Husband Material (London Calling, #2)

by Alexis Hall

My amazing barrister boyfriend who still felt like an amazing barrister boyfriend after two whole years.

I was mildly annoyed that he wasn’t here. But his panicked texting was also weirdly endearing and I was in love with him. So fuck.

That made Oliver laugh. “For you, Lucien, anything.”

Oliver was mine, and I was his, and I was kind of completely, embarrassingly, disgustingly in love with him.

like we were a crack squad of secret agents. Okay, possibly more like we were a crap squad of secret agents, with Bridge yelling at us to cover the doors and Mel pressing herself against the wall and I swear coming this close to holding her hands like a gun, while I—in a fit of either enthusiasm or paranoia—tried to conceal myself behind a sign advertising massive savings on frozen pizzas.

if I was marrying Oliver, what I’d really want—what would really matter to me—would be making sure that it was him and me saying how much we loved each other and wanted to be together in front of all the people we cared most about. Our friends, our family.

Oh, poor you. If you give me some of your fifty grand, I’ll buy you the world’s smallest violin.

Worlds smallest violin really needs an audience…

“Okay.” I narrowed my eyes. “Name seven.” He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re slightly taller and more annoying.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered. “I completely love you. And thank you for coming today. I know it’s, like, the opposite of your scene.”

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.

“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?”

“Well, nine hundred and seventy-two, really, because one of them is my auntie Margery and another is my auntie Margery’s python.” I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. “Why

I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. I wasn’t going to ask. “What

It had been kind of the elephant in the room, and now I’d… I dunno. Had I shot the elephant?

But you should know that I am yours, more truly than I have ever been anyone’s. Because when I’m with you, I’m me. Not someone I think I should be. And I’ll be with you, however you want, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Of course he’d said yes, correctly discerning that if he’d said no, I’d have changed my name, moved to Pluto, and joined the French Foreign Legion.

“Come on, you lot,” he tried with the kind of valour that led brigades of soldiers into valleys full of cannon. “You’re being a right bunch of gloomy Gusses. Everybody join in after me: ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…’”

oh nah

I wasn’t going to ask which. I wasn’t going to ask which. “Which?” “The one about the pieces of tarmac.” I wasn’t going to ask why. I wasn’t going to ask why. “Why that one?”

Oliver righted it for me, then took my hand. “Oh, and Dad…” He shot one last look at his father. “Go fuck yourself.”

Back at the flat, I took the extremely sensible and grown-up precaution of opening all the windows and taking the batteries out of the smoke alarm. And then I got to it.

“How do you ever win a case? Do you stand in front of the jury and say, You should send this guy to prison—psyche!”

“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.”

“I’ll get some air with you,” cried Bridge, far too enthusiastically. “We can get air together.” “Why? Do you think I’ll need help carrying it?”

“Fine,” I told him. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll not marry you.” And I guess the lack of sleep and the wedding-day stress and the whole not getting married after all had finally caught up with Oliver. Because he pulled me tightly into his arms and started laughing. “Lucien O’Donnell, you have made me the happiest of men.”

“Thank you for coming,” said Oliver, as if he did this kind of thing all the time. Which, between this and his dad’s funeral, he almost did. “I’m afraid Lucien and I have decided that marriage isn’t right for either of us, and we’d rather be together on our own terms. Please do enjoy the party and make the most of the open bar.” And then we ran. Hand in hand. Up the aisle. Out the doors. Through the venue. And into the sudden storm that had turned a busy London street into… Well, okay, it was still a busy London street. But the pavement was shining silver and the raindrops were playing our tune and I was in Oliver’s arms, and we were laughing and kissing, and all around us the passers-by were putting up umbrellas in every colour of the rainbow.