism or masochism, I unlocked my phone and pinged a message to Oliver: do fake boyfriends fake text I’m not sure what I was expecting in return, but what I got was Not when one of them is due in court. Including the punctuation. Which was mildly better than no reply at all, but mildly worse than a flat no since he’d basically said “No, thanks, also don’t forget I’ve got a better job than you.” It was close to nine that evening, and I was eating kung po chicken in my socks, when he followed it up with Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve thought about it and we probably should text each other for the sake of verisimilitude. I left him hanging for a while to show that I, also, had important life stuff to be getting on with. Never mind that I actually watched four episodes of Bojack Horseman and had a vindictive wank before replying Sorry to keep you waiting and no wonder you’re single if the second text you send a guy includes the word verisimilitude There was no reply. Even though I sat around ’til half one definitely not caring. I was unexpectedly de-sleeped by a buzzing from my phone at 5:00 a.m.: My apologies. Next time, I’ll send a photograph of my penis. And then several further buzzings. That was a joke. I should probably make it clear that I’m not intending to send you any pictures. I’ve never sent that sort of thing to anybody. As a lawyer, it’s hard not to be aware of t...

Unlatching the gate, I made my way through the slightly overgrown front garden and let myself into the house. I’m not entirely sure what I’d been expecting. But it definitely wasn’t Jon Fleming. At first, I thought I was having some kind of hallucination. He’d been around when I was very young, but I had no memory of him. So this was effectively the first time I’d seen my, you know, father in person. And I had no way of processing it—just a vague sense of a man wearing a scarf indoors and getting away with it. He and Mum were sitting at the opposite ends of the living room, looking like two people who ran out of things to say a very long time ago. “What the fuck,” I said. “Luc…” Mum stood, actually wringing her hands. “I know you won’t remember him very well, but this is your father.” “I know who he is. What I don’t know is why he’s here.” “Well, that’s why I called. He has something to tell you.” I folded my arms. “If it’s ‘sorry,’ or ‘I’ve always loved you,’ or some bullshit like that, he’s about twenty-five years too late.” At this, Jon Fleming also got to his feet. As the saying goes, nothing says family like everyone standing around, staring awkwardly at each other. “Lucien,” he said. “Or, you prefer Luc, is that right?” I would have been happy to live my entire life without having to look my dad in the face. Unfortunately—as with so much else—he wasn’t giving me the choice. And I will tell you now, it was the weirdest fucking thing. Because the way someone seems in a...

“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. “Yo...

“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.”

“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 i...

verisimilitude.”

verisimilitude /ˌvərəsəˈmiləˌt(y)o͞od/ I. noun the appearance of being true or real • the detail gives the novel some verisimilitude. II. derivatives verisimilar /ˌverəˈsim(y)ələr / adjective – origin early 17th cent.: from Latin verisimilitudo, from verisimilis ‘probable,’ from veri (genitive of verus ‘true’) + similis ‘like.’ In philosophy, verisimilitude (or truthlikeness) is the notion that some propositions are closer to being true than other propositions. The problem of verisimilitude is the problem of articulating what it takes for one false theory to be closer to the truth than another false theory.[1] This problem was central to the philosophy of Karl Popper, largely because Popper was among the first to affirm that truth is the aim of scientific inquiry while acknowledging that most of the greatest scientific theories in the history of science are, strictly speaking, false. If this long string of purportedly false theories is to constitute progress with respect to the goal of truth, then it must be at least possible for one false theory to be closer to the truth than others.

LSE,

Language Watch Edit The London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE), established in 1895, is a public research university in London, England, and a member institution of the University of London. The school specialises in the pure and applied social sciences. London School of Economics and Political Science Coat of arms Motto Latin: Rerum cognoscere causas Motto in English To understand the causes of things Type Public research university Established 1895; 130 years ago Endowment £255.5 million (2024)[1] Budget £525.6 million (2023/24)[1] Chair Susan Liautaud[2] Visitor Lucy Powell (as Lord President of the Council ex officio) Chancellor The Princess Royal (as Chancellor of the University of London) President and Vice-Chancellor Larry Kramer Academic staff 1,920 (2023/24)[3] Administrative staff 2,690 (2023/24)[3] Students 12,910 (2023/24)[4] 12,430 FTE (2023/24)[4] Undergraduates 5,680 (2023/24)[4] Postgraduates 7,230 (2023/24)[4] Location London, England 51°30′50″N 0°07′00″W Campus Urban Newspaper The Beaver Colours Purple, black and gold[5] Affiliations ACUCEMSEUARussell GroupUniversity of LondonUniversities UKCIVICA Mascot Beaver Website lse.ac.uk Map Wikimedia | © OpenStreetMap Founded by Fabian Society members Sidney Webb, Beatrice Webb, Graham Wallas and George Bernard Shaw, LSE joined the University of London in 1900 and offered its first degree programmes under the auspices of the university in 1901.[6] LSE began awarding degrees in its own name in 2008,[7] prior to which it awarded degrees of the University of London. It became a university in its own right within the University of London in 2022.[8] LSE is located in the London Borough of Camden and Westminster, Central London, near the boundary between Covent Garden and Holborn. The area is historically known as Clare Market. As of 2023/24, LSE had just under 13,000 students, with the majority being postgraduate students and just under two thirds coming from outside the UK. The university has the sixth-largest endowment of any university in the UK and in 2023/24, it had an income of £525.6 million of which £41.4 million was from research grants.[1] LSE is a member of the Russell Group, Association of Commonwealth Universities and the European University Association, and is typically considered part of the "golden triangle" of research universities in the south east of England. Since 1990, the London School of Economics has educated 24 heads of state or government, the second highest of any university in the United Kingdom after the University of Oxford.[9] As of 2024, the school is affiliated with 20 Nobel laureates.[10] History edit Main article: History of the London School of Economics Beatrice and Sidney Webb Origins edit The London School of Economics and Political Science was founded in 1895[11] by Beatrice and Sidney Webb,[12] initially funded by a bequest of £20,000[13][14] from the estate of Henry Hunt Hutchinson. Hutchinson, a lawyer[13] and member of the Fabian Society,[15][16] left the money in trust, to be put "towards advancing its [The Fabian Society's] objects in any way they [the trustees] deem advisable".[16] The five trustees were Sidney Webb, Edward Pease, Constance Hutchinson, W. S. de Mattos and William Clark.[13] LSE records that the proposal to establish the school was conceived during a breakfast meeting on 4 August 1894, between the Webbs, Louis Flood, and George Bernard Shaw.[11] The proposal was accepted by the trustees in February 1895[16] and LSE held its first classes in October of that year, in rooms at 9 John Street, Adelphi,[17] in the City of Westminster. 20th century edit The school joined the federal University of London in 1900 and was recognised as a Faculty of Economics of the university. The University of London degrees of BSc (Econ) and DSc (Econ) were established in 1901, the first university degrees dedicated to the social sciences.[17] Expanding rapidly over the following years, the school moved initially to the nearby 10 Adelphi Terrace, then to Clare Market and Houghton Street. The foundation stone of the Old Building, on Houghton Street, was laid by King George V in 1920;[11] the building was opened in 1922.[17] The school's arms,[18] including its motto and beaver mascot, were adopted in February 1922,[19] on the recommendation of a committee of twelve, including eight students, which was established to research the matter.[20] The Latin motto, rerum cognoscere causas, is taken from Virgil's Georgics. Its English translation is "to Know the Causes of Things"[19] and it was suggested by Professor Edwin Cannan.[11] The beaver mascot was selected for its associations with "foresight, constructiveness, and industrious behaviour".[20] Friedrich Hayek, who taught at LSE during the 1930s and 1940s The economic debate between the LSE and the University of Cambridge during the 1930s is a well-known chapter in academic circles. The rivalry between academic opinion at LSE and Cambridge goes back to the school's roots when LSE's Edwin Cannan (1861–1935), Professor of Economics, and Cambridge's Professor of Political Economy, Alfred Marshall (1842–1924), the leading economist of the day, argued about the bedrock matter of economics and whether the subject should be considered as an organic whole. (Marshall disapproved of LSE's separate listing of pure theory and its insistence on economic history.)[21] The dispute also concerned the question of the economist's role, and whether this should be as a detached expert or a practical adviser.[22] Despite the traditional view that the LSE and Cambridge were fierce rivals through the 1920s and 30s, they worked together in the 1920s on the London and Cambridge Economic Service.[23] However, the 1930s brought a return to disputes as economists at the two universities argued over how best to address the economic problems caused by the Great Depression.[24] The main figures in this debate were John Maynard Keynes from Cambridge and the LSE's Friedrich Hayek. The LSE economist Lionel Robbins was also heavily involved. Starting off as a disagreement over whether demand management or deflation was the better solution to the economic problems of the time, it eventually embraced much wider concepts of economics and macroeconomics. Keynes put forward the theories now known as Keynesian economics, involving the active participation of the state and public sector, while Hayek and Robbins followed the Austrian School, which emphasised free trade and opposed state involvement.[24] During World War II, the school decamped from London to the University of Cambridge, occupying buildings belonging to Peterhouse.[25] Following the decision to establish a modern business school within the University of London in the mid-1960s, the idea was discussed of setting up a "Joint School of Administration, Economics, and Technology" between the LSE and Imperial College. However, this avenue was not pursued and instead, the London Business School was created as a college of the university.[26] In 1966, the appointment of Sir Walter Adams as director sparked opposition from the student union and student protests. Adams had previously been principal of the University College of Rhodesia and Nyasaland, and the students objected to his failure to oppose Rhodesia's Unilateral Declaration of Independence and cooperation with the white minority government. This broadened into wider concerns about links between the LSE and its governors and investments in Rhodesia and South Africa and concerns over LSE's response to student protests. These led to the closure of the school for 25 days in 1969 after a student attempt to dismantle the school gates resulted in the arrest of over 30 students. Injunctions were taken out against 13 students (nine from LSE), with three students ultimately being suspended, two foreign students being deported, and two staff members seen as supporting the protests being fired.[11][27][28] In the 1970s, four Nobel Memorial Prizes in Economic Sciences were awarded to economists associated with the LSE: John Hicks (lecturer 1926–36) in 1972, Friedrich Hayek (lecturer 1931–50) in 1974, James Meade (lecturer 1947–1957) in 1977 and Arthur Lewis (BSc Econ 1937, and the LSE's first Black academic 1938–44) in 1979.[11][29][30] 21st century edit Stonework featuring the initials of LSE In the early 21st century, the LSE had a wide impact on British politics. The Guardian described such influence in 2005 when it stated: Once again the political clout of the school, which seems to be closely wired into parliament, Whitehall, and the Bank of England, is being felt by ministers. ... The strength of LSE is that it is close to the political process: Mervyn King, was a former LSE professor. The former chairman of the House of Commons education committee, Barry Sheerman, sits on its board of governors, along with Labour peer Lord (Frank) Judd. Also on the board are Tory MPs Virginia Bottomley and Richard Shepherd, as well as Lord Saatchi and Lady Howe.[31] Commenting in 2001 on the rising status of the LSE, the British magazine The Economist stated that "two decades ago the LSE was still the poor relation of the University of London's other colleges. Now... it regularly follows Oxford and Cambridge in league tables of research output and teaching quality and is at least as well-known abroad as Oxbridge". According to the magazine, the school "owes its success to the single-minded, American-style exploitation of its brand name and political connections by the recent directors, particularly Mr Giddens and his predecessor, John Ashworth" and raises money from foreign students' high fees, who were drawn to LSE by the prominence of its academic figures, such as Richard Sennett.[32] In 2006, the school published a report disputing the costs of British government proposals to introduce compulsory ID cards.[33][34][35] LSE academics were also represented on numerous national and international bodies in the early 21st century, including the UK Airports Commission,[36] Independent Police Commission,[37] Migration Advisory Committee,[38] UN Advisory Board on Water and Sanitation,[39] London Finance Commission,[40] HS2 Limited,[41] the UK government's Infrastructure Commission[42] and advising on architecture and urbanism for the London 2012 Olympics[43] The LSE gained its own degree-awarding powers in 2006 and the first LSE degrees (rather than degrees of the University of London) were awarded in 2008.[11] Following the passage of the University of London Act 2018, the LSE (along with other member institutions of the University of London) announced in early 2019 that they would seek university status in their own right while remaining part of the federal university.[44] Approval of university title was received from the Office for Students in May 2022 and updated Articles of Association formally constituting the school as a university were approved by LSE council 5 July 2022.[45][46] Controversies edit See also: London School of Economics Gaddafi links In February 2011, LSE had to face the consequences of matriculating one of Muammar Gaddafi's sons while accepting a £1.5m donation to the university from his family.[47] LSE director Howard Davies resigned over allegations about the institution's links to the Libyan regime.[48] The LSE announced in a statement that it had accepted his resignation with "great regret" and that it had set up an external inquiry into the school's relationship with the Libyan regime and Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, to be conducted by the former lord chief justice Harry Woolf.[48] In 2013, the LSE was featured in a BBC Panorama documentary on North Korea, filmed inside the repressive regime by undercover journalists attached to a trip by the LSE's Grimshaw Club, a student society of the international relations department. The trip had been sanctioned by high-level North Korean officials.[49][50] The trip caused international media attention as a BBC journalist was posing as a part of LSE.[51] There was debate as to whether this put the students' lives in jeopardy in the repressive regime if a reporter had been exposed.[52] The North Korean government made hostile threats towards the students and LSE after the publicity, which forced an apology from the BBC.[50] In August 2015, it was revealed that the university was paid approximately £40,000 for a "glowing report" for Camila Batmanghelidjh's charity, Kids Company.[53] The study was used by Batmanghelidjh to prove that the charity provided good value for money and was well managed. The university did not disclose that the study was funded by the charity. In 2023, the LSE formally cut ties with the LGBT charity Stonewall, a decision which was sharply criticized as transphobic by the LSE Student Union but praised by gender-critical activists as being conducive to freedom of speech.[54][55] In 2024 emails between LSE senior staff described students wearing keffiyeh who were protesting the university's investments in Israel as being "dressed as terrorists".[56] Industrial disputes edit In the summer of 2017, dozens of campus cleaners contracted via Noonan Services went on weekly strikes, protesting outside key buildings and causing significant disruption during end-of-year examinations.[57] The dispute organised by the UVW union was originally over unfair dismissals of cleaners, but had escalated into a broad demand for decent employment rights matching those of LSE's in-house employees.[58] Owen Jones did not cross the picket line after arriving for a debate on grammar schools with Peter Hitchens.[59] It was announced in June 2018 that some 200 outsourced workers at the LSE would be offered in-house contracts.[60] Since 2014/15, levels of academic casualisation have increased at the LSE, with the number of academics on fixed-term contracts increasing from 47% in 2016/2017 to 59% in 2021/2022,[61] according to Higher Education Statistical Agency data (internal LSE data puts the latest figure at 58.5%).[62] During this same period, comparable universities such as University of Edinburgh, University College London and Imperial all increased their rates of permanent staff relative to those on fixed term contracts.[61] Only Oxford had a higher proportion of casual academic work for the 2021/2022 year (66%) although in contrast to LSE, the proportion remained constant rather than rising.[61] As a result, the student-to-permanent staff ratio at LSE has worsened and had, as of July 2023, the worst student-to-permanent staff ratio among comparable universities in the UK, according to HESA data.[61] According to research conducted by the LSE UCU Branch into staff well-being, 82% of fixed term academic staff at the LSE experienced regular or constant anxiety about their professional futures.[62] In the same survey, overwork and mental health issues were reported as endemic among respondents, with 40% of fellows reporting that their teaching hours exceeded LSE's universal teaching limit of 100 hours per academic year for LSE Fellows.[62] In response to industrial action, which included not marking student work, taken by UCU in the summer of 2023 over pay and casualised working conditions, the LSE management took the decision to not accept partial performance of duties and to impose pay deductions on academic staff participating in the action.[63] The LSE also introduced an 'Exceptional Degree Classification Schemes' policy,[64] allowing undergraduate and taught postgraduate students to be awarded provisional degrees on the basis of fewer grades than normally required. In the event that the final classification (once all marks are available) is lower than the provisional classification, the higher provisional classification will stand as the degree classification.[64] The World Turned Upside Down edit The World Turned Upside Down A sculpture by Mark Wallinger, The World Turned Upside Down, which features a globe resting on its north pole, was installed in Sheffield Street on the LSE campus on 26 March 2019. The artwork attracted controversy for showing Taiwan as a sovereign state rather than as part of China,[65][66][67] Lhasa being denoted as a full capital and depicting boundaries between India and China as recognised internationally. The sculpture also did not depict the State of Palestine as a separate country from Israel. After protests and reactions from both Chinese and Taiwanese students,[68][69] The university decided later that year that it would retain the original design which coloured the People's Republic of China and Taiwan as different entities, consistent with the status quo, but with the addition of an asterisk beside the name of Taiwan and a corresponding placard that clarified the institution's position regarding the controversy

“I’m not trying to turn your head, Lucien. I’m trying to make sure this doesn’t blow up in both of our faces.” I made an insouciant gesture that involved knocking over the tiny vase of flowers that Oliver had just replaced on the table. “Shit. Sorry. But, how complicated is this? We carry on with our lives and tell anyone who asks that we’re dating.” “That’s rather my point, though. Do we tell anyone who asks? What about Bridget?” “Yeah”—I tried to fix the flowers and failed utterly—“she kind of already knows the truth.” “And were you going to mention this at any point? Or were you just going to let me make a fool of myself in front of her as I naively committed to the pretence we were both supposed to be maintaining.” “Bridge is the exception. We can’t keep secrets from Bridge. She’s my straight best friend. There’s a code.” Oliver leaned past me and made two small adjustments to the flowers, transforming them from shabby and accusing to radiant and lovely. “But to everyone else we’re really dating?” “Absolutely. I mean, there’s a guy at work who’s sort of in on it.” “A guy at the work for whose benefit this whole deception is being practiced?” “Well, it was his idea, so it was unavoidable. Besides”—I nearly got insouciant again, but then thought better of it—“he’s got the brains of a raspberry pavlova. He’s probably already forgotten.” He sighed. “Fine. So to everyone except Bridget and this gentleman you work with, we’re really dating?” “I can’t lie to my mum obviously....

doorstep out of nowhere, insisted you continue pretending to date me, whined about my dad’s cancer, got in a massive argument about logistics, made you watch reality TV, and then fell asleep.” “You also threw a blueberry at me.” “You should dump me.” “I tried that already. It didn’t take.” “Seriously. If you want out, I’ll be reasonable this time.” Oliver held my gaze for a long moment. “I don’t want out.” Relief bubbled through me like indigestion. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” “I thought we’d established that fairly clearly. I’m stuffy, pompous, boring, and desperate. Nobody else will have me.” “But you make amazing French toast.” “Yes”—his expression grew charmingly rueful—“I’m starting to think that’s the only reason my relationships lasted as long as they did.” For some reason, I was suddenly very aware I wasn’t allowed to kiss him. “There’s still time to catch the last Tube,” he went on, “or I can call you a cab, if you like.” “It’s fine. I can grab an Uber if I need to.” “I’d rather you didn’t. Their business model is deeply unethical.” I rolled my eyes. “I think we’ve just worked out why nobody’s going out with you.” “Because I don’t use Uber? That seems fairly specific.” “Because you’ve got an opinion about everything.” “Don’t most people have opinions?” At least I wasn’t thinking about kissing him anymore. “I don’t mean opinions like ‘I enjoy cheese.’ Or ‘John Lennon is overrated.’ I mean opinions like ‘You shouldn’t use Uber because of the workers’ and ‘You...

It should have come as no surprise to me that Oliver owned actual pyjamas. In dark-blue tartan. Also that he made his bed like an actual grown-up, instead of throwing a duvet vaguely in the direction of a duvet cover, somewhere near a mattress. “What are you staring at?” he asked. “I’d assumed people stopped buying nightwear in 1957. You look like Rupert Bear.” “I don’t remember Rupert Bear wearing anything remotely resembling this.” “No, but he would have, if it had been available.” “That seems specious.” I struck what I assumed to be a lawyerly pose. “M’lud. The honourable counsel for the prosecution is being specious.” “I think”—Oliver seemed to be giving this far more consideration than it deserved—“unless you had established expertise in the field, your speculation as to what Rupert Bear would have worn, had he been given the opportunity, would not be admissible in court.” “M’lud. The honourable gentleman is being mean to me.” He pursed his lips peevishly. “You’re the one who said I looked like Rupert Bear.” “That’s not mean. Rupert Bear is cute.” “Given he’s also a cartoon bear, I’m still not certain I can take it as a compliment. And I happen to have a spare pair of pyjamas if you’d like to borrow them.” “What. No. I’m not a child in a Disney movie.” “So will you be sleeping fully clothed or completely naked?” “I…did not think this through.” I flailed mentally for a moment. “Look, do you have a spare top or something?” He rummaged around in a drawer and threw me a p...

“It must have been hard to go through life after he abandoned you. But I’m not sure it’ll be easier to go through life after you’ve abandoned him.”

I was silent for a long time. “Do you really think I should see him?” “It’s your decision, and I’ll support you either way, but yes. I think you should.” I made a plaintive noise. “After all,” he went on, “if it goes badly, you can walk away at any time.” “It’s just…it’s going to be all hard and messy.” “Lots of things are. Many of them are still worth doing.” It was a sign of quite how fucked up I was feeling that I didn’t try to make a joke out of hard, messy or, indeed, worth doing. “Will you,” I asked, “will you c...

biro

A ballpoint pen, also known as a biro[1] (British English), ball pen (Bangladeshi, Hong Kong, Indian, Indonesian, Pakistani, Japanese and Philippine English), or dot pen[2] (Nepali English and South Asian English), is a pen that dispenses ink (usually in paste form) over a metal ball at its point, i.e., over a "ball point". The metals commonly used are steel, brass, or tungsten carbide.[3] The design was conceived and developed as a cleaner and more reliable alternative to dip pens and fountain pens, and it is now the world's most-used writing instrument;[4] millions are manufactured and sold daily.[5] It has influenced art and graphic design and spawned an artwork genre.

“You know what I mean.” He probably didn’t. “You have a whole bunch of nice society people you can reach out to, and they’ll get you in Hello! or Tatler or Horse & Hound or something. I can get in the Daily Mail by sucking somebody off in a fire escape.”

Since Sunday, Oliver and I had been sporadically fake-texting, which was becoming increasingly indistinguishable from real texting. My phone was never far from my hand, and my sense of time had distorted around my understanding of Oliver’s schedule. He always sent me something first thing in the morning, usually an apology for the continued absence of dick pics, then it would be silence ’til lunchtime because important law stuff was happening, and sometimes he would work through lunch so I wouldn’t hear from him at all. Come the evening, he’d check in before and after hitting the gym, and diligently ignore my request for updates on his V-cut. And once he was in bed, I’d bombard him with as many annoying questions as I could think of about whatever he was reading, usually based on the Wikipedia plot summary I’d just Googled. All of which was a long-winded way of saying I was surprised when he rang me at eleven thirty. “Is this a butt-dialling,” I asked, “or is someone dead?” “Neither. I’ve had a bad morning, and I thought it would look suspicious if I didn’t call the person I’m supposed to be dating.” “So you thought they’d notice you not calling me, but they wouldn’t notice you saying ‘supposed to be dating’ aloud on the phone?” “You’re right.” He was quiet a moment. “I think, perhaps, I just wanted someone to talk to.” “And you picked me?” “I thought giving you an opportunity to laugh at my expense might make me feel better.” “You’re a strange man, Oliver Blackwood. But i...

“Hello, boys.” An immaculate gift box of a woman—mostly eyes, cheekbones, and cashmere—was gliding towards us. “So sorry I’m late. Had a beastly time getting through the photographers.” There followed a brief flurry as she and Alex exchanged a surprisingly complex sequence of air kisses. “Don’t worry, old girl. I kept them entertained. This is Oliver Blackwood—he’s a lawyer. Frightfully clever fellow.” More air kisses, which Oliver fielded expertly. Because apparently everybody got to touch my boyfriend—I mean, my fake boyfriend—except me. “And this is Luc O’Donnell, who I’ve told you all about.” She came in to kiss me and I moved my head wrong and we banged noses. “Gosh,” she said. “You look very young to be Speaker of the House.” “Um. No. That’s not me.” “Are you sure? That’s definitely who Ally was telling me about.” “Is it possible,” I asked, “he’s told you about more than one person?” She blinked. “Possibly, but that would get terribly confusing.” “Anyway”—that was Alex again, and for possibly the first time in my entire life I was relieved he was speaking—“Luc and Oliver are boyfriends. Only not really. They just have to pretend until the Beetle Drive. It’s the most tremendous wheeze.” He blushed modestly. “My idea actually.” “Oh, Ally. You are a smarty-pants.” “Only don’t tell anybody because it’s a gigantic secret.” She tapped the side of her head. “Video et taceo.” “And this,” Alex went on, “is my… I say, Miffy, are we engaged?” “I don’t recall. I feel like we pro...

It turned out there were two dining halls—the Eden Room and the Gascoyne-Cecil Room—but Alex found the Eden Room, in his words, “chummier.” Although what precisely was chummy about mustard-yellow walls, wainscoting, and massive portraits of severe-looking men dressed entirely in black, I couldn’t say. The menu offered roast chicken, roast beef, roast pork, beef Wellington, roast pheasant, game pie, and roast venison. “Ah,” exclaimed Alex, “lovely. Just like school dinners.” I gave him a look. Maybe if I focused on how annoying I found Alex, I’d find myself more bearable. “Often had pheasant at school, did you, Alex?” “Not often. You know, once or twice a week maybe.” I glanced at Oliver, who was scrutinising the menu as if he hoped he’d somehow missed the non-dead-animal option. Was this a fake boyfriend job? It was probably a fake boyfriend job. And if I did it right, he might start paying attention to me. Fuck, I was pathetic. “I should have mentioned,” I said gallantly, “Oliver’s a vegetarian.” “I’m so sorry.” Miffy gazed at him with genuine concern. “What happened? Is there anything anyone can do?” Oliver gave a wry smile. “I’m afraid not. But please don’t worry, I’ll manage.” “No no,” Alex protested. “I’m sure it’s fine. Let’s ask James.” He made a gesture and a completely different butling person who still, apparently, answered to the name James appeared at his elbow. “I say, James. Queer business. Seems I’ve accidentally brought a vegetarian.” James did one of those...

I stood at the sink and did that thing people do in movies where they brace themselves on the counter and stare meaningfully at their reflection. Turns out, it didn’t help. It was just a dick, looking at a dick, asking why he was always such a dick.

Alex Twaddle was an overprivileged buffoon who regularly stapled his trousers to his desk.

I was fundamentally unhelpable. Because somewhere along the line, I’d turned getting ahead of the story into a lifestyle. When Miles had thrown me to the tabloid sharks, I’d been completely unprepared, and the only way I’d survived was by making sure that there was enough chum in the water that they’d only eat what I wanted them to. It had only half worked, but by the time I figured that out, the habit was so ingrained that I was doing the same with people.

“On another topic,” I announced, changing the subject with all the grace and subtlety of someone saying Can we change the subject now, “a scary old man went for me in the bathroom. I mean, yelled at me. Not, like, tried to hit on me.” “Thank you for clarifying that.” It was Oliver’s driest tone. So far Operation Come Across as a Total Prick was running ahead of schedule. Alex frowned. “How very rum. Did you do anything to provoke him?” My apology window had closed an aloe vera ago. So I was basically stuck with sort of pretending I hadn’t been awful, even though I blatantly had, and trying to find the mythical middle ground between making it worse and overcompensating. “Nice to know you’re taking his side already. But, for the record, no. I was minding my own business by the sink when this mad old coot barged in and—” “Alex, m’boy,” bellowed the mad old coot, materialising behind me like the serial killer in a horror movie. “How’s the old man?” “Can’t complain, Randy. Can’t complain.” “Very much enjoyed his speech in the Lords recently about, oh, what was it…” “Badgers?” “No, not badgers. Those other, what do you call them…immigrants.” “Ah yes. Sounds like Daddy. Oh”—Alex gave a little start—“by the way, I should introduce you. You remember Clara, of course.” “’Course I do. Never forget a face.” “And these are my friends, Luc and Oliver.” His eyes lasered over us and I wilted in my seat. “Pleasure. Any friend of a Twaddle is a friend of mine. But I should warn you, stay ou...

Relax. But not too relaxed. Smile. But not too much. I tried to remind myself that journalists were like tyrannosauruses. Their vision was based on movement.

I thought it was going to be different.” “What was going to be different?” “I thought it would be like when it’s just the two of us. But you wouldn’t look at me. You didn’t know how to touch me. And you were supposed to be bonding with me over what a posh twerp Alex is. Not bonding with him over how I didn’t go to Oxford.”