There was a perfect televisual pause. Jon Fleming leaned forward. “That was a beautiful performance. I could tell how much the song meant to you, and how much of your heart you put into it. I’m sure your dad would have been proud of you.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

Okay, I felt very sorry for Leo from Billericay, because he was clearly bereaved, and having a shit relationship with an absent father sucked. But it didn’t change the fact that my absent father was having a redemptive bonding experience with some prick from Essex on national TV while I watched from the sofa of my fake boyfriend’s house.

Oliver glanced over. “Are you all right?”

“Yeahimfinewhywouldntibe?”

“No reason. But if hypothetically you stopped being fine and wanted to, I don’t know, talk about anything, I’m right here.”

On the screen, Leo from Billericay was biting his lip in that trying-not-to-cry way that made him look brave and noble and fan-favouritey, and Jon Fleming was explaining how much he wanted him on his team.

“Not a lot of people know this about me,” he said, “but I never knew my own father. He died on the Western Front before I was born, and I always regretted not having that connection in my life.”

No. Not a lot of people did know that. I didn’t know that. Essentially making Leo from Billericay—and for that matter, Simon from Blue, and how many the fuck million people watched this show live—closer to my dad than I was. It was getting increasingly hard not to be actively glad that the fucker had cancer.

Anyway, of course Leo from Billericay picked Jon Fleming to be his mentor. I came this close to cutting my losses and turning the show off, but that would have felt weirdly like letting my dad win. I’m not sure what it felt like letting him win, but I knew I wanted to stop him winning it. So, instead, I stared blankly at the screen while the carousel of hopefuls continued.

I was pretty sure I was getting a headache. What with Oliver and Jon Fleming, and Leo from Billericay, and my job hanging by a thread, there was too much in my brain. And the more I tried to deal with any of it, the more it just swirled around like clay in the hands of an inexperienced potter. So I shut my eyes for a moment, telling myself things would make more sense when I opened them.

Chapter 14

“Lucien?”

I opened my eyes to find Oliver right in my face. “Wuthuh?”

“I think you fell asleep.”

“I did not.” I jerked into a sitting position, nearly headbutting Oliver in the process. There was no way I was letting him think I was the sort of person who spent his evenings passed out in front of the TV. “What time is it?”

“A little after ten.”

“Really? Shit. You should have woken me sooner. I mean, not woken me. Reminded me.”

“I’m sorry.” Tentatively he unstuck a strand of hair from where it had plastered itself over my brow. “But you’ve had a long day. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

A glance around the living room revealed that Oliver had finished his work, probably some time ago, and packed everything neatly away around me. Fuck. “I can’t believe I turned up on your doorstep out of nowhere, insisted you continue pretending to date me, whined about my dad’s cancer, got in a massive argument about logistics, made you watch reality TV, and then fell asleep.”

“You also threw a blueberry at me.”

“You should dump me.”

“I tried that already. It didn’t take.”

“Seriously. If you want out, I’ll be reasonable this time.”

Oliver held my gaze for a long moment. “I don’t want out.”

Relief bubbled through me like indigestion. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I thought we’d established that fairly clearly. I’m stuffy, pompous, boring, and desperate. Nobody else will have me.”

“But you make amazing French toast.”

“Yes”—his expression grew charmingly rueful—“I’m starting to think that’s the only reason my relationships lasted as long as they did.”

For some reason, I was suddenly very aware I wasn’t allowed to kiss him.

“There’s still time to catch the last Tube,” he went on, “or I can call you a cab, if you like.”

“It’s fine. I can grab an Uber if I need to.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Their business model is deeply unethical.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think we’ve just worked out why nobody’s going out with you.”

“Because I don’t use Uber? That seems fairly specific.”

“Because you’ve got an opinion about everything.”

“Don’t most people have opinions?”

At least I wasn’t thinking about kissing him anymore. “I don’t mean opinions like ‘I enjoy cheese.’ Or ‘John Lennon is overrated.’ I mean opinions like ‘You shouldn’t use Uber because of the workers’ and ‘You shouldn’t eat meat because of the environment.’ You know, opinions that make people feel bad about themselves.”

He blinked. “I don’t want anyone to feel bad about themselves or that they have to make the same choices I do—”

“Oliver, you just told me not to get an Uber.”

“Actually, I said I’d rather you didn’t get an Uber. You can still get an Uber if you want to.”

“Yeah”—somehow we’d got all close again, making me aware of the heat of him, the shapes his mouth made when he was arguing with me—“except you’ll look down on me if I do.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll accept you don’t have the same priorities I do.”

“But your priorities are clearly right.”

His brow furrowed. “I think now I’m confused. If you agree with me, what’s the problem?”

“Okay.” I drew in a calming breath. “Let me try to explain. Most of the people who aren’t you understand that capitalism is exploitative and climate change is a problem and that choices we make can support things that are bad or unjust. But we survive by a precarious strategy of not thinking about it. And reminding us of that makes us sad, and we don’t like being sad, so we get angry.”

“Oh.” He looked crestfallen. “I can see that being terribly unappealing.”

“It’s also kind of admirable,” I admitted reluctantly. “In a really infuriating way.”