Husband Material (London Calling, #2)

by Alexis Hall

A FEW DAYS LATER, OLIVER tried to wake me gently with “I’ve made French toast.” But firstly, I wasn’t sleeping, I was just lying there in sulky dread. And secondly, it was definitely a bribe. Today was the day we were seeing his parents, and like any sensible person, I did not want to see his parents. “There are some things,” I said, “that you can’t make better with French toast. You’re making French toast worse by association.” “Well, I can throw it away if—” “No.” I cast off the covers and made a grab for the plate. “No. I will eat it. But I want you to know that I am eating in the full knowledge that this is a bribe.” Oliver looked faintly guilty. As well he might. “I prefer to think of it as me doing something thoughtful for you because I know you’re going to do something thoughtful for me.” “Yeah, that’s literally what a bribe is.” “No, a bribe is contingent. A bribe comes with expectation. This came after you’d agreed to do the thing I wanted so it’s legally a thank-you gift.” Moodily, I munched through the incredibly delicious French toast, trying not to resent how incredibly delicious it was. But it was incredibly delicious. Dammit. Oliver cleared his throat. “While I always enjoy watching you pout and/or enjoy my cooking, we are going to need to hurry a little bit.” I mopped up the remains of the maple syrup with the last corner of the toast and inched it, slowly, towards my mouth. “We’ve got plenty of time. As long as you’re happy to wear the shirt you’re wearing...

It didn’t entirely surprise me that Miriam and David Blackwood had insisted on taking their vegan son to a gastropub with exactly one vegan option on the menu. After Oliver had ordered his superfood salad, and I’d ordered the same out of masochistic solidarity, his parents tortured the waiter for a while—David by demanding a fillet steak with a very specific set of instructions about how it should be prepared and Miriam by politely but unswayably insisting they make her a vegetable risotto that wasn’t currently on the menu. Once that had been resolved to their satisfaction, we all sat in silence until David Blackwood finally said, “So you’re still getting married, then?” “Yes,” replied Oliver, sounding calmer than the tension in his jawline showed me he felt. “And we’d like you to be there.” Miriam, who had been checking the cutlery for cleanliness, set down her fork. “Well of course we’ll be there, darling. That was never in question. We just want to be sure you’re making the right decision.” Given that the Blackwoods seemed determined to talk as if I wasn’t in the room, I was beginning to wish I hadn’t been. “I’ve already told you”—Oliver’s voice got calmer and his jaw got tenser—“that I am. And it’s not up for debate.” “But marriage,” protested Miriam, “when you’re still so young.” Oliver cast a longing glance at a bread roll. “I’m older than you were when you got married.” “This isn’t about your mother and me,” said David predictably. “Things are very different for you...

“And,” added Miriam, “different for…for…” She waved her hands in a way that was probably intended to communicate for gay people without her having to say the words. “Men aren’t like women. You have different needs.” I wanted to ask what kind of needs, exactly. But I wasn’t here to challenge casual gender-essentialism-slash-homophobia, I was here to support Oliver. So I stayed quiet. “You wouldn’t understand this,” Miriam went on heterosplaining, “but women need commitment.” “Whereas men,” David chimed in, “are dogs.” Oliver glanced sharply up from his own hands, which he’d spent most of the conversation staring at. “Have you dated a lot of men, Father?” There was a very nasty silence. The worst thing about David Blackwood—from an extensive collection of bad things—was that he looked a little bit like Oliver. The same slightly square features, the same hard grey eyes that, on him, I’d never seen soften. It was like a glimpse of the future if I accidentally wound up marrying a terrible person. “I suppose you get this attitude from him.” He didn’t even deign to look at me. I like to think that the fact I didn’t respond to this at all, in any way, counts as one of the seven most noble things I’ve ever done in my life. “I’m sorry,” said Oliver quickly.

Which wasn’t quite the rush to my defence I’d hoped for. But then again, we were here for our wedding not my ego, and pissing off David Blackwood before the main course was a bad strategy. The uncomfortable silence that followed lasted just long enough for our food to arrive. And then Miriam piped up with, “I must admit, I don’t really understand why gay people want to get married at all.” “Equality?” I suggested, hoping that this counted as engaging and not talking back. She seemed to be genuinely thinking about this. “But isn’t that a bit selfish?” I glanced at Oliver for help but got nothing. He was gazing into his superfood salad like it contained the mysteries of the universe. And maybe it would have been a good idea to let it go, but I hoped if I kept asking open questions, I could at least avoid another excruciating silence. “Why selfish?” “Well”—Miriam looked faintly pained—“for normal people, marriage has a tradition behind it. And it see...

“I think she probably did,” I began. I’d been about to add But it’s okay, I get that a lot of people think that way, but I never got that far. David Blackwood surged to his feet. Which was actually pretty intimidating in a cosy gastropub in Milton Keynes. “How dare you. You come up here, you let us pay for your lunch, and that’s how you talk to our son?” It wasn’t the most furious anyone had ever got with me, but it certainly had the highest anger-to-provocation ratio. If I’d been in a more charitable mood, I might have said that at least he was protecting Oliver and I could understand the instinct to protect Oliver. Except I wasn’t in a charitable mood, I hadn’t asked them to buy me anything, and David Blackwood was an arsehole. I was just psyching myself up to give a deeply insincere apology when there was a tiny clink as Oliver put down his salad fork. “Father,” he said. “You’re making a scene.” David snapped round like a rattlesnake. “Making a scene? I’m not the one arguing with your mother and making snide comments.” “I wasn’t—” But Oliver cut me off. “With respect, you’ve barely met Lucien. You know nothing about our re...

“How can you say that?” She blinked in genuine horror. “We love you.” He sighed. “You know, I think you do. But from everything you’ve said to me today, and the way you interact with Lucien and with every boyfriend I’ve ever had, and with me ever since I came out, you will clearly never see any relationship I have as being as valid as Christopher’s relationship with Mia.” “Well, it’s different,” protested Miriam, with an unerring instinct for saying the worst possible thing. “It is not.” Now Oliver was on his feet as well. And raising his voice. “Lucien sees me with all my flaws and makes me feel loved anyway. Something, by the way, that neither of you have ever managed.” A deep hush had fallen, not just over our table but over the whole pub. David Blackwood was staring at Oliver with something almost like disgust. “I don’t know who you think you are. Your mother and I have given you everything. We fed you, we clothed you, we sent you to university, we put you through the bar, and now you’ve had your head turned by some artsy fairy who can’t keep his arse out the papers, and suddenly you think you’re better than us.” I wanted to tell them that he was. Not because I was an artsy fairy but because he was a good person—the best person—and he’d got that way despite having parents who were total shits. “Then how about this,” said Oliver, elegantly pulling on his jacket. “I make good money now, so if you really believe that our obligations to each other are based entirely on wha...

“Oh, and Dad…” He shot one last look at his father. “Go fuck yourself.”

Half the RSVPs haven’t even R’ed yet even though we said SVP.”

“Now tell me everything,” Bridge cried. “What happened? What about the wedding?” Since I still had a face full of rocket lolly, Priya answered for me. “Nothing’s happened. Oliver’s just gone a bit weird on account of his dad dying, and Luc’s freaking out because he can’t cope with emotions.” Bridge’s eyes were wide. “Oliver’s gone weird? What kind of weird? And what about the wedding?” “The kind of weird,” Priya explained, “you go when your dad drops dead of a heart attack a few months after he found out you were marrying a guy you knew he didn’t like, and also he was a cock but now he’s dead and you’re not allowed to think he’s a cock anymore.” Bridge’s eyes showed no signs of de-widening. “Does this mean the wedding’s off?” “Bridge”—I finally managed to extricate myself from the lolly—“we haven’t discussed it.” Technically we’d been discussing it, and that was part of the problem, but we were having an argument seemed such a petty thing compared to a bereavement. “The wedding’s not a priority right now. Probably it’ll be fine, but if Oliver decides he can’t go through with it, I’ll support him.” “But you’re not meant to support him,” Bridge insisted. “Not if he wants to call the wedding off. Then you’re supposed to fight for him. You’re meant to say, No, I love you more than anything in the universe, and we’re meant to be together forever. And then he says, You’re right. I’ve been a fool, a mad, impetuous fool.” I divided my attention between a lolly in one hand and a be...

ableism /ˈābəˌlizəm / ablism I. noun discrimination in favor of able-bodied people. II. derivatives ableist noun, adjective… Ableism (/ˈeɪbəlɪzəm/; also known as ablism, disablism (British English), anapirophobia, anapirism, and disability discrimination) is discrimination and social prejudice against physically or mentally disabled people. Ableism characterizes people as they are defined by their disabilities and also classifies disabled people as being inferior to non-disabled people.[1] On this basis, people are assigned or denied certain perceived abilities, skills, or character orientations. Ableism perpetuates false ideas about individuals and groups with disabilities.[2] There are stereotypes which are either associated with disability in general, or they are associated with specific impairments or chronic health conditions (e.g., the presumption that all disabled people want to be cured, the false belief that wheelchair users also have an intellectual disability, or the assumption that blind people have some special form of insight).[3] These stereotypes, in turn, serve as a justification for discriminatory practices, and reinforce discriminatory attitudes and behaviors toward people who are disabled.[4] Labeling affects people when it limits their options for action or changes their identity.[5] In ableist societies, the lives of disabled people are considered less worth living, or disabled people less valuable, even sometimes expendable. The eugenics movement of the early 20th century is considered an expression of widespread ableism.[6] Ableism can be further understood by reading literature which is written and published by those who experience disability and ableism first-hand. Disability studies is an academic discipline which is also beneficial when non-disabled people pursue it in order to gain a better understanding of ableism.[7] Discrimination on the basis of mental disorders or cognitive impairments is known as sanism.

HALF AN HOUR LATER MY flat was looking worse, but I was feeling better. That’s the thing about mess—a stack of unwashed dishes says I hate myself and you should hate me too but the pile of empty bottles next to a scattering of chocolate wrappers and ice-lolly boxes said I hate myself but I have people in my life who remind me I shouldn’t. “And we definitely think,” I said, taking what remained of the wine from Bridge’s hands and swigging direct from the bottle, “that this is an I’m-grieving situation, not an I’m-taking-the opportunity-to-bail-because-I’m-too-polite-to-dump-you situation.” Having finished the beer, Priya grabbed the wine from me and took a swig of her own. “I know Oliver’s repressed, but I think even he would stop short of having his own father killed just to get out of a relationship.” “Maybe his father dying was a coincidence and he made the most of it?” I suggested. “No,” cried Bridge; she’d been crying things all evening. “You and Oliver are perfect for each other and you’re perfect together and everything’s going to be perfect.” “If we’re so perfect,” I asked, “why is he in Milton Keynes being sad without me?” For a moment Bridge didn’t have a reply. Then her face lit up like a Christmas tree which, ironically, it also did anytime she looked at a Christmas tree. “I’ve got it.” “You’re going to say, ‘Go to Milton Keynes,’ aren’t you?” Priya’s voice wasn’t exactly scornful but had a quality that suggested scorn would be an option. “Why not?” asked Bridge...

Which meant instead of standing by the bed not really knowing what to do with myself, I was standing in my flat not really knowing what to do with myself. So, in the absence of a big green button labelled Press here to fix boyfriend, I cleaned.

"DAVID BLACKWOOD," SAID OLIVER, "WAS a loving husband, a devoted father, and an absolute demon on the golf course. We all remember him as…as.…” He looked down at his cards. “David Blackwood,” said Oliver, “was a loving husband, a devoted father, and…” He looked down again. Then he looked up. And his eyes moved over the crowd, pausing just for a second on me before he fixed his attention back on a neutral point. “David Blackwood,” he said, “was a complicated man, and the last words I said to him were ‘go fuck yourself.’” The nice thing about Oliver’s family being incredibly British and middle class was that nobody had any way to react to that, so everyone stayed very still and very silent. “I wish they had not been,” Oliver went on, “and I suppose that might seem obvious. After all, who wants their last words to their father to be ‘go fuck yourself’? But I think what’s not so obvious is that while I’m sorry he’s dead… I hope no one here would think that I’m not sorry he’s dead. I’m a vegan criminal defence lawyer, for fuck’s sake, neither of which my father approved of, incidentally, but in general I don’t believe death ever solves anything. Another thing my father disapproved of… He was a proponent of bringing back hanging, which he apparently thought would fix knife crime; the economy; and, if I recall from at least one conversation, immigration. “But my point is that although I’m sorry he’s dead—and this might be the part that surprises people, and Mother, in particular,...

Eventually he and his mother reached the point in their separate rotations where they couldn’t avoid each other without admitting they were trying to avoid each other. Oliver’s hand tightened on mine in a way that at least hinted at panic. “Mother…” he began. Before she went up on tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Oliver, darling, don’t forget to pay the caterers.” He gave the slightest of blinks. “I put through a bank transfer yesterday. It should clear within twenty-four hours.” “Thank you.” And with a nod as slight as Oliver’s blink, Miriam Blackwood moved on. “Walk?” I suggested because I could feel Oliver starting to vibrate beside me. He didn’t say yes or no, but he let me lead him outside. The Blackwoods had a really nice garden, although I hadn’t had much chance to enjoy it the last time I was here. Not that I was going to have much chance now either, what with the drizzle, the fact I was at a wake, and the distress Oliver was radiating like a rubbish halo. They were also middle class enough to have a gazebo, which seemed as good a place as any to shelter from the one-two punch of rain and social obligation. “Have I paid the caterers,” said Oliver bitterly as we sat down on one of the little benches. “It could have been worse,” I offered. “She could have said, ‘You suck, you ruined your father’s funeral.’” “I might have preferred it if she had.” He ran a hand through his hair. “As it is, I think she’s saving that particular bombshell for a future disagreem...

flummoxosity.

utterly confused or flum·​moxed ˈflə-məkst. -mikst. Synonyms of flummoxed. : completely unable to understand : utterly confused or perplexed.Oct 23, 2025

Moomins?

The Moomins (Swedish: Mumintrollen, pronounced [ˈmʉːmɪnˌtrɔlːɛn]) are the central characters in a series of novels, short stories, picture books, and a comic strip by the Finnish writer and illustrator Tove Jansson, originally published in Swedish by the Finnish publisher Schildts.[2] They are a family of white, round fairy-tale characters with large snouts that make them resemble the hippopotamus. However, despite this resemblance, the Moomin family are trolls who live in a house in Moominvalley. The Moomins The Moomins, comic book cover by Tove Jansson. From left to right: Sniff, Snufkin, Moominpappa, Moominmamma, Moomintroll (Moomin), the Mymble's daughter, Groke, Snork Maiden and Hattifatteners The Moomins and the Great Flood (1945) Comet in Moominland (1946) Finn Family Moomintroll (1948) The Exploits of Moominpappa (1950) The Book about Moomin, Mymble and Little My (1952) Moominsummer Madness (1954) Moominland Midwinter (1957) Who Will Comfort Toffle? (1960) Tales from Moominvalley (1962) Moominpappa at Sea (1965) Moominvalley in November (1970) The Dangerous Journey (1977) Villain in the Moominhouse (1980) Songs from the Moominvalley (1993) Author Tove Jansson Original title Mumintrollen Translator To English: Elizabeth Portch, Thomas Warburton, Kingsley Hart, Ant O'Neill Illustrator Tove Jansson Country Finland Language Finland Swedish[1] Genre Children's fantasy Publisher Drawn & Quarterly, Macmillan, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Schildts, Zangavar, Sort of Books Media type Print, digital Website www.moomin.com/en Between 1945 and 1993, nine books were released in the series, together with five picture books and a comic strip. The Moomins have inspired numerous television series, films, and three theme parks: Moomin World in Naantali, Finland, and MoominValley Park and Akebono Children's Forest Park both in Hannō, Saitama, Japan. Etymology edit There are two different stories of how the term moomintroll was invented.[3][4] On one occasion, Jansson explained that the term mumintroll was originally coined during her childhood by her uncle: to deter the young Jansson from taking food from his pantry, the uncle told her that it was inhabited by "cold moomintrolls", which would come out of the corners and rub their noses against Jansson if she came to steal food.[3] In a 1973 letter to Paul Ariste, an Estonian linguist, Jansson wrote that she had created the word moomintroll to express something soft: She came up with an ad hoc Swedish word mumintroll because, in her opinion, the consonant sound of m in particular conveys a sensation of softness. As an artist, Jansson gave the Moomins a shape that also expresses softness, as opposed to flabbiness.[4] Synopsis and characters edit See also: List of Moomin characters Finnish Moomin toys from the 1950s Edward the Booble and the bathing hut, at Moominworld The Moomin stories concern several eccentric and oddly-shaped characters, some of whom are related to each other. The central family consists of Moominpappa, Moominmamma and Moomintroll.[5] Other characters, such as the Snork Maiden, Hemulens, Sniff, Snufkin, and Little My are accepted into or attach themselves to the family group from time to time, despite generally living separate lives in Moominvalley, the setting of the series, where the Moomin family decides to live at the end of The Moomins and the Great Flood. Characters edit Moomintroll, also referred to as "Moomin" in some of the English translations: The main protagonist and little boy of the family, interested in and excited about everything he sees and finds, always trying to be good, but sometimes getting into trouble while doing so; he always tries to be brave and find a way to make his friends happy. Moominpappa: Orphaned in his younger years, he is a somewhat restless soul who left the orphanage to venture out into the world in his youth but has now settled down, determined to be a responsible father to his family. Moominmamma: The calm mother, who takes care that Moominhouse is a safe place to be. She wants everyone to be happy, appreciates individuality, but settles things when someone is wronged. She always brings good food as well as whatever else may be necessary on a journey in her handbag. Little My: A mischievous little girl, who lives in the Moomin house and has a cynical spunky personality. She likes adventure and loves catastrophes; she sometimes does mean things on purpose. She finds messiness and untidiness exciting and is very down to earth, especially when others are not. Sniff: A creature who lives in the Moomin house. He likes to take part in everything, but is afraid to do anything dangerous. Sniff appreciates all valuables and makes many plans to get rich, but does not succeed. Snork Maiden: Moomin's friend. She is happy and energetic, but often suddenly changes her mind on things. She loves nice clothes and jewelry and is a little flirtatious. She thinks of herself as Moomin's girlfriend. Snufkin: Moomin's best friend. The lonesome philosophical traveller, who likes to play the harmonica and wander the world with only a few possessions, so as not to make his life complicated. He comes and goes as he pleases, is carefree and has many admirers in Moominvalley. He is also fearless and calm in even the most dire situations, which has proven to be a great help to Moomintroll and the others when in danger. The Mymble, also referred to as "the Mymble's daughter": Little My's amiable and helpful big sister, and half-sister of Snufkin. She often has romantic daydreams about the loves of her life, particularly policemen. The Snork: Snorkmaiden's brother. He is an introvert by nature and is always inventing things. The residents of Moominvalley often ask Snork for help solving tricky problems and building machines. Snorks are like moomintrolls, but change colour according to their mood. Too-Ticky: A wise woman, and good friend of the family. She has a boyish look, with a blue hat and a red-striped shirt. She dives straight into action to solve dilemmas in a practical way. Too-Ticky is one of the people in Moominvalley who does not hibernate, instead spending the winter in the small changing shed and storehouse over the water at the end of the Moomin's summer landing stage. Stinky: A small furry creature that always plays jokes on the family in the house, where he sometimes lives. He likes pinching things, is proud of his reputation as a crook, but always gets found out. He is simple and only thinks of himself. Biographical interpretation edit Tove Jansson with Moomin dolls Critics have interpreted various Moomin characters as being inspired by real people, especially members of the author's family, with Tove Jansson having spoken in interviews about the backgrounds of her characters and possible models for them.[6] The first two books about the Moomins (The Moomins and the Great Flood and Comet in Moominland) were published in 1945 and 1946 respectively, and deal with natural disasters; they were influenced by the upheavals of war and Jansson's depression during the war years.[7][8] The reception of the first two Moomin books was lukewarm at first; the second book received more attention than its predecessor, but sales figures were still poor.[9] The third book, Finn Family Moomintroll, which was the first Moomin book translated into English, became the first international bestseller.[10] Tove Jansson's life partner was the graphic artist Tuulikki Pietilä, whose personality inspired the character Too-Ticky in Moominland Midwinter.[6][11] Moomintroll and Little My have been seen as psychological self-portraits of the artist.[6][11] The Moomins, generally speaking, relate strongly to Jansson's own family – they were bohemian, lived close to nature and were very tolerant towards diversity.[6][8][11][12] Moominpappa and Moominmamma are often seen as portraits of Jansson's parents Viktor Jansson and Signe Hammarsten-Jansson.[6][11][12] Most of Jansson's characters are on the verge of melancholy, such as the always formal Hemulen, or the strange Hattifatteners, who travel in concerted, ominous groups. Jansson uses the differences between the characters' philosophies to provide a venue for her satirical impulses.[13] List of books edit The Moomin books and Tove Jansson's biographies at the Moomin Museum in Tampere, Finland The books in the series, in order, are: The Moomins and the Great Flood (Originally: Småtrollen och den stora översvämningen) – 1945. Comet in Moominland (Originally: Kometjakten/Kometen kommer) – 1946. Finn Family Moomintroll, Some editions: The Happy Moomins –(Originally: Trollkarlens hatt) – 1948. The Exploits of Moominpappa, Some editions: Moominpappa's Memoirs (Originally: Muminpappans bravader/Muminpappans memoarer) – 1950. Moominsummer Madness (Originally: Farlig midsommar) – 1954. Moominland Midwinter (Originally: Trollvinter) – 1957. Tales from Moominvalley (Originally: Det osynliga barnet) – 1962 (Short stories). Moominpappa at Sea (Originally: Pappan och havet) – 1965. Moominvalley in November (Originally: Sent i november) – 1970 (In which the Moomin family is absent). All of the books in the main series except The Moomins and the Great Flood (Originally: Småtrollen och den stora översvämningen) were translated and published in English between 1951 and 1971. This first book was eventually translated into English in 2005 by David McDuff and published by Schildts of Finland for the 60th anniversary of the series.[8] A later 2012 version of the same translation, featuring Jansson's new preface to the 1991 Scandinavian printing, was published in Britain by Sort of Books,[14] and was more widely distributed. There are also five Moomin picture books by Tove Jansson: The Book about Moomin, Mymble and Little My (Originally: Hur gick det sen?) – 1952. Who Will Comfort Toffle? (Originally: Vem ska trösta knyttet?) – 1960. The Dangerous Journey (Originally: Den farliga resan) – 1977. Skurken i Muminhuset (English: Villain in the Moominhouse) – 1980 Visor från Mumindalen (English: Songs from Moominvalley) – 1993 (No English translation published). The first official translation of Villain in the Moominhouse by Tove Jansson historian Ant O'Neill was premiered in a reading at the ArchWay With Words literary festival on 25 September 2017.[15] The books and comic strips have been translated from their original Swedish and English respectively into many languages. The Book about Moomin, Mymble and Little My is the first Moomin book to be adapted for iPad…

when I thought of a best man, I thought of someone who I’d gone on the pull with in a disastrous attempt to get over a failed relationship. Or drunk absinthe with at three in the morning. Or ranted to about how awful it was that all our friends were pairing off like a bunch of squares while we were young, free, single, and totally miserable. And that…that was definitely Priya. Besides, when I called Bridge to break the good or bad news, she’d been in the middle of a major work crisis because the acclaimed author of I’m Out of the Office at the Moment. Please Forward Any Translation Work to My Personal Email Address had vanished overnight somewhere in the vicinity of the Ängelholm UFO-Memorial, leaving only thirty-eight manuscript pages, a cassette recording of Philip Glass’s Akhenaten, and a note saying To the Fairest. So, yeah, Priya had stepped up. Or at least not told me to fuck off. And was doing a really good job. For a start, she’d totally ignored me when I said I wanted a small, low-key non-gender-specific animal party and instead threw me a massive rager at a friend’s gallery. She’d even got me a rainbow balloon arch, although she did tell me we were going to shoot it with BB guns at the end of the evening because—and I quote—“I love you and respect your choices, but balloon arches are twee as fuck.” Whatever. It was my twee-as-fuck balloon arch, and I was going to stand under it for as long as possible. Or at least for a couple of minutes because, it turned out, s...

In an effort to look sophisticated and at home, I circled the sculpture, trying to look like I was appreciating it on an emotional and intellectual level. “So what do you think?” asked a nearby stranger. While I didn’t jump exactly, I gave a busted-not-understanding-art hop. “Ummm…” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “The thing about art,” I bullshat, “is that it’s not supposed to have one interpretation. It’s supposed to be, like, about how you think and feel.” He folded his arms, in a calling-my-bluff kind of way. “So what does it make you think and how does it make you feel?” Since James Royce-Royce was stealing my friends, I decided to steal his criticism. “It’s sort of melancholy. And sort of…oh my God, I bet raw is a really clichéd thing to say about art. But, like, the choice of materials. And the way the figure is like…barely holding it together.” “It’s also pretty angry,” said the guy. He was small and slight, with a faint rash of dark stubble across his jaw. “Is it?” I squinted. “Well, I was angry when I made it.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I gave him a dirty look. “That’s cheating. It’s hard enough having opinions about art without the artist standing there laughing at you.” “I’m not laughing. You were looking at my sculpture. I thought you might be interested.” “Yeah, you have massively misread the situation. I mean,” I went on quickly when I realised how rude that sounded, “I’m sure it’s great. I just suck at culture. If I was a yoghurt, I–I wouldn’t be a yoghurt.” He gave a slow,...

"WHAT KIND OF FUNDAMENTAL INCOMPATIBILITIES?" I definitely did not screech. “Because it feels like you’re blowing the balloon arch up out of all proportion. Which is, I suppose, at least appropriate for a balloon-based structure.” “It is not,” said Oliver tightly, “the fucking balloon—” He broke off abruptly as the waiter set down our pea-and-broad-bean rotolos. “Thank you very much.” Then unbroke equally abruptly. “Arch.” “I know, I know. It’s what…” I made the air-quotiest air quotes that ever air-quoted. “‘The balloon arch represents.’ Which doesn’t have to be anything, Oliver. It’s fucking balloons.” Oliver took a deep breath. I had a sinking feeling this was going to be logical and wordy. Which was sad because I usually found Oliver being logical and wordy very hot. “I realise you would prefer this to be simple, Lucien. But it isn’t. Over the past year, you’ve said some things to me that have required me to do a certain amount of self-reflection, and I need to know the conclusions I’ve reached are acceptable to you, especially if we’re going to spend our lives together.” I briefly put my throbbing head in my hands. “Is this relationship drama or a deposition?” “I’m not totally convinced you know what a deposition is.” Fair. “But,” he went on, “I’m trying to make this as clear as I can. Because I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings or for either of us to make any mistakes.” “You’re not a mistake,” I told him, less affectionately than the words suggested. “But ...

This was turning into very much the opposite of the romantic meal I’d envisioned. “Okay? That’s good for you, I guess?” “I just want you to…understand.” He was looking at me kind of the way he had when he first told me he worked in criminal defence. And it made me feel…weird. Mostly good weird. Like, even after three years with Oliver, it still did strange things to my head and my heart that someone could care that much about what I thought. I put my fork down. Because, suddenly, I really did want to y’know… “Understand what?” I asked. “That I’ll never be…that I’ll never express my identity in the way you express your identity. And while”—his mouth turned up wryly—“that doesn’t come from a wholly uncomplicated place, it isn’t a flaw in who I am. It’ s just who I am.” I thought I did understand that. But then again I’d clearly given Oliver the impression I didn’t, and Oliver was way smarter than me. “I–I do get that,” I tried. “It’s just sometimes hard to get my brain around.” “That’s the problem. I’m not sure I want to be something that’s hard to get your brain around.” This felt like it was teetering on the edge of a serious place. A potentially relationship-ending, marriage-breaking serious place. So I gambled. “Okay, but I think that ship has already sailed.”

“How reassuring.” He was giving me an arch look, but he seemed to be listening. “Not like that. I just… You know you think about things differently from me. About life, about the law. Hell”—I speared a piece of rotolo and waved it at him—“even about food. I don’t want to be in a relationship with somebody I always agree with.” “I’m not sure that being vegan is the same as processing my identity in a way you can’t access.” “Isn’t it, though?” I asked, hoping my double or nothing was going to come down double, not nothing. “It’s not like being gay—being the kind of gay where you don’t wear rainbows or go on marches—” “I go on marches, Lucien. It’s parties I have trouble with, not protests.” “Okay, but I mean, I don’t think being gay is more important to you than…” I waved my hands in a tight little circle “…all the rest of it. Like, you actually care about shit. Way more shit than I care about. And that doesn’t mean you’re letting the other side down or anything. It makes you like…like a thousand-piece Moomin jigsaw with a wolf in a wig.” Oliver stared blankly at me. Which I probably deserved. “Sorry. My mum’s randomly got into jigsaws and maybe the Moomins? I should have just sai...

He wasn’t giving me we’re-good face. He was giving me we-might-be-good-but face. Which was better than we’re-fucked face but not by much. “My lingering concern is that works in theory, but in practice you being who you are and me being who I am may not work.” Shit. “Not work how? And if you mention the fucking balloon arch one more time, I swear I’ll—” “You’re the one who keeps bringing up the balloon arch. But it is an appropriate example. If we get married underneath a rainbow balloon arch, we’ll be denying who I am, and if we don’t, we’ll be denying who you are. And while that’s a relatively trivial matter on its own, these things can add up. Over the long term they can add up catastrophically.” “They haven’t so far,” I pointed out. “No, but marriage can change things. That’s why the pictures from your bachelor party bothered me so much. You were so happy in them, but it was a happiness I don’t think I could ever share with you and, well, I suppose I wanted to make certain you knew that if you wanted to pursue it, I…well, I won’t stand in your way.” Oh fucking hell. He was really making this difficult. “Sorry, are you dumping me because I enjoyed going to ...

There was a pause. Oliver was breathing in a very, very careful way. And his eyes had gone their flattest, coldest grey. “When we first met,” he went on doggedly, “you were, we were both, but you especially were…in rather a bad place. And, sometimes, the person you need to be with when you’re in a bad place isn’t the person you want to be with when you’re…when you’re not.” My mouth literally fell open. Fortunately, I’d recently taken a sip of water, so it was empty. “What the fuck? Of all the things I’d expected to go wrong this evening, you going full I have healed you and now I set you free was not on the short list.” “I don’t mean to…” Oliver broke off, looking embarrassed, as well he bloody well should. “That is…” He squirmed. Again, in a different context, it would have been cute. “I just saw the pictures of you looking happy and in your element, doing the sorts of things that, realistically, you’re not likely to do very much of with me. And I–I suppose I got in my head.” “Too fucking right you did.” I kicked him under the table, entirely deliberately. “I look happy in those pictures because I’m at a party where I’m celebrating the fact that I’m getting married to the man I...

Oliver’s fingers curled tightly around mine. “I don’t want to be taking anything away from you. Or turning you into someone you’re not supposed to be.” “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be,” I told him. “I don’t think anyone does. And being with you isn’t a compromise for me. It’s…it’s what I want. Otherwise I wouldn’t have fucking asked you to marry me.” Oliver gave a little smile. “Yes, that was quite the gesture.” “I know, right?” I risked smiling back. “Didn’t think I had it in me. I must really love you or something.” “Yes. Yes, you must.” The blush was playing an encore on Oliver’s face. “I’m sorry. I’ve been quite silly tonight.” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe you tried to get me to dump you at Quo Vadis less than a week before our wedding.” “What can I say? Perhaps this place brings out my insecurities.” “Last time we were here,” I reminded him, “I pretended I spoke French to impress you.” “Last time we were here,” he replied, “I was entirely convinced you despised me.” I gazed at him in an embarrassingly mushy way. “I’ve never despised you. And I never will.” “Oh, Lucien”—it was Oliv...

“That would be wonderful,” replied Oliver, for once letting himself enjoy a thing uncomplicatedly. Or at least he did for about half a second. “Ah, except. I believe it’s made with cream?” I basked for a moment in having, very briefly, not fucked one thing up. “Actually, when I booked, I told them this was our first-date restaurant and that we’d had the lemon posset and you’d gone vegan since but could they do something. And they said they could.” Oliver’s eyes got very close to teary again. “Lucien.” He swallowed. “That was…that was terribly sweet of you.” If I’d been a lot more grown-up, I’d have said, It was nothing. If I’d been slightly more grown-up, I’d have said, Anything for you, babe. But wanting to make someone happy as much as I wanted to make Oliver happy was a very naked feeling to be having in a restaurant so, instead, I just gave an embarrassed cringe and said something that came out as “inerenugh?” By some magic I’d never quite mastered, Oliver caught the waiter’s eye, seamlessly volunteered that the meal had been lovely and, from there, segued into a requesting a lemon posset with two spoons to finish. I should have got used to Oliver being good at this shit by ...

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” I asked it, scowling. It probably said something about our relationship that Oliver had a specific exasperated-fondness sigh. “Mr. Posset, remember that you have a right not to self-incriminate.” “Yeah,” I threw back, having seen many police procedurals, “but it may harm its defence if it fails to mention when questioning something it later relies on in court.” Snatching up both the posset and one of the spoons, Oliver half turned away from me. “Excuse me, I need to confer with my client.” “‘By confer with,’ do you mean eat? I’m pretty sure you can get disbarred for that.” “I can confidently say”—Oliver dug the spoon into Mr. Posset—“that I know of no barrister who has ever been disbarred for eating their clients.” “But not because it’s allowed? Because it’s never happened.” “I think,” said Oliver thoughtfully, “it might be considered a violation of the core duty to act in the best interests of the client. And, for that matter, the requirement not to behave in a manner that diminishes the trust the public places in the profession. But there’s never technically been a test case on it.” “Well, it’s good a job this lemon posset is your s...