Page 7 of Husband Material
Rhys beamed. “Oh, Only Fans? Yes, I was reading this article and people were saying that it was getting very popular, and so I thought, as head of social media, I should probably be on that too. It’s been doing rather well.”
“Has it?”
“Oh yes. People do keep asking me to take my shirt off, though.”
I wasn’t sure how far down this road I wanted to go. “And do you?”
“Well, not in the last couple of weeks because it’s been quite nippy out.”
Okay. So I wanted to go exactly this distance and no further. “Great. Good on you. Nice to see that you’re taking initiative. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some very important…fundraising to do.”
I didn’t exactly bolt, but I didn’t exactly not bolt either. The advantage of having your own office was that it always gave you somewhere to hide when you suddenly discovered that one of your coworkers had unwittingly stumbled into the world of soft-core pornography. Which admittedly wasn’t a thing that happened often but was within the spectrum of things that happened often enough at CRAPP that having a sanctuary was really, really nice.
My ancient computer had barely finished booting up when my phone buzzed. The text preview readJust for your information, which told me it was Oliver before I even saw his name.
Just for your information, I think we were photographed walking back to the party.
I can send you the article if you’d like but it’s nothing to worry about.
Two years ago I’d have seen it already because my Google alerts would have told me about it. But the new, sensible shit-together-having me didn’t need to stare obsessively at every mention of my name in every scandal sheet.It’s cool, I texted back. I trust you.
The door swung open and Alex Twaddle poked his head inside. “Luc, old man, Dr. Fairclough wants to see you about something media-y.”
Fuck. Not again.
Actually do send it to me. I might need it for self-defence.
A couple of seconds later, a link to the offending piece popped up. The headline wasWe Always Knew He Was a Tw*t, which I thought was unfair for two reasons—firstly because they blatantly hadn’t always known that, they’d just said it because of the hat,and secondly because it wasn’t like I was even doing anything. I was walking across a park with my boyfriend. If I hadn’t been wearing a vulva on my head, it would have been quite a sweet picture. Hell, even with the vulva.
But Dr. Fairclough wanted to see me anyway. Which was…it was not okay. Things had been going well for nearly two whole years. The most recent Beetle Drive had been a huge success. We had more donors than ever. What more could I do here? Get a second, even more respectable boyfriend?
Deciding that indignation felt better than dread, I marched up to Dr. Fairclough’s office and showed myself in.
“Ah, O’Donnell,” she said. “I’ve just seen this picture.” She rotated her screen towards me and there we were: me, Oliver, and the vulva hat.
And this time I wasn’t backing down. “Yup. That’s me. And that’s my boyfriend who I love, and that’s a hat shaped like a vulva because I was celebrating a friend’s hen night and I thought having only penis hats would be heteronormative and/or transphobic, so yes, I was walking through the park with a set of labia crocheted to my face and I am not ashamed, and if Cee-Arr-Ay-Pee-Pee has a problem with that, then they should remember that this time I’m dating a lawyer and I’ll take them to fucking court.”
Dr. Fairclough blinked exactly once. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Oh.” It’s not that I’d been looking for a fight. But I did feel a bit like a matador who’d shown up at the arena only to have the bull politely ask if I needed it to hold my cape.
“After all,” she went on, “it’s a very mean headline. They call you a twit.”
They hadn’t, in fact, called me a twit. “I’ve had worse.”
Dr. Fairclough blinked exactly once more. Sometimes I thought she genuinely was part praying mantis. “Well, thank youfor this little talk. I hope you consider yourself to be emotionally supported.”
In a funny way, I did. Yes, I was pretty sure that Dr. Fairclough believed that human feelings were an evolutionary dead end caused by a misguided lack of exoskeleton, but she was trying, and I could give her points for that. “Thanks, Dr. F.”
“Don’t call me ‘Dr. F.’”
“Sorry. Thank you, Dr. Fairclough.”
My life was in a good enough place that not getting told I had to change my entire personality or lose my job felt like relief, rather than elation, but I was still relatively upbeat when I got back to my office and started pinging emails to people who had promised us money at the Beetle Drive.
An hour or so later, there was a knock at my door. This was unusual in itself because CRAPP wasn’t a knocking kind of office. It was a poking-your-head-in, wandering-through-without-being-asked, spilling-hot-coffee-on-you kind of office.
“Come in?” I said without really thinking about it.
