Page 39 of Boyfriend Material
He cleared his throat. “You could stay the night if you wanted.”
“Wow, you are seriously committed to me not supporting Uber’s business model.”
“No, I just thought it might be… That is.” A self-conscious little shrug. “For the sake of verisimilitude.”
“Who do you think is going to notice where I sleep? Do you think we’re being monitored by the FBI?”
“I believe surveillance outside the United States is more likely to be carried out by the CIA, but actually I was mostly considering the paparazzi.”
That was a fair point. They’d caught me leaving various people’s houses on various mornings down the years.
“And it would be no inconvenience,” he added awkwardly. “I have a spare toothbrush, and can sleep on the sofa.”
“I can’t make you sleep on the sofa in your own house.”
“I can’t make you sleep on the sofa when you’re a guest.”
There was a long silence.
“Well,” I pointed out, “if neither of us can sleep on the sofa, then either I go home or…”
Oliver faffed with a sleeve of his jumper. “I think we’re mature enough to share a bed without incident.”
“Look, I know what happened outside the restaurant was a bit much, but I usually wait for an invitation before I jump on someone. I’m an incident-free zone, I promise.”
“Then, it’s getting late. I suggest we head upstairs.”
And, just like that, I’d apparently agreed to spend the night with Oliver. Well. NotwithOliver. More sort of in Oliver’s general vicinity.
Except, right then, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, there didn’t feel like much of a difference.
* * *
It should have come as no surprise to me that Oliver owned actual pyjamas. In dark-blue tartan. Also that he made his bed like an actual grown-up, instead of throwing a duvet vaguely in the direction of a duvet cover, somewhere near a mattress.
“What are you staring at?” he asked.
“I’d assumed people stopped buying nightwear in 1957. You look like Rupert Bear.”
“I don’t remember Rupert Bear wearing anything remotely resembling this.”
“No, but he would have, if it had been available.”
“That seems specious.”
I struck what I assumed to be a lawyerly pose. “M’lud. The honourable counsel for the prosecution is being specious.”
“I think”—Oliver seemed to be giving this far more consideration than it deserved—“unless you had established expertise in the field, your speculation as to what Rupert Bear would have worn, had he been given the opportunity, would not be admissible in court.”
“M’lud. The honourable gentleman is being mean to me.”
He pursed his lips peevishly. “You’re the one who said I looked like Rupert Bear.”
“That’s not mean. Rupert Bear is cute.”
“Given he’s also a cartoon bear, I’m still not certain I can take it as a compliment. And I happen to have a spare pair of pyjamas if you’d like to borrow them.”
“What. No. I’m not a child in a Disney movie.”
