Page 117 of Husband Material
“It’s also pretty angry,” said the guy. He was small and slight, with a faint rash of dark stubble across his jaw.
“Is it?” I squinted.
“Well, I was angry when I made it.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I gave him a dirty look. “That’s cheating. It’s hard enough having opinions about art without the artist standing there laughing at you.”
“I’m not laughing. You were looking at my sculpture. I thought you might be interested.”
“Yeah, you have massively misread the situation. I mean,” I went on quickly when I realised how rude that sounded, “I’m sure it’s great. I just suck at culture. If I was a yoghurt, I–I wouldn’t be a yoghurt.”
He gave a slow, sly grin. “Wow, you also suck at analogies.”
“I suck at many things,” I told him.
“And now”—his eyes met mine—“you’re just bragging.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again quickly. This was gently circling the outskirts of flirty. And on the one hand that was nice and weirdly affirming, especially because, now I thought about it, I hadn’t once thought to ask him if he was planning to sell my story to the newspapers. On the other hand… “Um… I don’t mean to… At the risk of making assumptions, I’m engaged.”
He laughed. And I flattered myself that he also looked just a tiny bit disappointed. “Oh right, you’re Luc. I should have guessed when you had no idea about art.”
“Hey, there are at least four other people here who areexactlyas ignorant as I am.”
“I can go flirt with them if you like,” he said.
“Nope. All married. So you’re stuck with me. Or I suppose you could go talk with literally anyone else.”
“Well.” His lips quirked back into that devilish smile. “I kind of already know this crowd. So unless you want to go back to your married friends, I’m good.”
I gave a hollow groan. “Please don’t make me go back to them. They’re still looking at baby pictures, and two of them are trying to get a mortgage.”
“That’s one hell of a stag do.”
“Hey.” I poked him lightly. “Non-gender-specific animaldo, thank you. And also, I don’t know your name, which is rude because you know mine.”
“I’m an artist,” he told me, “so I’m allowed to be rude.”
“Wow, you really are a friend of Priya’s.”
He laughed. “Sorry. It’s Tyler.”
“And this…” I gestured hopelessly at the sculpture. “This is an art that you did.”
“It is indeed,” he confirmed, “an art that I did. A raw, angry, melancholy art that I did.”
“What were you raw, angry, and melancholy about?”
He lifted one shoulder in a sort of self-mocking shrug. “The Tavistock Centre.”
“Oh,” I said, finally getting a piece of art. “Is that why… Are those calendars?”
“Yeah. Honestly, it’s a slightly pissy piece of protest art, but having to wait four and a half years for an initial consultation is total shit.”
I gave one of those this-is-a-major-problem-that-I-cannot-in-any-way-contribute-to-solving cringes. “I’m sorry. That is…totally shit.”
“Don’t worry about it. I waited, I got my diagnosis, I waited again, I got referred to an endocrinologist. Finally got on T.”
“Yay,” I offered.
