Page 97 of Husband Material
“I’m sure it is. It is not, however, a helpful state to be in when one’s arranging a funeral and trying to be there for one’s mother.”
“Where’s Christopher? Can’t he help?”
“Christopher,” said Oliver, with an edge of frustration, “is in Afghanistan. He’ll be back for the funeral but not before. And I’m trying very hard not to resent him, but at the moment this feels very typical.”
I hoiked my feet onto the bed and crossed my legs. “Tell you what. How about we draw a circle around this room and say that in here you can be as bitter, resentful, and straight-up mean as you like. It won’t hurt anyone, and no one will find out, and I won’t think any less of you because I couldn’t—and also because I’m a horrible person anyway.”
Oliver didn’t say anything for so long I thought even the mystical power of the circle of venting couldn’t overcome his fundamental need to give people the benefit of the doubt. Then he sucked in a breath like he was surfacing in the hundred-meter butterfly. “I realise what Christopher does is very important and helps a lot of people, but it’s incredibly fucking convenient that it means he’s never around whenever anything needs doing. And I’d say if I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d chosen his career specifically to keep a thousand miles between him and his family asmuch and as often as possible. But I can’t say that because I don’t know better because it’s fucking true. He’s done this his whole life—from holidays with his friends when he was sixteen to his gap year to studying in Edinburgh to his year abroad to Médecins Sans Fucking Frontières. If they gave a medal to the most selfish altruistic person in the world, Christopher would win it and then not show up at the ceremony.”
I think it was air more than complaints that Oliver had run out of. The Christopher Sucks speech had actually left him a little flushed. And I did feel sort of bad for Christopher because, while everything Oliver had said was probably accurate, given the Blackwoods, I’d have signed up with MSF as well. And from what Mia had told me the one time we’d met, they got their own flavour of shit from Oliver’s parents.
“Oh God.” Oliver pressed his forehead to his knees. “I’m a terrible person.”
I moved closer and put a hand on his back. “Okay, I should have made the rules of the Hate Room clearer. Nobody is allowed to judge you here, includingyou.”
Oliver’s shoulders heaved, and he made a sound like he wanted to cry but couldn’t. “It’s just too much. He’s spent his whole life running away and I’ve spent my whole life dealing with the things he’s running away from, and it’s never been good enough, and it’ll never be good enough, and now it can’t ever be good enough because our father is dead.”
For a moment, I just stroked him in what I hoped was a comforting way. “Listen,” I said finally. “You know how I said this was a no-judgment zone? Well, I’m going to say some really naff things now, and I need you not to tell anybody or laugh at me.”
He turned his face slightly towards me. “I shall make a sincere attempt, but it depends how naff they are.”
“Right,” I naffed. “I know your parents brought you up a certainway, but you can’t—oh, for fuck’s sake—live your life trying to be good enough for other people. You have to be good enough for yourself. Although, for the record, you’re definitely good enough for me.”
“Lucien, Lucien, Lucien.” I couldn’t tell if he meant it as affection or admonition. “That was exceptionally naff.”
I rolled my eyes at him in mock rebuke. “Sometimes true things are naff and naff things are true. It’s one of the many ways in which reality is bobbins.”
There was a tiny pause. “And,” he said, “and…you’re sure this is…okay?”
“What’s okay?”
“Saying these things. I’m not just convincing you that you’re about to marry a whiny prick?”
“You’re not being a whiny prick.” I went back to my hopefully comforting stroking. “This shit is clearly messing with you. It would mess with anyone.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “It would mess with anyone in similar circumstances. But I’m deeply aware ‘Oh woe is me, my affluent parents whose cultural and literal capital gave me significant unearned advantages that most people can never access and which I largely took for granted were sometimes a bit emotionally unsupportive’ isn’t exactly the stuff of tragedy.”
I was starting to feel like I’d misplayed noughts and crosses and now Oliver had the centre and two corners and wherever I went next, he was going to win. “Oliver. I understand this is complicated, but you’re forcing me to either be naff again or shit on your dead father, and I don’t want to do either.”
“It’s the room of hate, remember.” Oliver made a small encircling gesture. “So you can do both.”
“Okay, fine. Naff thing: Your pain matters, even if other people have it worse. Shitting-on-your-dead-father thing: Your parents were more than just sometimes a bit emotionally unsupportive.They’re total fuckers who made you feel inadequate your whole life.Andthey’re kind of homophobic.”
“Well,” said Oliver, “at least I only have one of them to deal with now.”
My eyes went wide. “Wow, really taking advantage of the safe room, aren’t you?”
“As you may have noticed, Lucien”—something like a smile touched his lips—“I seldom do things by halves. Besides, my mother’s currently being difficult enough for the both of them.”
Curling closer, I waited for Oliver to unleash himself.
“Obviously I sympathise. And it’s natural that she’s taking Dad’s death quite…hard. But as well as expecting me to organise everything, she also seems to blame me for everything. Up to and including the crematorium being busy, Christopher not being in the country, and—of course—the small matter of my father’s death. Which”—he scowled into the middle distance—“she hasn’t said outright was directly caused by my standing up to him. But she has implied it several times.”
I made a nervous squeaky noise. “Um. You know she’s, like, wrong, right?”
The pause that followed was longer than I would have preferred. “I do, actually. Although, I can’t lie, it’s difficult when the last words you said to someone before they passed away were ‘Go fuck yourself.’”
That hung there for a little bit, like neither of us knew what to do with it.
