Husband Material (London Calling, #2)

by Alexis Hall

maid of honour,

“m-a-t-e” of honor… 😉😉😉‼️

there I was in the roped-off VIP area of an affordably swanky cocktail bar wearing a crocheted vulva hat. A bespoke crocheted vulva hat I’d commissioned from one of Bridge’s friends when I realised that bachelorette-party genital merch skewed strongly in the direction of all penis all the time. And, obviously, I could have just not had genitalia-themed decor at all, but then it wouldn’t have been a proper non-gender-specific bird do and that would have made Bridge sad. And making Bridge sad was something I wanted to avoid both in my capacity as maid of honour and in my capacity as her, y’know, friend. James Royce-Royce plucked a dong-shaped lolly from the dong-shaped lolly jar. It was the first time I’d seen him, or his husband James Royce-Royce, without their newly adopted son in months. Their newly adopted son who they had, inevitably, named James. Although to avoid confusion, they just called him Baby J. “I must say, Luc,” he said. “I’m a little offended that you went with commercially produced phallic sweeties rather than asking for my contribution.” Bernadette May, a relatively famous cookery book writer who Bridge had gone through so many work-related disasters with that they’d become friends out of sheer necessity, smouldered dismissively from across the table. She was one of those people who could smoulder at anything—and usually did. “That’s because your contribution would probably be a real horse’s penis rolled in saffron and finished with gold leaf.” “Whereas yo...

“Oliver,” I said, because I wanted this on record, “you are actually just a smidgeon jealous, aren’t you?” “No.” The response was far too quick to be convincing. I grinned triumphantly. “You are. Oh my God, you are. That’s amazing because it means you like me so much you don’t want anyone else to have me. Or possibly super insulting because it suggests I’m so damaged I’ll go back to a guy who sold me out and is marrying someone else.” “Well, obviously I like you, Lucien,” muttered Oliver. “In general. Not necessarily right now. And I know it’s irrational. While I have a long history of people leaving me, it’s always been for quite banal reasons, not because they decided to run off with their ex at his own wedding.” Once upon a time, this would have been a teasing opportunity and I’d have said something like I promise when I leave you, it’ll be over something trivial. But Oliver had been dumped a lot, and even though he’d know it was a joke, it would be a joke that hurt. “I promise I’m not going to leave you. Not over Miles. Not over you going vegan. Not even over that time you got really upset at me for leaving my socks in the living room.” That perked him right up. His eyes got a steely glint. “There is a place,” he said, “for socks.” And it probably said something weird about my brain or our relationship that Oliver chiding me about my socks was a little bit of a turn-on. “I’m sorry.” I made a futile attempt to sound contrite. “I’m just a filthy sock harlot.” “Lucien, ar...

hiccough—“

hiccup /ˈhikəp / HICCOUGH(‼️) I. noun 1. an involuntary spasm of the diaphragm and respiratory organs, with a sudden closure of the glottis and a characteristic sound like that of a cough. 2. (hiccups) — an attack of hiccups occurring repeatedly for some time • he got the hiccups. 3. a temporary or minor difficulty or setback • just a little hiccup in our usual wonderful service. II. verb — [no obj.] 1. suffer from or make the sound of a hiccup or series of hiccups. III. derivatives hiccupy adjective – origin late 16th cent.: imitative; the form hiccough arose by association with cough. A hiccup (scientific name singultus, from Latin for "sob, hiccup"; also spelled hiccough) is an involuntary contraction (myoclonic jerk) of the diaphragm that may repeat several times per minute. The hiccup is an involuntary action involving a reflex arc.[1] Once triggered, the reflex causes a strong contraction of the diaphragm followed about a quarter of a second later by closure of the epiglottis,[citation needed] a structure inside of the throat, which results in the "hic" sound. Hiccup Other names Singultus, hiccough, synchronous diaphragmatic flutter (SDF) Pronunciation /ˈhɪkəp, -ʌp/ HIK-əp, -⁠up Specialty Otorhinolaryngology Hiccups may occur individually or in bouts. The rhythm of the hiccup, or the time between hiccups, tends to be relatively constant. A bout of hiccups generally resolves itself without intervention, although many home remedies are often used to attempt to shorten the duration.[2] Medical treatment is occasionally necessary in cases of chronic hiccups The word hiccup itself was created through imitation. The alternative spelling of hiccough results from the association with the word cough.[37] American Charles Osborne (1894–1991) had hiccups for 68 years, from 1922 to 1990,[38] and was entered in the Guinness World Records as the man with the longest attack of hiccups, an estimated 430 million hiccups.[39] In 2007, Florida teenager Jennifer Mee gained media fame for hiccuping around 50 times per minute for more than five weeks.[40][41] British singer Christopher Sands hiccupped an estimated 10 million times in 27 months from February 2007 to May 2009. His condition, which meant that he could hardly eat or sleep, was eventually discovered to be caused by a tumor on his brain stem pushing on nerves, causing him to hiccup every two seconds, 12 hours a day. His hiccups stopped in 2009 following surgery.[42] In Baltic, German, Hungarian, Indian, Romanian, Slavic, Turkish, Greek and Albanian tradition, as well as among some tribes in Kenya, for example in the folklore of the Luo people, it is said that hiccups occur when the person experiencing them is being talked about by someone not present

The next bit was going to be awkward. Well, maybe not that awkward. Because Oliver would understand. Even if we did have a table booked and tickets we’d bought months ago. Oh, shit. It was going to be awkward, wasn’t it? And thank you, life, for manoeuvring me into a situation where I’d have to let down either my best friend or my boyfriend. It was like whatever I did, no matter how hard I tried, the universe wanted me to know that, on some level, I was a crappy person. On this occasion, my crapness manifested partly in not wanting to tell Oliver to his face—or even to his voice—that I was ditching him to hang out with a sad bride. I was two-thirds of the way through my fourth draft of my first text when I realised that I was living down to the universe’s expectations of me. And, more importantly, not living up to Oliver’s. Fuck. That was the problem with dating a good person. They got their ethics all over you. So I gritted my teeth and called Oliver. “Lucien?” Great. He already sounded concerned. Either because of boyfriend telepathy or because I normally only rang if I’d set the kitchen on the fire. “Is everything okay?” “Not really,” I told him, and then realising that could have meant anything from I think we should break up to My leg’s been bitten off by a shark, followed up quickly with, “I mean I’m fine, but Bridget’s in a hell of a state and… Look, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to bail on this evening.” For just long enough that I could hear my relationship gurg...

you know Bridge… She always has some crisis or other.” “She thinks Tom’s cheating on her,” I blurted. “Oh,” he said again. For someone who talked for a living, Oliver could be very monosyllabic sometimes. “Yeah.” He was silent a little longer. “And does she… Is he?” I wished I had an answer to that. “She’s got a picture? Of him with another woman. And…honestly it doesn’t look good, but this is me talking and I’m not exactly the poster boy for healthy trust-based relationships.” “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Lucien.” “Fuck. No, I didn’t mean that. I mean, like, I have, you know, issues because of history shit.” “Sorry. Yes. I do understand. I just—” The breath Oliver took next was so deep it became almost crackly over the phone line. “It doesn’t matter. You should go and be with Bridget.” I winced. No wonder I hadn’t wanted to do this. “I will. I’m really sorry.” “It’s fine.” He didn’t, if I was being completely honest with myself, sound all that fine. “I’m sure I can get our tickets moved to another night.” “We could go see that grown-up play you wanted to see instead?” “Oh, no”—I loved that he was making an effort to be cool with this, even if he wasn’t entirely succeeding—“I’m very keen to see a musical based on a popular movie from the 1990s. My only regret is that it’s going to have original songs instead of thinly repurposing popular music from the era.” That struck me as a very specific concern, and one that was a lot easier to talk about than me ditching h...

I WAS JUST DOING AN emergency Tesco’s run to get sorry-you’re-sad food when my phone buzzed again. Thankfully, it wasn’t a picture of ambiguous infidelity this time. It was a black-and-white illustration of a man in a tricorn hat jumping a stiffly drawn horse over a fence. Underneath it, Oliver had sent: thinking of you. Dick Turpin? I texted back. Yes. I’m amazed we hadn’t got around to using him yet, but I checked and we definitely haven’t. I paused in front of the freezers with one eye on my phone and one on the ice cream. Choosing the right emotional-support ice cream was important, but some questions demanded answers. What do you mean, you checked? Do you keep a list? No. It was an unusually short message from Oliver, which suggested he was attempting to use comic timing in text. It’s a database. You have a dick database. A dicktabase? Now I’m concerned you think I actually have a database. I bet you have a database, I typed, relieved things between us seemed to be drifting normalwards. I bet you have an intern who updates it for you. I think making an intern update my database of dick pics would constitute a hostile working environment. Depends how nice the dicks are. That certainly wouldn’t stand up in court. Was it weird that I always heard Oliver’s texts in Oliver’s voice? Or was it weirder that Oliver texted exactly the same way he spoke? Probably for the best. That kind of thing could get you disbarred. If you think that’s true, he sent back, you know very littl...

“Just to establish some ground rules,” I said, “do we hate him and think he’s evil, or do we trust him and think it’s a misunderstanding?” Bridge laugh-cried. “I don’t know. Either? Both. How could he do this to me?” I thought both would be a bad call, so I picked a lane. And with uncharacteristic evenhandedness I picked the lane marked benefit of the doubt. “He might not have. Liz might have made a mistake.” “Liz is pretty smart. Plus, she’s a vicar.” “I don’t think that makes her infallible.” “No, but it means I feel bad calling her a liar.” Bridge snapped off a triangle of Toblerone. “This was a good call, thanks. I don’t know why we only buy them at Christmas.” I took a nibble of the Dairy Milk. There was an art to this kind of supportive binge—one I’d learned mostly from being on the other side of it. You needed to share enough that you weren’t just watching the other person eat but not take so much that you actually limited their access to comfort food. “I don’t think she’s lying, just that there’s lots of reasons Tom could be talking to a random woman in a café.” “Name five.” I nearly choked on my chocolate. “That’s not fair. Five is loads.” “Okay.” Bridge pulled the blanket a little tighter around herself. “Name three.” “Old school friend, sister he’s never mentioned—” “I’ve met his sister,” interrupted Bridge. “Also the woman in the photo was white.” “Adopted sister we’ve never heard of.” She gave me a disappointed look. “You’re only on the second one, and you’ve ...

THERE’D BEEN NO WORD FROM Tom by the following morning. Or, indeed, from Oliver. But then, I hadn’t texted him either. And it wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It was more that I couldn’t tell if we’d had a fight or not, and if we had, whose fault it had been. I mean, I had kind of dropped him on extra-special date night. Like a dick. Except I’d only done that because I needed to take care of my friend. Like definitely not a dick. Fuck. I was in a grey dick area. Still, that was way better than wherever Bridge was. Which was a barely slept, woke up crying, increasingly convinced her fiancé was cheating on her area. We both called in sick because she was in no state to work and I wasn’t going to leave her in no state to work. And then we took a box of Frosties with us to the sitting room and huddled on the sofa together.

Neither did anyone else, so we called an emergency in-person meeting for those who could make it, with those who couldn’t keeping up as best they could via text. By noon, Bridge’s tiny flat was packed out with me, Liz, Priya, and James Royce-Royce, who’d spent ten minutes manoeuvring an incredibly complicated stroller up a flight of stairs and then another ten minutes painstakingly de-strollering Baby J and strapping him to his chest. “This is going to involve you lot needing my truck again, isn’t it,” said Priya, helping herself to what was left of the Toblerone. Liz—a small, blond woman who was currently not wearing a dog collar, presumably because she was off duty—leaned back against the wall. “I don’t think driving around London without a plan is necessarily going to be the most useful thing to do.” “Do you think we should just leave it to God?” asked Priya. “In my experience,” Liz replied, “God really hates being taken for granted.” James Royce-Royce was gently swaying for what I presumed were baby-related reasons. “Come on, Baby J. We have to help Auntie Bridget.” Priya watched this little routine with visible incredulity. “He can’t speak or walk. What help is he going to be?” “He’s providing moral support,” put in Bridge loyally, “by being adorable.” “What’s that, Baby J?” James Royce-Royce made a theatrical listening gesture. “He’s wondering, Bridget darling, if you’ve spoken to Tom’s friends? One of them is bound to have seen him.” I think it said everything about...

At that moment the intercom went off and another of the bridesmaids stumbled up. Her name was Melanie, and she’d been working with Bridge for years. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, dropping her handbag onto the floor. “Couldn’t get away from work. Huge crisis. We’re just about to launch an adorable children’s book by a very promising new writer about an adventurous puppy who loses his favourite bone, but somebody on the art team has only this second realised that in the final illustration of the book, where the puppy has recovered his bone and it’s framed very nicely against the sunset so it’s sort of silhouetted—” “It looks like he’s got an enormous erection?” asked Priya. “How did you guess?” “Sixth sense.”

“I think”—Bridge relaxed into the hug—“I think we have to sort it out by going to Harrow?” Priya gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. Get in my truck. Someday, one of you bastards is going to have to buy a car.” We all dashed outside to the truck and piled in like clowns in reverse, only to immediately have to pile out again because James Royce-Royce needed to fit a car seat. Or at least transform his stroller into a car seat. Because obviously the James Royce-Royces hadn’t just bought a stroller. They’d brought a multifunctional infant transportation device that looked like a spaceship. It was a weird folding contraption with wheels and a pod and a kind of padded area that you could tuck a baby into like Superman being blasted off from Krypton. There was a lot of clunking and a lot of moving parts that didn’t seem to be moving quite right and a loud yelp as James Royce-Royce closed his finger in something that really wasn’t designed to have fingers closed in it. “Perhaps,” Priya suggested, “it’d be easier if you didn’t have a baby strapped to your chest?” “No.” James Royce-Royce flapped his injured hand. “No, I can do this. It’s just we’ve never used the car-seat function because we’re normally walking or taking the Tube.” Bridge came forward helpfully-slash-hurryingly. “Let me take him.” With the kind of reluctance you only see amongst new parents and people struggling to kick serious addictions, James Royce-Royce unbuckled Baby J from his chest and handed him over to Brid...

Liz leaned forward from the very back seat. “How about we get on the road? It might help you feel better. And your youth and hope might come flooding back to you.” “Hang on”—James Royce-Royce started bundling and strapping—“got to get Baby J settled again.” I thunked my head gently against the dashboard. “We are kind of on a clock here, James.” “Fine. I’ll just leave my child untethered so he flies through the windscreen the first time we brake suddenly.” “I think it’s more,” I tried, “that emergency marriage rescue and baby aren’t completely compatible?” I’d mostly meant that we should prioritise helping Bridge because she was the one having a crisis, but now everyone was staring at me like I’d taken the last After Eight mint without even apologising. “Luc,” said Bridget, definitely not crying now. “That’s an awful thing to say.” “It’s your fiancé we’re looking for,” I pointed out. “But not without Baby J.” Bridget sat back with her arms folded. “He’s part of the group now.” “I just thought it would be more efficient if we—” James Royce-Royce glared at me. “If we what? Left my child alone in an empty flat with a kitchen knife and a box of matches? Or am I not welcome amongst you now that I’m a father?” “Of course you’re welcome, James,” I tried, “I just… It’s only—” The truck lurched into gear and Priya eased us out into the road. “Drop it, Luc. You sound like a prick.” I dropped it. Because if Priya was telling you that you sounded like a prick, it meant you’d gone way o...

I got to Clerkenwell about seven, hopped out the cab, and let myself in with the actual key I actually had. I hadn’t been in a key-exchanging relationship since Miles, and that hadn’t counted because we’d rented the flat together so he hadn’t so much given me a key as received a key at the same time I had. Anyway, I’d texted ahead so I’d expected Oliver to be expecting me. What I hadn’t expected was for him to be standing in the hall in full black tie holding a blue-velvet jewellery box. Oh, shit. I’d forgotten something important. It definitely wasn’t our anniversary because while we hadn’t worked out when it officially was on account of the whole pretending-to-date-before-officially-dating thing, we’d agreed it was before the Beetle Drive, which had already happened. And it wasn’t Oliver’s birthday because, while I had forgotten when that was exactly, I knew it wasn’t in May. “What’s going on?” I asked in the wary voice of a man who felt he should have known but didn’t. Oliver had gone a little pink. “Well, I felt bad that I wasn’t more supportive when Bridget needed your help. And I thought since we missed Pretty Woman: The Musical, I could, instead, bring Pretty Woman to you.” My gaze flicked from the jewellery box to black-tie Oliver and back again. “You’d better not be taking me to the opera. You know I hate opera.” “I’m not taking you to the opera,” Oliver said. “I couldn’t get tickets and my private jet is being detailed.” Thank God for that. I’d do many things for...

“Are you going to be like this when we go and see the musical?” I asked. He slid me a mischievous look. “Only if there’s a song about business ethics.” “I’m kind of assuming it’ll be songs about…shopping? And maybe, I don’t know, sex work?” “Ah,” said Oliver, “so you think it’ll open with Vivian climbing out of a window in her thigh-high boots, singing,”—he sang—“The laws that are supposed to protect me make things worse in practice. And well-intended regulations can have negative con-”—he tapped the steering wheel—“se-quen-ces. If my profession was decriminalised, it wouldn’t be unfairly stigmatised. And I wouldn’t have to worry about the sexual offences…” He paused and finished in his normal voice, “Act, 2003.” I was sitting in a car with a man who would and, thinking about it, could improv a mediocre show tune about the complexities of the UK sex industry. And for some reason I was okay with it. “You,” I told him, “are a dork who cares too much.” “And it has taken you two years to work this out?” “I worked out the cares-too-much thing pretty quickly. The dork has been creeping up on me.” Oliver was blushing very slightly. “Yes, I try to keep it close to my chest.” “Oliver, the only dork you need to keep close to your chest is me.” “You do realise that according to some etymologists, dork means penis.” “You can keep that close to your chest too, if you like.” “I think that’s poor road safety.” “Fine,” I said in fake huff, “I’ll go to sleep, then.” Oliver’s hand briefly l...

“Oh my God.” The tenor of Bridge’s oh my Gods had changed dramatically. “Liz, tell me you picked up the dress.” Liz put her hands in the air. “Hey, I’m not even a bridesmaid! I’m just a redundant vicar. I’m here for the booze and the sex tips.”

phonular

The word "phonular" does not appear to be a standard or recognized word in the English language. It is not found in common dictionaries and lacks a conventional definition or meaning

Judy had a faraway look on her face. “Now that is from my 1980s husband. Rich as Croesus, fabulous in bed, otherwise a complete shit.” “Well”—Mum gave a laconic shrug—“that was the eighties for you.” “Yes, I don’t know how I’d have got through it if it hadn’t been for the cocaine.” I looked at the dress. It was definitely…of its era. From a time when if you wanted to show your friends how much better and happier than them you were, you had to blow a ton of money on something vulgar and expensive, instead of just Instagramming yourself in front of something you didn’t really own like we did in our more enlightened age. “It’s… It might be the best option?” Bridge was staring at herself in the mirror with an expression of profoundly mixed emotions. “Is it wrong that I sort of love it?” “You can do nothing wrong today,” said Bernadette. “That’s the joy of being a bride.” Jennifer set down her mimosa and moved to a better vantage point. “I think I unironically like it. It’s got a Princess Diana vibe.” “Sign of the times,” explained Judy. “All wedding dresses had a Princess Diana vibe for a full decade.” “Wasn’t precisely a model marriage, though, was it?” Melanie pointed out. “That wasn’t the dress’s fault,” protested Bridge, suddenly strangely defensive of the honour of a forty-year-old taffeta gown. Judy clapped her hands. “Well, if you like it, you can absolutely have it. We might need to make one or two tiny adjustments, but that’s why Matron taught me to sew all those year...

OTT.

“Over The Top”…

“Dearly beloved,” began Judy in her loudest posh-person voice, which was pretty damn loud. “Oh, I say, that’s fun, isn’t it? I haven’t said that in years. We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of this woman, Bridget Dawn Welles, and this chap, Thomas No Middle Name Ballantyne. Then, once the party’s over, they’re going to go and do the legal bit at an actual registry office.” I could hardly see because I was miles away, but Bridge seemed happy enough, despite the somewhat unorthodox delivery. And Tom had the same look of slightly dazed contentment that every bridegroom has had on his face since the beginning of time. Judy, too, seemed to be having the time of her life. “Now, I’m meant to say something about marriage and how jolly seriously you’re supposed to take it. But, honestly, I’ve always thought it works best when it’s a bit of a laugh. My most successful by far was my fifth husband. We kept each other in stitches constantly. Then one evening we were out on his yacht and he laughed so hard, he fell overboard and was eaten by a shark. And, as I’ve told every man I’ve ever slept with, it doesn’t matter how you start or how you finish, it’s the bits in the middle that matter. All of which said, I hope this wedding will be a wonderful start to Tom and Bridget’s life together.” She paused for about half a second. “Now. Vows.” They’d written their own, of course, and they were terribly sweet and terribly sincere and—this probably makes me a horrible human being...

"WHAT," I ASKED ALEX TWADDLE, “do you call a deer with no eyes?” Alex blinked. “I don’t know,” he said gamely. “What do you call a deer with no eyes?” “No-eye deer.” “Oh.” Alex blinked again. “That’s disappointing. I thought it was a joke.” He opened Bing. “Shall we Google it?” Fuck me. “No, Alex. It’s a joke. The joke is ‘no-eye deer.’ Because it’s a deer with no eyes.” “Yes, I know it’s a deer with no eyes, and I know you’ve no idea what it’s called, but you’ve got me wondering now.” “Alex, it’s called a no—” “I say,” cried Alex, with fatal enthusiasm, “Rhys? You wouldn’t know what the technical term for a deer with no eyes is, would you?” Rhys influencer-walked into the office, with his phone at the optimum streaming angle. “Not sure that’s really the kind of thing there’s a technical term for, Luc.” “I don’t want to know what the technical term is,” I yelled. “I just said, ‘What do you call a deer with no eyes? No idea.’” He considered this for a moment. And then of all the many ends of the many sticks in front of him he grabbed tightly to the wrong one. “So it’s a specific deer, then? Are you adopting a deer?” “No, Rhys. I’m not adopting a deer. Where would I keep a deer?” “This is tragic.” Alex actually had a slightly teary look. “The poor little deer. With no eyes. Was it pollution? If you can’t keep it at your house, Luc, I’m sure we’ve got room on the estate, though the other deer might bully it.” Just when I thought this had got as out of control as it could poss...

Before the situation could degenerate any further, I escaped into my office. Of course I say escaped, but the moment I sat down, I saw that I had an unread email from Barbara Clench. Dear Luc, Unfortunately, your request contravenes CRAPP’s new policy regarding the photocopiers. In order to avoid a repeat of last month’s incident involving Alex, the feed tray, and the fire engine, it has been agreed by the directors that no changes may be made to the photocopiers under any circumstances without the approval of a qualified engineer. I see no reason to make an exception for you. Kind regards, Barbara It had been a while since I’d been in a back-and-forth like this with Barbara, and in her defence, it was generally a good idea to have a nobody-touch-the-machines policy when Alex was around. Although possibly “Alex, don’t touch the machines” would have got more to the heart of the issue. But this was getting in the way of my ability to do my job. Dear Barbara, While I understand the value of this policy in broad terms, the photocopier is out of paper. If we need to call an engineer every time the copier runs out of paper, it might prove unnecessarily expensive. Kind regards, Luc I didn’t expect that to be the end of it, and it wasn’t. Dear Luc, The current policies have been set by the directors, and I do not have the authority to alter them. The rules are clear: you are not to tamper with the photocopiers in any way. Kind regards, Barbara Dear Barbara, Then can you please cal...

if you’re going to be insensitive, I’m not going to invite you to my wedding.” The old me would have thought if I ever needed encouragement to be insensitive, this was it. And, frankly, the new me thought the same. “You’re getting married?” I asked. Alex’s sleepy eyes flashed shock at me. “How do you know?” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “You just threatened not to invite me to your wedding, and that would be a weird thing to do if you weren’t getting married. Also, you’ve been engaged for at least two years.” “I say. Well deduced. That dashed clever boyfriend of yours must be rubbing off on you.” “Clearly.” “Anyway, Miffy and I thought we should, you know, do the decent thing. Being engaged is smashing and everything, but one is technically supposed to get married at the end of it. Besides, can’t keep a girl waiting around forever. And neither of us are getting any younger.” Crap. I’d reached the stage of my life where people who were younger than me were worrying that they were getting too old for stuff. “I mean,” I said, “you’ve still got plenty of time, haven’t you? Really?” And now what was I doing? Why was I trying to talk Alex out of marrying the gorgeous, heiress fiancée he’d probably—although knowing Alex not necessarily—been engaged to for years. He shrugged. “Well, maybe. But you never know what could happen. You could get trampled by a horse tomorrow.” “In London?” “No, but back at the house. Happened to my uncle Freddie. Three days before his wedding, wasn’t looking whe...

I mean, it’s a closure thing. Look, I think I need to, okay?” And Oliver, being Oliver, just said, “Of course.” The problem was, I wasn’t actually sure why I needed to. I was calling it closure because that seemed a healthy and usefully vague label I could point other people at. And maybe it was closure. Maybe after tonight the little box in my head that had Miles written on it would finally be closed, and I’d never have to think about him—or what we’d been to each other or what he’d done to me—ever again. Besides, if it wasn’t closure…what did that mean? What was I trying to prove? Or, if I wasn’t trying to prove anything, what was I looking for? Or, if I wasn’t looking for anything, what the fuck was I doing here? Fuck.

I’d put off it

I’d “put it” off…

ONCE THE CEREMONY WAS OVER and the new couple had finished kissing—which took longer than it had to—the celebration jumped straight to no-fucks-given dancing. Food was provided via a buffet along the sides of the room, and speeches were made intermittently by microphone from the main stage. In a lot of ways, had the context been very different, it would have been a great evening. I’d loved Bridge’s wedding because I loved Bridge, but sitting around while elderly relatives made corny jokes over a meal that, while exquisite, you’d never have ordered in a restaurant, wasn’t exactly the way most people I knew would choose to spend a Saturday. A gigantic party in a train tunnel with live music and speeches largely made by professional cabaret artists, on the other hand, was. Or rather, it had been. Now I spent my Saturdays doing boyfriendly things like hoovering the living room and going to art galleries and/or IKEA, occasionally fielding calls from the James Royce-Royces because Baby J had done something so unbearably adorable that they had to tell everyone immediately. And it wasn’t that I missed my party days—at least not the way they’d ended with me drinking, dancing, and fellating my way into oblivion. But it had been good for a while, and looking back, it didn’t feel so much like something I’d grown beyond as something that had been taken from me. So I looked around the room with this weird mix of nostalgia and… Actually, maybe it was just nostalgia, but in the serious pa...

“Luc? Luc O’Donnell?” I turned to see a man with an obscenely expensive suit and no sense of timing making his way around the edge of the dance floor towards us. It took me a moment to recognise him. “Jonathan?” We didn’t hug. Even at university Jonathan had never been the hugging type. Honestly, we hadn’t massively got on. On account of him being driven by a passionate desire for success and me being driven by a passionate desire for naps. He was one of those people who had sort of aged laterally, in that he looked almost exactly the same as when he was twenty. He’d somehow picked up a single grey streak in his hair, which gave him a bit of a werewolf vibe—only not in a sexy way—but otherwise he was the same lanky, grumpy git I vaguely remembered. He stared at me for a long moment. “I have to say, you are the last person I expected to see here.” “Same. You don’t even like Miles.” “Since when is I don’t like you an excuse to get out of a wedding?” His mouth, which was a sneery kind of mouth, got sneerier. “I mean, you felt obliged to show up and Miles literally sold you out to the Daily Express. What chance did I have?” The thing about Jonathan was that he’d occupied a strange position in our friendship group. Someone told me once that the reason Christmas cracker jokes are so bad is that they’re designed to be shared with the whole family and it’s way easier to get everyone to agree that a joke is awful than to get them to agree it’s funny. Jonathan was a human Christmas-...

“Anyway”—I gave a sickly smile—“this is Oliver Blackwood, my boyfriend. Oliver, this is Jonathan…” Aaaand I couldn’t remember his surname. “This is Jonathan, who I knew at university, but we didn’t like each other.” “Good to know you’re still a cock, Luc,” said Jonathan. Strangely more in his element now I was asking him to be polite to an arsehole in a suit, Oliver offered his hand. “Lovely to meet you. If it helps, Luc didn’t like me either.” “I like you now,” I protested. Oliver laughed. “I should bloody well hope so. It’s been two years.” “So…” Jonathan had always had the eyebrows of an angry cartoon character, and now they knitted together ominously. “What didn’t he like about you?” “He thought I was boring.” “Me too,” said Jonathan. “Oliver, I didn’t,” I lied. “I just thought you were…you know, overachieving and a bit serious.” And too good for me, but I was fucked if I was admitting that in front of Jonathan. “Being overachieving and serious are very underrated qualities.” You could never tell if Jonathan was joking. He delivered everything in the same unplaceably accented monotone. For whatever reason, Oliver had concluded that was both a joke and one he could join in on. “Perhaps we can exchange details. Then we can meet up some day and discuss our favourite shades of beige or compare pension plans.” Jonathan glanced at me. “Keep this one, Luc. He’s all right. Anyway, what are you doing these days?” “I work for a charity that protects bugs that eat shit.” Two year...

Oliver slipped his arm around me. “I hope I wasn’t too unhelpful,” he whispered as we wandered off. “That seemed quite intense, and I was concerned I’d be intruding.” “Yeah, it was kind of. Intense and…” I gave a nonspecific hand wave. “Blah.” “Ah, yes,” Oliver agreed. “The blah will get you every time.” “I guess…” Apparently my mouth had more words to release. “I guess I hadn’t really thought about how big the whole Miles thing was. How many people it affected who weren’t, y’know, me. I was too busy getting wasted and feeling hard done by.” “I understand getting wasted and feeling hard done by are what your early twenties are all about.” I gave him a sceptical look. “I suppose you spent yours studying for the bar and, I don’t know, developing a deep sense of altruism.” “Don’t talk nonsense, Lucien.” His lips twitched. “I’ve always had a deep sense of altruism.” The annoying thing was, he probably had. “Yeah, and I bet if your boyfriend had sold your sex life to a newspaper, you’d have been all ‘It’s okay; you have hurt me but you are entitled to make mistakes.’” “I’m not sure any newspapers would want to pay for my sex life.” “Hey”—I poked him in the shoulder—“don’t do yourself down. You’re a saucy legal stud, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” He considered this. “Of course, prior to 1967 I’d have been a saucy illegal stud.” “Very illegal. You’d have been minus twenty.” “I meant for reasons of orientation rather than age.” Well, that was embarrassing. “Oh. Right....

“I’m really glad you found somebody,” Miles told me. “I know things got pretty rough for you after we broke up.” They had, indeed, got pretty rough after we broke up. Or to put it more accurately they’d got fucking hellish after he’d completely betrayed me. But no: calm, centred, rising above. If you looked in the dictionary under over it, you’d have found a picture of me. “Yeah, got to admit I was in a bad place for a few years.” “But,” Miles went on cheerfully, “it’s great to know we can be friends now.” Wait. What? The party was loud, but it felt like everything had come to a crashing halt. I blinked. Then, when opening my eyes failed to reveal that the last three minutes had just been a dream about unmitigated gall, I blinked again. Since the world was resolutely failing to dissolve into fairy dust and sugar clouds, I figured I was stuck with it. Reaching out, I patted Miles companionably on the shoulder. “Let’s be clear,” I told him, trying to match his air of casual mateyness. “I’m glad you’re happy. You and JoJo seem like you’ll be great together. But we are never going to be friends because you will always be the guy who sold me out for the price of a Toyota Supra.” Then I leaned in, kissed him on his beardy cheek, turned around, and left the wedding.

AS MATURE AND GROWN-UP AND (mostly) over it as I’d been at Miles’s wedding, the drive home was by far the best part of the evening. Now that I was no longer feeling the pressure to be supportive of my dickhead ex and his child bride, I could join in with Oliver in mocking their vows (we get it, you like each other), their choice of venue (we get it, you’re unconventional), and the guest list (we get it, you know a lot of artsy people and rich bastards). Although that did make me feel a bit bad in retrospect when, two days later, JoJo showed up at my office. “Chap to see you,” explained Alex. “I mean, I say ‘chap,’ but he is wearing rather a lot of makeup and, well, one’s supposed to be sensitive about these things, isn’t one?” The list of people it could have been was very short, not that I had any idea what JoJo Ryan was doing at CRAPP. “If it is who I think it is, Alex, then you’re good. He’s a chap.” “Pleased to hear it. Wouldn’t want to call a chap a chap when a chap was actually a chapess. Fearfully bad form to go around mis-chapping chaps, isn’t it?” “Oh, fearfully,” I told him and went through to see what the hell was going on. Unfortunately, Rhys Jones Bowen had got there first.

“Hello,” he was saying, directing his phone at himself and JoJo, “don’t be alarmed, I’m just making some content for our social media. Perhaps you’d like to tell the Rhystocrats who you are and why you’re visiting Cee-Arr-Ay-Pee-Pee today.” JoJo looked a little perplexed but more patient than I think I would have been under the circumstances. “I’m JoJo Ryan.” He gave a camera-ready smile. “And I’ve come to speak to somebody who works here.” “I work here,” offered Rhys. “How about speaking to me?” “No, I mean a specific somebody.” “Ah, how about me?” asked Alex. “I’m pretty specific.” I got the slow, creeping sense that this was going to turn into one of those work moments. “Alex, you know he’s here to see me. He already told you.” “Might have changed his mind,” Alex pointed out. “Fellow can, you know.” “Alex, you don’t even know who this guy is.” That made Alex do his indignant face. “Yes I do. He’s JoJo Ryan.” “Who is?” I prompted. “Who is here to see somebody who works for CRAPP, and frankly, Luc, I think it’s very selfish of you to want to keep our visitor all to yourself.” Rhys looked around from his phone. Apparently, the chat had been updating him. “According to the Rhysocrats, JoJo Ryan is some kind of You Tuber.” Grinning, he extended a hand. “Lovely to meet you, JoJo. Always nice to meet a fellow influencer.” I sighed. “You’re not an influencer, Rhys.” “Excuse me, I have nine hundred and seventy-four followers.” He paused. “Well, nine hundred and seventy-two, real...

“Actually”—JoJo finally managed to get a word in—“I was here to talk to Luc. About something a bit personal.” Alex gave me an apologetic look. “Ah, as it turns out, he hasn’t changed his mind at all. Well played, old boy.” “This was never a game.” I made my best welcome-to-CRAPP gesture at JoJo and led him through to the relative privacy of my office. To be honest, I wasn’t thrilled to be leading him through to the relative privacy of my office, but having already made a scene at his wedding, I didn’t want to compound it by making a scene at my place of work. Sitting down at my desk, I tried to psych myself up to apologise. Which was going to be difficult because, in a lot of ways, I wasn’t fucking sorry. I’d done more than my fair share of reconciliation bullshit by showing up in the first place. Expecting me to be “yes, we’re bros now” was a bridge too far. And not like a little tiny bridge over a brook on a nice walk in the countryside. Like a giant, fucking steel-suspension bridge over a river of fuck right off. Come on, Luc. Be the bigger man.

“I’m sorry if I spoiled your big day,” I tried. I know all the internet rules say you’re not supposed to begin an apology with I’m sorry if, but it was what he was getting. JoJo laughed. It seemed like a sincere laugh, which was more than I’d expected. “Sweetheart, I was marrying the man I love in a big party filled with all my friends plus a bunch of other people who aren’t my friends but were still telling me how amazing I was. One slightly mean conversation wasn’t going to ruin that.” Oh. Okay. “So why are you here?” “Just to say…” JoJo stared down at his immaculately manicured nails. “Just to say that…I suppose…I suppose I get it?” Was I offended by that? I thought I was at least a little bit offended by that. Because this guy was twelve and trying to tell me he knew what it was like to get betrayed and abandoned by the fucker he’d just married. Although, now I thought about it, JoJo wasn’t that much older than I’d been when I’d dated Miles. Of course, Miles was now substantially older than he’d been when he’d dated me, which was why I felt justified taking the piss. The thing was, though, I hadn’t felt young at the time. I’d felt ...

“Get what, exactly?” I asked warily. He kept giving me his earnest early-twenties face. “I’ve been on the internet since I was sixteen. I know you got the whole old-media paparazzi treatment, and I’m sure that was crappy in a slightly different way, but I’ve had a million strangers telling me what they think of me every day since before I did my GCSEs.” Okay, that did sound awful. Although old Luc would have pointed out that the person who was financially compensated for JoJo’s constant harassment was JoJo, not the person who dumped him. “So,” JoJo went on, “I do understand that what Miles did to you was fucking terrible. That’s why I wanted you to come to the wedding.” When Miles had told me that he’d invited me to the wedding for JoJo’s sake, I’d assumed he was just rightfully ashamed of how selfish it sounded otherwise. “Wait. You actually wanted me to come to the wedding?” “Yeah…” I’d heard more sheepish yeahs, but only from actual sheep. “I think I just wanted to see… I don’t know. That you were okay, I guess?” “So you could tell yourself you weren’t marrying the King of the Arseholes?” It was probably an unfair comment, but I was trying to ration my enlightenment. He squir...

The velvet box was still ominousing in my pocket at the point our evening reached the me on the sofa watching old seasons of American Horror Story and Oliver on the floor with his laptop and his case notes, being all hot and diligent stage. “Oliver,” I said at the same time he said, “Lucien.” And then I said, “No, you,” and he said, “After you,” and we went back and forth like that for a bit until Oliver managed to squeeze in an “I think we should talk about the wedding” and I squeezed back a “Me too.” Then we sat there in silence for about a million years. “Can I—” I tried at the same time Oliver said, “Do you—” And this time I followed up quickly with, “Okay, I’ll go.” I did not go. Eventually Oliver cleared his throat. “You know that…anything you need to say we’ll…we can. It’ll be fine.” “I guess…” Why was I so bad at this? “I guess, I just think I…didn’t really think it through.” Oliver closed his laptop in a we-are-now-having-a-serious-conversation way. “It’s all right, Lucien. I understand.” “I’m sure you do. But that doesn’t mean…it was right for me to ask you to marry me when you had your head in a cupboard.” “I confess,” he confessed, “I was caught a little off guard.” “Yeah. So. Um.” I fumbled in my pocket for the ominous box, couldn’t find it, fumbled in a different pocket, dropped to one knee a bit too hastily so it just looked like I’d fallen off the sofa, which had happened more than once, and then finished up with, “Ow. I mean—” “Are you all right?” A very c...

Oh dear. For some reason, Oliver’s parents had never liked me. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the way I dressed or the fact that my own parents were rock stars or if it possibly had something to do with that one time I told them to go fuck themselves at their ruby anniversary. I’d met them a couple of times since and I’d been marginally better behaved, but the cloud of go-fuck-yourself had trailed behind me like a fart on the way out of a lift. For the first year they’d clearly been biding their time on the assumption that Oliver would come to his senses and dump me—much, to be fair, as I had. But when it had become clear I wasn’t going away anytime soon, they’d come to accept me the way one might accept a piece of spinach between a dinner guest’s teeth. They knew I was there but, for the sake of their continued happiness, pretended I wasn’t. “And,” I asked nervously, “how did that go?” “They said they’d support me in whatever decision I made.” I winced. “Bad as that, huh?” “I’m afraid so.” “I mean…” I didn’t even know what I was trying to say. I wanted to be supportive of Oliver, but I didn’t really want to spend the next however-many months tiptoeing around David and Miriam while they by—infuriatingly—either their presence or their absence made me marrying Oliver all about them. “We can… I mean… Do they…” To my relief, Oliver cut me off. “Let’s just not think about it for now.” Except I wasn’t sure that made it better. Especially because Oliver was terrible at just n...

“In any case,” he went on, making a visible effort to smile, “I presume Odile was far more enthusiastic.” Oh, fuck me with a rusty coat hanger. I’d somehow managed to not tell her. She was going to kill me. Oliver was going… Okay, he wouldn’t kill me. But he might take it as a bad sign, ring or no ring, that I’d forgotten to mention the most important thing in my life to the most important person in my life. Joint most important person. Second most important person? “Yeah,” I overcompensated. “She was really excited.” For whatever reason—presumably because he still had a head full of disapproval—Oliver didn’t notice that I was talking like I was reading cue cards. “I’m glad. I assume we’ll be seeing her tomorrow?” Oh, fuck me with a rusty coat hanger covered in sriracha sauce. We saw Mum and Judy a couple of times a month, so I should probably have thought of that before pretending to Oliver that I’d told them something I hadn’t told them, and needed to tell them in p...

THE NEXT DAY WE WERE standing in Pucklethroop-in-the-Wold waiting for my mum to let us in, and I still hadn’t worked out what to do about the fact that I’d lied to Oliver. The door opened. “‘Allô, Luc, mon—” was as far as Mum managed to get before I threw my arms around her. “Mum!” I cried, then whispered, “Oliver and I are getting married, and he thinks I’ve already told you,” desperately into her ear. She made an ah, I understand noise and, letting go of me, immediately embraced Oliver with a loud, “Congratulations on the wedding. I was so pleased to hear about it when Luc told me that it was happening, which he did several days ago.” “Thank you, Odile,” said Oliver. “Oh, you will have to stop calling me that now you are getting married. You will have to call me Maman.” This was going to be a long evening. “Mum, I don’t even call you Maman.” “That,” she glowered at me Gallically, “is because you have no respect for your heritage.”

I was about to deliver a fantastically clever and witty reply when the sound of barking echoed from inside and four ecstatic spaniels burst from the hallway. I say ecstatic, but they were, of course, ecstatic to see Oliver, who was great with dogs, and not at all interested in seeing me, who they’d known their entire lives. On the plus side, Oliver did look incredibly cute kneeling down to receive an armful of fur and puppy-dog eyes. “Charles,” he said, bestowing scratches, pets, and scruffles, “Camilla, Michael of Kent. Hello, Eugenie, old girl; who’s a good girl, you are, yes you are.” I never worked out how Oliver or, for that matter, anyone else, was able to tell the dogs apart. Once Oliver had finished greeting the woofles as he occasionally and embarrassingly called them, all seven of us went through to the front room. “Judy,” Mum announced, “look who is here. It is Luc and his fiancé, Oliver, who, as you know, he has told us he is engaged to.” I sort of liked that Mum was bad at deception. Judy, however, as a result of…of…a great many aspects of her tumultuous life history, had no problem with it at all. “Ah, of course.” She beamed. “Congratulations, old boys. Meant to bring you a gift, but it’s fattening up in the lower pasture.” “You know,” said Oliver incredibly gently, “I am still a vegan.” It wasn’t much of a protest, but it was more than he would have managed two years ago. “Not to worry.” Judy seldom let go of an idea once it was in her head. “Keep it in the ...

It was at about this point that Oliver’s inability to contradict authority figures clashed terminally with Mum’s inability to lie. He turned to me. “Would I be completely out of line in thinking you hadn’t actually told your mother we were getting married at all?” “What?” cried Mum valiantly. “No. That is outrageous. Why would I have said so many times that Luc had told me you were getting married if he had not told me you were getting married? How could I possibly have known?” Oliver was looking unconvinced. But also, and this was the important bit, unfurious. “And what about the goat?” Mum had clearly decided she was going down with the ship. “How could Judy have arranged a goat for the wedding if she had not already heard about the wedding?” Having created a small oasis in a sea of dog, Oliver sat down and was immediately re-dogged. “Call me a cynic, but it has crossed my mind that the goat might be imaginary.” “Don’t be silly, Oliver. How can you give somebody an imaginary goat?” I folded myself onto the floor next to Oliver and put my head in my hands. “Mum, it’s fine. Thanks for covering for me, but you need to stop helping now.” Mum’s attitude shifted in a nanosecond. “In...

“No children’s songs,” Barbara Clench repeated. “What if we do the dirty version?” asked Rhys. “Wouldn’t be a children’s song, then.” I was getting sucked in. One more question and I’d be trapped in a vortex of inanity I couldn’t escape. “Is there a dirty version?” “There’s always a dirty version.” Rhys was speaking with the certainty of a man who knew most of them. Schlooop went the vortex. “But…wheels on the bus? What is it? Like, the penis on the bus goes flip, flip, flop?” Rhys shoulder-nodded. “Something like that, yeah.” “I am certainly not singing the dirty versions of any children’s songs.” Barbara Clench had a bit between her teeth, and normally in this kind of situation I would get rapidly out of her way. Except I couldn’t because we were stuck in a moving vehicle. Professor Fairclough had been staring out of the window, largely ignoring us—or at least processing everything we were saying on a higher level. Now she praying-mantised her head back towards the rest of us. “I’m not sure I do know the words, actually.” “How can you not know the words to the wheels-on-the-bus song?” I asked. “How can you not know the Latin name of the common fruit fly?” returned Dr. Fairclough. Oliver leaned over to me and whispered, “Drosophila melanogaster,” in my ear. “Drops Ophelia Melanie Jaster?” I tried, which earned a sharp hmmph from the professor. “To be fair,” said Ana with one n, “the lyrics are a bit controversial.” “Why?” I wondered aloud. “Is there some hidden meaning to...

“Marriage is a significant step for anybody.” The problem with Oliver being a good person was that where I would have made a noncommittal noise and waited for Alex to leave, he’d taken an interest so now Alex was sitting in a chair with the air of somebody settling in for the evening. Or, in this case, early hours of the morning. “Yes, well. Seemed the thing to do. After all, she’s a smashing girl from a smashing family. Can’t have Mummy and Daddy wondering if you’re a homosexual your whole life.” He paused. “No offence.” On the one hand, some offence. On the other hand, it was the night before his wedding and we’d dragged him out of bed to spring us from jail. So if there was ever a time to let it slide, this was it. “You realise”—Oliver was looking terribly sincere—“that even if you were, that would be okay.” Alex laughed. “Oh, of course it would. After all, it is the twentieth century. One of my father’s best friends is a homosexual, and they’re all jolly supportive of him, especially his wife.” “Um,” I said. “Isn’t that a bit weird for her?” “Can’t see why it would be. Plenty of chaps have other interests. Daddy’s simply batty about steam locomotives.” I really regretted not face-planting. “Okay, but assuming you mean exclusively homosexual, rather than something under the bi umbrella, I think that’s quite different from doing a spot of trainspotting?” “Clearly you’ve never been married to a railway enthusiast.” “No,” I protested, “but I’d like to be married to someone...

Eugenics is a discredited, immoral pseudoscience based on the belief that the human population can be "improved" by selectively breeding people with so-called "desirable" traits and discouraging or preventing reproduction among those deemed "undesirable" or "unfit". Historically, these classifications were rooted in social prejudices, racism, ableism, and classism, rather than objective science. Core Concepts and History Origin: The term "eugenics" (from the Greek for "good birth") was coined in 1883 by British naturalist Sir Francis Galton, a cousin of Charles Darwin. He applied theories of inheritance and natural selection to human society, believing that planned breeding could direct human evolution. Methods: Eugenics programs employed a range of practices, often classified as "positive" (promoting reproduction among the "fit") and "negative" (inhibiting reproduction of the "unfit"). These included: Forced Sterilization: Compulsory sterilization laws were enacted in over 30 U.S. states and many other countries, targeting institutionalized individuals, the mentally ill, the poor, and minorities. Marriage Restrictions: Laws prohibited marriages between different races (anti-miscegenation laws) and between individuals deemed to have "undesirable" conditions. Immigration Restrictions: Eugenicists in the U.S. lobbied for strict immigration quotas based on a belief in the genetic superiority of "Nordic" or "Anglo-Saxon" people. Genocide: In Nazi Germany, eugenic theories of "racial hygiene" culminated in the Holocaust and the systematic murder of Jews, people with disabilities, and other targeted groups. Pseudoscience: Proponents falsely assumed complex human traits like intelligence, criminality, or poverty were simple, fixed, and determined solely by genetics. Modern genetics has debunked these claims, showing that such traits are complex and influenced by a combination of genetic and environmental factors. Decline and Legacy The eugenics movement lost scientific credibility and public support after World War II, largely due to its close association with Nazi atrocities. The practice of imposing measures to prevent births within a group is now defined as a form of genocide under international law. Despite the historical discrediting, the legacy of eugenic thinking persists in ongoing issues of scientific racism, genetic discrimination, and disparities in healthcare. Modern genetic technologies, such as prenatal screening and gene editing, have also raised contemporary ethical debates about "liberal eugenics" or "consumer eugenics," where individual parental choice replaces state coercion.

“I can’t believe,” I said into the soft, enticing mattress, “I have to be up for a wedding in three and a half hours.” Oliver sat down next to me. “Surely this cannot be the first time you’ve staggered home in the small hours of the morning, had a shower, and then left for work or a lecture or some major society function.” “I was in my twenties then.” “You’re barely out of your twenties now.” “I’m thirty. I’m an old man. I can’t cope with this wild, thrill-seeking, field-crossing, tea-stealing lifestyle anymore.” Burying my head deeper into the bedclothes, I groaned like a zombie donkey. “Also, I’ve got that thing where you get wet and you dry out but you haven’t really dried, and my pants are clinging to my bum in this weird way.”

“You’re very sexy right now.” “I am. I’m wearing sexy pants. That’s why they’re clinging.” “Then I fear you’ve made a rod for your own buttocks.” “No spanking,” I whined. “Too sleepy.” There was a pause. Then Oliver said, “I appreciate I need a sleazy moustache in order to deliver this line properly, but we probably should get out of our wet clothes.” Trying to imagine Oliver in a sleazy moustache was sufficiently…something that I brain-knotted myself back into wakefulness and began peeling my T-shirt off. “Are you here to deliver a pizza?” I asked. “Is it twelve inches?” “Yes.” It was Oliver’s driest voice, which was pretty fucking dry. “I’m here with the twelve-inch hot sausage pizza you ordered. Also, my penis.” My jeans had adhered to my legs in a way that might have looked enticing in a movie but in real life was just clammy. I tried to wriggle attractively out of them and ended up thrashing around in a tangle of denim and sheets instead. “I’m not sure porn is your calling.” “Are you sure? I think the X-Rated Barrister has a certain ring to it. I was going to call my debut feature Habeus Porkus.” “Not Men’s Rear?” “That’ll be the sequel.” His eyes alighted on my, well, mens rea. “On the subject of which, those are some impressively tiny pants.” “Thanks. I’d love to tell you I was planning something naughty for the wedding but, actually, I just haven’t done any laundry for a while.” “I’ll admit,” he said, “that was my first assumption.” Damn. That was the problem with ...

I did my best Oliver, which was nowhere near as good as the real thing—“‘Lucien, please rationalise your paraphernalia.’” His lips twitched. “I do not sound like that.” “You sound a bit like that. Also, I’m still upset you said I never shower.” “I didn’t say you never showered. I just pointed out that sometimes you skip a day.” “Everybody skips a day,” I insisted. “It’s healthy. For natural oils and things. And it’s not like I smell—oh my God, do I smell? You’d tell me if I smelled, right? Except you didn’t tell me about that plate.” He undid the top button of his shirt. “Yes, I’d tell you if you smelled, which you don’t. I was trying to make a lighthearted reference to the fact that you’re sometimes adorably…” That wasn’t good pause. “Uninterested in routine.” “Who’s interested in routine? It’s routine. The clue is in the name.” I splashed water in his direction, which made him dance his shoes out of the way. “Also, are you just going to stand there criticising my personal habits while I have a bath?” That made him pinken slightly. “Of course not. I’ll…I’ll leave you to it.” “I more sort of meant you could join me if you want to.” He hesitated, with that anxious, half-hopeful look in his eyes he sometimes got around dessert. “This thing is huge,” I added. “How many huge-bath opportunities are we going to get in our lives?” “Probably several, if we wanted them?” “Come on, Oliver. I’m lonely and…y’know…wet.” “Lucien, I—” “It’ll save water,” I interrupted. “Ethics demand tha...

“I do know you’re not judging me. I just find it very hard not to judge myself.” I tried to be sensitive to Oliver’s body image issues, I really did. But, at the end of the day, he looked like him and I looked like me, and sometimes it was hard to remember that when he was being down on himself, he wasn’t being down on me by association. Still—and this was definitely something I couldn’t have done even a year ago—sometimes when you wanted someone to trust you, you had to trust them first. So I stood, letting the water stream off me like a shit Venus, waded over and kissed him, a hand catching the collar of his shirt, and my lips hard and urgent on his. Trying to say things that I didn’t know how to say. Asking him to believe that I loved him and I wanted him and that he’d never be anything but beautiful to me. When I finally let him go, he was tousled and blushing and—“Lucien, now I’m drenched.” “Then,” I said, “you might as well be in the bath.” I gave him what I intended to be a playful tug on the arm, but I hadn’t quite factored in things like gravity and balance and wet marble. Oliver had just enough time for a flail and a “What the—” before we tumbled backwards into the bath with an enormous splash. Thankfully, it was deep enough and wide enough that we didn’t die. Oliver resurfaced in a flurry of wet fabric and bubbles. Thankfully he was laughing rather than glowering, complaining, or pointing out quite how close he’d come to cracking his head open. “That was very…ve...

We need to find a way to distract each other.” He laughed. “I could run another bath.” “But think of your water footprint.” “Is your way to distract yourself teasing me?” “It’s working.” I grinned. The other issue with the hour of all-nighter criticality was that it always passed incredibly slowly. I glanced around the room, looking for anything to occupy us. And it couldn’t be the bed because that was a one-way ticket to sleeping through Alex’s wedding. Unfortunately, while our surroundings were sumptuous in many ways, they were surprisingly short on entertainment. I suppose when you could ring a bell and get a servant to bring you a live peacock and a hand job whenever you felt like it, there wasn’t much need to also keep a Snakes and Ladders set handy. Finally, my gaze settled on the fireplace, which was still crackling merrily and casting orange shadows over what I suspected was a very expensive Persian rug. “Oliver?” I said. He gave a little jolt. “Yes, I’m awake. I’m definitely awake.” “Oliver,” I said again. His eyes narrowed warily. “That’s your I’ve-got-an-inappropriate-idea face.” I did. I totally did. “You see that offensively posh rug by that offensively pretty fireplace? That’s an actual fireplace with, like, fire in it?” “I’d do a great many things for you, Lucien, but I draw the line at arson.” Because Oliver kept relentlessly to a very sensible bedtime, I’d never seen him quite this dazed before. It was, honestly, kind of adorable. I stared at him. “Oh my G...

“A wedding,” began the vicar, or rather, from the robes, the actual bishop, “is one of life’s great moments, a time of solemn commitment as well as good wishes, feasting, and joy. Saint John tells us how Jesus shared in such an occasion at Cana…” Oh no. We’d been here for fifteen seconds, and we were already getting a story about Jesus and some people who couldn’t be bothered to hire decent caterers. I guess I’d kind of forgotten, or let myself forget, just how, like, God-centric a full-on religious ceremony could be. And as much as I’d found the all-the-rainbows-all-the-queer-iconography-all-the-time setup of Miles and JoJo’s wedding a bit extra, this thing we were doing now was way weirder. I mean, we were sitting in a medieval building while a man in a triangular hat read to us out of a two-thousand-year-old book. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ,” the bishop was saying, “the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you.” “And also with you,” chorused literally everybody else. Fuck. Nobody had told me there was supposed to be audience participation. As a child of two eighties rock legends, my upbringing hadn’t involved a huge amount of churchgoing. And, for thirty years, that had been fine. But right now it was making me feel that I was living one of those dreams where you discover you’re in a play and everyone knows their part but you. Also, you might be naked. Fortunately, I was not naked. Unfortunately, the bishop was still talking. “God is love,...

“By most objective metrics,” observed Dr. Fairclough, “humans are by far the worst animals, except perhaps in terms of our ability to survive in diverse environments.” She paused. “Although in those terms we are arguably inferior to our own gut flora.” Given the alternative was fighting with Oliver about complex shit I didn’t want to fight about, I threw myself into the conversation. “Molerat versus Gutflora sounds like a particularly crap monster movie.” “You know what,” Rhys said cheerfully, “I’d watch that.” There was another pause. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Dr. Fairclough made a second contribution. “I’m not sure how mole rats could fight their own gut flora, and if they were fighting human gut flora, they would need to get inside humans to do it.” We all contemplated that. Ana with one n was getting the what-have-I-got-myself-into look that I sometimes saw on Rhys’s girlfriends shortly after they met the rest of us. “Fuck me. That is genuinely horrific.” “Do you think,” asked Rhys, with the air of a man about to combust his relationship, “that they’d gnaw through the belly or crawl up through the arse?”