Page 137 of Boyfriend Material
“Though,” David continued cheerfully, “she’ll be doing less of that kind of thing now they’re starting a family.”
Miriam addressed her little audience again. “The truth is, until Christopher met Mia, we despaired of ever having grandchildren.”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. Given how well my joke had gone down earlier, I didn’t think anyone was going to welcome my pointing out that gay people could have kids, too, thank you very much. Besides, if Oliver could put up with the Clarkes, I could put up with this.
No, really. I could put up with this.
“I…I should go and find Christopher.” And, with that, Oliver turned away and started walking towards the house.
I actually had to chase him.
“Are you okay?” I tried.
He cast me a rather impatient look. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Um. Because that was… awful?”
“Lucien, please don’t be difficult. My parents belong to a different generation. My mother worries about me a lot, and my father tends to be very direct.”
I found myself sort of tugging at his sleeve. “Excuse me, my mum belongs to that generation.”
“Yes. Well. Your mother is quite an unusual person.”
“Yeah but she…but she…” There was something I desperately needed to tell him—something I was sure he needed to understand—but I couldn’t quite work out what it was. “She wouldn’t talk to anyone like that?”
Oliver stopped walking abruptly. “My parents raised me. My father worked every hour God sent, and my mother gave up her career entirely. I don’t want to have an argument with you, especially not here, and especially not now, but I’d thank you not to insult them in their own home.”
“I’m sorry, Oliver.” I hung my head. “I didn’t mean to. I’m here to support you.”
“Then …”—he made a this-conversation-is-over gesture—“accept how things are. This is my life. It’s not like your life. Please respect it.”
I wanted to say that it didn’t seem to respect him.
But I didn’t quite dare.
We’d just reached the patio when a couple, who I assumed from age and context were Christopher and Mia, stepped through the French windows. He was definitely Oliver-like around the edges though he was slightly taller, his eyes bluer and his hair lighter. The combination of a slightly tousled look and a well-defined three-day stubble gave the impression of somebody who very much wanted you to know that he was too busy saving lives to worry about little details like shaving. His wife, by contrast, was shortish and pretty-ish, in a takes-no-shit way, and sporting a ruthlessly practical pixie cut.
Oliver offered a weird little nod. “Christopher.”
“Hi, Ollie.” His brother grinned. “How’s the law?”
“Much as ever. How’s medicine?”
“Right now, intense as fuck. We’re exhausted and frankly”—his gaze drifted resentfully over the lawn—“I can’t believe they dragged us back here for this.”
One of Oliver’s eyelids twitched. “Well, of course they want you here. They’re extremely proud of you.”
“But not so proud that they’ll let me stay where I need to be and do the things they’re proud of me for doing.”
“Yes, yes, we’re all very aware how special and important your work is. It’s not unreasonable to expect you to make time for your family occasionally.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ollie. Why do you—”
“Hello,” I announced. “I’m Luc. I’m Oliver’s boyfriend. I work for a beetle charity. It’s nice to meet you.”
Mia detached herself from her husband and shook my hand enthusiastically. “Good to meet you too. I’m so sorry. We’ve been on a plane for thirteen hours, which I know makes it sound like I’m bragging about my exciting jet-setting lifestyle but I really mean I’ve spent a long time trapped in a metal box.”
“God.” Christopher ran a hand through his hair. “I’m being a dick, aren’t I?”
