Page 32 of Husband Material
"AS A LEGAL PROFESSIONAL," SAIDOliver as we set off for Surrey at unspeakable o’clock in the morning in the car Oliver had hired for the occasion, “I feel I should point out that Edward actually has a fiduciary responsibility to his company and his investors, which means dropping a billion-dollar deal in favour of a ship-building contract is somewhat unethical.”
I fished the final piece of homemade French toast from the Tupperware box on my lap. “Very much the point of that movie, Oliver.”
“I’m aware it’s not part of the central romantic fantasy, but itismade explicit earlier that he doesn’t work with his own money. So by deciding at the last minute to make boats with a surrogate father figure, instead of doing what he told people he was going to do, he’s technically committing massive fraud.”
“Isn’t”—I licked cinnamon from my fingertips—“the implication that he’ll make more money from the ships long term?”
“It’s a billion-dollar deal. The contract with the navy is only for a few million dollars. That’s still over nine hundred million dollars unaccounted for. No wonder Stuckey is incandescent. Not, I hasten to add,” Oliver hastily added, “that this justifies his sexually assaulting anyone.”
“Are you going to be like this when we go and see the musical?” I asked.
He slid me a mischievous look. “Only if there’s a song about business ethics.”
“I’m kind of assuming it’ll be songs about…shopping? And maybe, I don’t know, sex work?”
“Ah,” said Oliver, “so you think it’ll open with Vivian climbing out of a window in her thigh-high boots, singing,”—he sang—“The laws that are supposed to protect me make things worse in practice. And well-intended regulations can have negative con-”—he tapped the steering wheel—“se-quen-ces. If my profession was decriminalised, it wouldn’t be unfairly stigmatised. And I wouldn’t have to worry about the sexual offences…” He paused and finished in his normal voice, “Act, 2003.”
I was sitting in a car with a man who would and, thinking about it, could improv a mediocre show tune about the complexities of the UK sex industry. And for some reason I was okay with it. “You,” I told him, “are a dork who cares too much.”
“And it has taken you two years to work this out?”
“I worked out the cares-too-much thing pretty quickly. The dork has been creeping up on me.”
Oliver was blushing very slightly. “Yes, I try to keep it close to my chest.”
“Oliver, the only dork you need to keep close to your chest is me.”
“You do realise that according to some etymologists,dorkmeans penis.”
“You can keep that close to your chest too, if you like.”
“I think that’s poor road safety.”
“Fine,” I said in fake huff, “I’ll go to sleep, then.”
Oliver’s hand briefly left the gearstick to pat my knee. “You should. It’s going to be a long day for you.”
And how. I was sure it was going to be a worth-it long day, but I was probably going to be in post-someone-else’s-wedding recovery for at least a month. Or to put it another way, I was going to be in post-someone-else’s-wedding recovery until the next time I needed to go to someone else’s wedding. “But how will I entertain and delight you if I’m unconscious?”
“I’ll put a podcast on.”
I groaned massively. “NotThe Magnus Archives.”
“What’s wrong withThe Magnus Archives?”
“I’m trying to sleep. It’ll give me nightmares. About worms.” I paused. “Or spiders. Or strangers. Or the sea. Or the sky. Or meat. Or Edinburgh.”
“It’sMagnus,” said Oliver firmly, “orThis American Life.”
I groaned massively again. “Fine. Put onMagnus.”
So Oliver put onMagnus,and we either trundled or whooshed—depending on traffic—our way to Surrey. And, fortunately, I was knackered enough that whatever horrendous things were happening to the employees of the Magnus Institute, this time I slept right through it.
When next I stirred, we’d arrived. Or rather, we’d arrived in the car park, which given how English stately homes worked meant that we were still a moderately long walk from the actual house. In a display of unexpected couple efficiency—given that fifty percent of the couple was me—we retrieved what was left of our wedding costumes from the back seat and took turns straightening each other’s ties and brushing off each other’s lapels. Not that Oliver’s lapels needed that much brushing. I just wanted an excuse to cop a feel. Because while Oliver wore a suit to work every day, this was a special-occasion suit and Oliver in a special-occasion suit was different from Oliver in a barrister suit in a way that was only noticeable if you’d spent slightly too long looking at him.
He was in pearl grey, which brought out the silvers in his eyes, and he’d gone with one of his I’m-secretly-more-flamboyant-than-I-let-on ties—with a pattern of subtle pewter swirls and dusty-pink roses. As it happened, my tie was pink as well, but that was because midnight blue and rose gold were the wedding colours, and given the choice between blue suit/pink tie or blue tie/pink suit, I’d put my foot very firmly down on the side of not looking like a lost flamingo.
“Is there something wrong with my lapels?” asked Oliver.
