Page 70 of Boyfriend Material
“Didn’t he die?”
“Yes. Back in 2009, but he gave his notes to Richard Kavanagh, andhewas going to write the last three books in the series. But then the first one had to be split into three other books for publication, and the other two have been broken into a quadrilogy and tetralogy—”
“Aren’t those both sets of four?”
“There’s a technical difference, but I don’t have time to go into it right now. Anyway, the point is, it was all going really well, and Netflix was interested in optioning books three, seven, and nine, and we were trying to get them to look at one, two, and six and I think they were about to pick them up. But now Kavanagh has also died. And Raymond Carlisle and Roger Clayborn are both saying that he wanted them to take over, and they’re refusing to collaborate with each other.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that sounds…complicated.”
“I know. And I’m probably going to be on a conference call all day. If I can’t get them to work it out, I’m definitely going to get fired.”
I rolled my eyes, only because she couldn’t see me. “You’re not going to get fired, Bridge. You never get fired. They keep getting you to deal with this sort of nonsense because you’re actually fantastic at your job.”
There was a long silence. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine. Why?”
“I can’t remember the last time you said something nice about, well, anything.”
I thought about this for slightly longer than I was comfortable having to think about it. “When you got that new haircut. The one with the cute fringe. I told you it looked really good on you.”
“That was three years ago.”
I gasped. “It was not.”
“Luc, I can remember when fringes were in.”
“Jesus.” I sank down onto the arm of my sofa. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m saving these stories for when I’m best man at your wedding.”
“You might be saving them for a long time.”
“Then it’s going to be a very long speech. And I have to go. But please tell me how much you like Oliver first.”
“Nothing,” I insisted, “is happening with Oliver.”
She squeaked happily. “Ah, but you’re not complaining about how pompous and boring he is. That means it’s going exactly according to plan. Must dash. Ciao, darling.”
She was gone before I could ciao back.
Twenty minutes later, the James Royce-Royces appeared, James Royce-Royce with an actual picnic basket.
“Oh, Luc.” He gazed around in dismay. “I hadn’t realised it had got this bad. I’m not sure I’ll feel safe eating in here.”
“People eat infields,” I pointed out. “Like, places where cows shit. No cows have shit in my flat.”
“Are you familiar, sweet pea, with the term ‘damning with faint praise’?”
“Did you come here to help or take the piss?”
He shrugged. “I thought I’d try a bit of both.”
A rumble outside heralded the arrival of Priya, her girlfriend, and her pickup truck. I mean, the rumbling was the truck. Her girlfriend was scary in other ways, what with being a legit grown-up and everything. By the time all five of us were crammed into my front room, surrounded by the detritus of the last five years, I was feeling pretty epically low.
“Welp.” I made a helpless gesture. “This is my life. And I wish I hadn’t invited you to come and look at it.”
“You know,” said Priya. “I’d normally say something mean. But you’re so pathetic right now, it wouldn’t be satisfying.”
