Page 6 of Boyfriend Material
That made me smile. She always does. “I know. It’s just every time it happens, even when it’s trivial, it, well, it reminds me.”
“You know it was not your fault, what happened. What Miles did, it was not even truly about you.”
I snorted. “It was specificallyallabout me.”
“Someone else’s actions may affect you. But what other people choose to do is about them.”
We were both quiet for a moment.. “Will it…will it ever stop hurting?”
“Non.” Mum shook her head. “But it will stop mattering.”
I wanted to believe her, I really did. She was, after all, living proof of her words.
“Do you want to come round, mon caneton?”
It was only an hour or so away if I cadged a lift from Epsom (1.6 stars on Google) Station. But while I could more-or-less justify ringing my mum every time something bad happened to me, literally running back to her literal house slipped under even my low bar for self-respect.
“Judy and I have found this new show that we are watching,” offered Mum in a way that I think was intended to be encouraging.
“Oh?”
“Yes, it is very intriguing. It is calledRuPaul’s Drag Race—have you heard of it? We were not sure we would like it at first because we thought it was about monster trucks. But you can imagine how happy we were when we discovered it was about men who like to dress as women—why are you laughing?”
“Because I love you. Very much.”
“You should not be laughing, Luc. You would be very impressed. We are often gagging on their eleganza. That means—”
“I’m familiar withDrag Race. Probably more familiar than you.” This was what happened when you won an Emmy. Your audience became your audience’s mums.
“Then you should come, mon cher.”
Mum lives in Pucklethroop-in-the-Wold—this tiny, chocolate box of a village where I grew up—and spends her days getting into scrapes with her best friend, Judith Cholmondely-Pfaffle. “I…” If I stayed home, I could try and achieve grown-up things like plates and clean clothes. Although in practice, I would probably pick at my Google alerts until they bled.
“I am making my special curry.”
Okay, that settled it. “Fuck no.”
“Luc, I think you are very rude about my special curry.”
“Yes, because I prefer my arsehole not on fire.”
Mum was pouting. “For a gay, you are far too sensitive about your arsehole.”
“How about we don’t talk about my arsehole anymore?”
“You brought it up. Anyway, Judy loves my curries.”
Sometimes I think Judy must love Mum. God knows why else you would brave her cooking. “Probably because you’ve spent the last twenty-five years systematically murdering her taste buds.”
“Well, you know where we are if you change your mind.”
“Thanks, Mum. Talk to you soon.”
“Allez, darling. Bises.”
Without Mum talking nineteen-to-the-dozen about reality TV, my home was suddenly very quiet, my day very…long seeming. Between work, friends, acquaintances, and sporadic attempts to get laid, I usually managed to use my flat as an overpriced, badly maintained hotel. Turning up only to crash out and leave again the next morning.
Except Sundays. Sundays were tricky. Or had got tricky as the years had got away from me. At university they’d been for brunch and regretting what you’d done on Saturday and sleepy afternoons. Then, one by one, I’d lost my friends to dinners with in-laws or decorating the nursery or the pleasures of a day at home.
