Page 158 of Boyfriend Material
“We’re here.” Bridget poked me excitedly.
I rubbed my eyes, very glad to be home. “Thank fuck. I’m knackered.”
“I feel sooooo sorry for you,” drawled Priya. “Having to sleep in the back while I ferried you to and from Durham on a wild-goose chase.”
“Sorry. Sorry. Next time you have something heavy to lift, I’ll make far fewer excuses about helping you.” I plopped out of the truck, fumbling in my pocket for my keys. Then I realised I was in Clerkenwell. “Hey, wait. This isn’t where I live.”
Bridget yanked the door closed again and locked it before winding the window down just far enough that I could hear her. “No, this is Oliver’s. Don’t you remember? We said we’d take you here.”
Yes. Yes, they had. “I didnotagree to this.”
“Tough. It’s for your own good. You’ll thank us when you’re eighty and have a million grandchildren.”
I banged on the side of the vehicle. “Let me in, you abject fuckers. This is not funny.”
Priya cracked the front window. “You’re right. It’s not. Hands off the paintwork.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I waved my arms, not quite daring to further risk Priya’s wrath. “I’m pretty sure this is legally kidnapping.”
“Oooh,” cried Bridget. “Oliver’s a lawyer. Knock on his door and ask him.”
“I am not going to wake him up in the middle of the night to ask a spurious question about whether my friends have committed a felony against me.”
“I was just trying to give a plausible cover story you could use to segue into telling him you want to go out with him again.”
I was still gesticulating. “Oh so many…many things. Firstly, it is not a plausible cover story. Secondly, it doesn’t make up for the fact you’ve dumped me on the street halfway across London from where I actually live. And, thirdly, most importantly, he doesn’t want to go out with me.”
“You were willing to do this in Durham. Why aren’t you willing to do it here?”
“Because,” I yelled, “I’ve had time to realise what a terrible idea it is. Now let me the fuck back into this van before Oliver’s neighbours call the police.”
Priya began winding her window back up. “Don’t you dare call my truck a van.”
“I’m so sorry. Clearly that distinction is what matters most in this moment.”
“Lucien,” said Oliver, from behind me, “what are you doing?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I turned, trying to look normal and nonchalant. “Just passing? On my way back from…a trip?”
“If you’re just passing, why are you standing outside my front door, screaming your head off? And why is there a truck full of people watching you do it?”
I stared at him helplessly for what felt like far too long. He was in stripy pyjama bottoms and one of his plain, excitingly clingy T-shirts, and he had that slightly overchiselled look he’d had when I first met him. It made him feel slightly like a stranger.
“I’m trying to think of a good excuse,” I told him. “But I can’t.”
“Then”—he folded his arms—“why don’t you try telling me the truth?”
Well, it couldn’t be any worse than “I happened to stop by with all my friends to ask you a legal question.” “Bridget told me you were moving to Durham. So I went to Durham. To tell you not to go to Durham. But it turned out you weren’t in Durham. You were at your house.”
He seemed to be having trouble processing this. Which made two of us. “Is that why you called earlier?”
“Um. Yes.”
Long silence.
“I’m…I’m not going to Durham.”
