She sighed. “Oliver, Oliver. What are you doing? He can be so hopeless sometimes.”

“He’s not hopeless. He’s an uptight git. Um, like, in general. Not because he was bothered by me nonconsensually kissing him. Okay, let me rephrase: he’s an uptight git who, independent of his uptightness and gititude, isn’t into me.”

“Luc,” she cried, “that’s not true.” Then she gave a weird hiccough. “I mean, he’s not an uptight person. He’s very… He always wants to do the right thing. And, honestly, I think he’s quite lonely.”

“I increasingly think some people are meant to be lonely. I’m lonely because I’m a wreck and nobody wants me. He’s lonely because he’s awful and nobody wants him.”

“See. You do have something in common.”

“Not funny, Bridge.”

“Are you seriously telling me there was nothing about the date that went well? Nothing you liked or connected with?”

Well, there was no denying the man had excellent taste in fish sandwiches. And lemon posset. And there was that hidden softness in his eyes sometimes. And his rare smile. And the way he said Lucien, like it was just for me. “No,” I said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“I don’t believe you. You only make such a big deal about hating people when you’re secretly into them.”

“Look. Can you come to terms with the idea that you know two gay people who wouldn’t be good together?”

“I would, except”—her voice lifted plaintively—“you’d be sooo good together.”

“Okay, I know you can’t see it, but I’m holding up the fetishisation card.”

“What does that card even look like?”

“It looks like two adorable men in sweaters holding hands under a rainbow.”

“I thought you wanted to hold hands with an adorable man under a rainbow.”

“I do, but the fact you want it almost as much as I do is what makes it creepy.”

She let out a melancholy sigh. “I just want you to be happy. Especially after I stole Tom.”

“You didn’t steal him. He just liked you better.” If I said it enough, hopefully one of us would start to believe it.

“Anyway,” she went on briskly, “I’ve got to go. One of our authors emailed to say he had his entire manuscript on a USB stick that was swallowed by a duck.”

“Who the fuck is still using USB sticks?”

“Really have to deal with this. Love you. Bye.”

I’d got as far as “buh” before the line went dead. To be honest, it was probably about time I started doing my job anyway. Now that Operation Fake Respectable Boyfriend was a go, I was potentially in a position to try to salvage the Beetle Drive. Which, in practice, would mean begging forgiveness from people I didn’t think had anything to forgive me for and who wouldn’t admit that they thought I needed to be forgiven. The first step would be reaching out and saying “Hi, I know you all think I’m a dirty, junkie pervert, but I’ve cleaned up my act and renewed my commitment to living my life by a set of standards that you made up for me in your heads. Now please, for the love of God, give us some money so we can save the bugs that eat shit.” Except, y’know, without using any of those words. Or ideas. Or sentiments.

After a long afternoon, six cups of Fairclough standard coffee, twenty-three drafts, and three breaks—in each of which I had to give the same explanation to Rhys Jones Bowen about how to do double-sided photocopies—I’d composed an appropriately diplomatic email and sent it off. To be honest, I probably wasn’t going to get any replies. Then again, it’s amazing what rich people will do for free food. So, if I was lucky, I could probably convince at least a couple of them to be less busy on the night of the Beetle Drive than their diaries had hitherto suggested.

Giddy from a rare sense of accomplishment, and swept along by a rush of something that was either optimism or masochism, I unlocked my phone and pinged a message to Oliver: do fake boyfriends fake text

I’m not sure what I was expecting in return, but what I got was Not when one of them is due in court. Including the punctuation. Which was mildly better than no reply at all, but mildly worse than a flat no since he’d basically said “No, thanks, also don’t forget I’ve got a better job than you.”

It was close to nine that evening, and I was eating kung po chicken in my socks, when he followed it up with Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve thought about it and we probably should text each other for the sake of verisimilitude.

I left him hanging for a while to show that I, also, had important life stuff to be getting on with. Never mind that I actually watched four episodes of Bojack Horseman and had a vindictive wank before replying Sorry to keep you waiting and no wonder you’re single if the second text you send a guy includes the word verisimilitude

There was no reply. Even though I sat around ’til half one definitely not caring. I was unexpectedly de-sleeped by a buzzing from my phone at 5:00 a.m.: My apologies. Next time, I’ll send a photograph of my penis. And then several further buzzings.

That was a joke.

I should probably make it clear that I’m not intending to send you any pictures.

I’ve never sent that sort of thing to anybody.

As a lawyer, it’s hard not to be aware of the potential consequences.

I was awake now, which normally I’d have found profoundly objectionable. But you’d have to be a way better person than me not to enjoy the hell out of Oliver losing his shit over a purely hypothetical dick pic.

I also realise you’re probably asleep at the moment. So perhaps if you could just delete the previous five messages when you wake up.

Of course, I should emphasise that I am not meaning to imply any judgment about people who do choose to send intimate photographs to one another.

It’s just not something I’m comfortable with.

Of course if it is something you’re comfortable with, I understand.

Not that I’m suggesting you have to send me a picture of your penis.

Oh God, can you please delete every text I’ve ever sent you.

The influx of messages paused just long enough that I could pop off a reply. Sorry I’m confused am I getting a dick pic or what

No!

There was another pause. Then, I’m very embarrassed, Lucien. Please don’t make it worse.

I honestly don’t know what possessed me. Maybe I felt sorry for him. But he had kind of, admittedly accidentally, made my morning? I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow