Page 155 of Boyfriend Material
I was about to protest that I didn’t have low standards. But I was in this mess because I’d told my friends I needed literally anyone who would go out with me. “So whatisthe problem?”
“You can’t feel close to someone,” Bridge went on, “when you’re spending the whole time trying to be what you think they want.”
“But heiswhat I want.” Except then I remembered Oliver telling me he wasn’t who I thought he was. “Oh fuck. Isn’t he?”
Priya’s eyebrows did something very aggressive. “We’re about a third of the way to Durham, mate. He better fucking had be.”
I was so confused. Or maybe I wasn’t. Maybe all this stuff about expectations and pretending and who people really were was so much smoke and bullshit. And maybe I’d just done a terrible job of showing Oliver that what made me happy wasn’t the V-cut or the French toast or the socially acceptable career: it was…him. Maybe itwasthat simple.
“Yeah,” I said. “He is.”
Chapter 51
It probably said something about Oliver’s sense of humour—even when he was apparently in the middle of an existential crisis—that he’d chosen to stay in a place called the Honest Lawyer Hotel. Going by my complete lack of historical knowledge or interest, it looked like a converted coaching house, all sash windows, sloping tile roofs, and chimney stacks. There was a blossom tree in full bloom out front, which made it, in theory at least, a great location to try and romance somebody back into your life. And, for that matter, county.
We stuck the truck in their carpark and piled through the front door, looking in no way suspicious.
“Um. Hello,” I said to the be-suited man behind the desk—who frankly, and fairly, already seemed to have had enough of my shit.
“Can I help you?” A pause. “Any or all of you?”
“I’m looking for Oliver Blackwood. I think he’s staying here.”
He got that weary expression that people in service industries got when you were asking them to do things that definitely weren’t their jobs. “I’m afraid I can’t give you information about guests.”
“But,” I pounced, “heisa guest.”
“I can’t give you information about whether someone is a guest or not.”
“He’s not a film star or anything. He’s just my ex-boyfriend.”
“That doesn’t make a difference. I’m not legally allowed to tell you who’s staying here.”
“Oh. Well. Please?”
“No.”
“I’ve come a really long way.”
“And”—to give the receptionist his due, he was being way more patient than I would have been—“you brought all these people with you?”
“We’re moral support,” Bridget explained.
“If you know this man,” said the receptionist slowly, “wouldn’t you have his phone number?”
“I guess I was worried he wouldn’t pick up.”
“But you thought he’d be fine with you showing up at his hotel with no warning and an entourage?”
I turned away from the desk. “Bridge, why did you think this plan would work?”
“It shows you’re going above and beyond.” She tripped forward to join me. “It shows how much you care.”
“Yeah.” That was Priya. “I’m coming to the conclusion that it mostly shows you didn’t think this through.”
“I have to agree,” said the receptionist.
Sheepishly, I pulled out my phone and rang Oliver. It went to voicemail, but since there was no message I could conceivably leave, I hung up quickly. “I think he might be screening me.”
