Page 98 of Boyfriend Material
“Me,” I said. “I’m what’s wrong.”
“What’s going on?” Bridge’s phone was just sensitive enough to pick up Tom’s sleepy voice.
“It’s an emergency,” she told him.
He groaned. “They’re books, Bridge. What problems can they possibly have at half one in the morning?”
“It’s not a publishing emergency. It’s a friend emergency.”
“In which case, I love you. And you’re the best and loyalest person I know. But I’m going to sleep in the spare room.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll be quick.”
“No you won’t. And I don’t want you to.”
Down the slightly shitty connection I caught the rustle of bedclothes and a kiss goodbye. And then Bridge was back on the line. “Okay, I’m here. Tell me what’s up.”
I opened my mouth and then realised I had no idea what to say. “Oliver’s gone.”
A slight pause. “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding bad but…what did you do now?”
“Thanks.” I let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’re my rock.”
“Iamyour rock. Which is why I know you make really bad decisions.”
“It wasn’t a decision,” I wailed. “It just sort of happened.”
“What just sort of happened?”
“I told him he’d fucked me up and to fuck off.”
“Um.” Bridge gave me the audible equivalent of her confused face. “Why?”
The more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t sure. “I’m in theGuardian, Bridge. The fuckingGuardian.”
“I thought the whole point of dating Oliver was to get better press? After all, it’s a broadsheet. They’d probably only run a celebrity sex story if it was about an MP or a Royal.”
“It was worse than a sex story. It was a thought-provoking opinion piece about what a broken victim of celebrity culture I am written by that guy I failed to pull at Malcom’s T Party.”
“Should I look?”
“Why the hell not?” I huddled further into a corner of the bathroom. “Everyone else will.”
“I meant, would reading it help me support you better.”
I mumbled something along the lines ofurnuhnuh.
“Okay I’m going in.”
A pause, while she switched apps and read the article, during which I shivered and sweated and felt sick.
“Wow,” she said. “What an utter wanker.”
That was less consoling than I’d hoped it would be. “He’s right, though, isn’t he? I’m this half-person wreckage of someone else’s fame, who’ll never have a normal life or a normal relationship or—”
“Luc, stop it. I work in publishing, I can spot articulate guff a mile away.”
“It’s how I feel, though. And he must have seen it, and now the whole world can too.” I pressed my cheek against the wall, hoping the chill would help somehow. “It’s not just a picture of me getting off or throwing up. It’s…Miles all over again.”
