“Oh my God.” I gazed at him in horror. “You’re like one of those documentaries about, I don’t know, a pig that got lost on the edge of the village and wound up being raised by gorillas.”

“I…I think that might be insulting.”

“Pigs are cute.”

“It’s more that you seem to object to my not choosing my friends based solely on who they do, or don’t, want to sleep with.”

“But do they not just…not get you?”

“Lucien, most of the time you don’t get me.” His fingers twisted restlessly against mine. “I tried to do the…the community thing. But I went to one LGBTQ+—well, LGB as it was in those days—mixer at university, realised I had nothing in common with any of these people except my sexual orientation, and never went back.”

I half laughed, not because I thought it was funny, but because it was so alien to my experience. “When I turned up at mine, I felt like I’d come home.”

“And I’m glad for you. But I made different choices, and I’d rather you didn’t see them as mistakes.”

Honestly, it didn’t make sense to me. But I also didn’t want to upset Oliver—and I was still slightly stinging from being told I didn’t understand him. Well, I didn’t. But I wanted to.

I gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’d love to go to your straight-people party with you.”

“Thank you.” His lips twitched. “Just a quick word of advice: if you’re at a straight-people party, you should try to avoid referring to it as a straight-people party.”

I tsked. “God, it’s political correctness gone mad.”

We tromped through the next couple of fields, which—with the one we’d just been through—made up the three fields that ran onto Three Fields Road.

“Nearly there.” I pointed down the winding track. “Main Road’s down that way. And Mum’s just round the corner.”

Oliver made a noise that probably wasn’t a hiccough but did a good impression of one.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m…I’m…a little nervous.”

“You should be. Mum’s curries are… Oh fuck, I didn’t tell her you’re vegetarian.”

“It’s fine. I can make an exception.”

“Do not make an exception. In fact, if you could, please pretend you don’t want me eating meat either. You would be doing my lower intestines a massive favour.”

“I’m not sure coming across as the sort of man who polices her son’s diet would endear me to your mother.”

I thought about it for a moment. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

“I’m very much not.”

“Are you”—I peeked over at him—“actually worried about meeting my mum?”

His hand was a little clammy. “What if she doesn’t like me? She might not think I’m good enough for you.”

“Well, if you don’t walk out, leaving me alone with a three-year-old kid, you’ll be doing way better by me than my dad did by her so, y’know, not a lot to lose here.”

“Lucien”—he gave another anxiety hiccough—“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” I stopped and turned to face him. “Look, you’re… I can’t believe you’re making me say this. But you’re great. You’re clever and thoughtful and hot and you went to fucking Oxford and you’re a fucking lawyer. You’re not dying of consumption or promised to a duke—don’t ask—and…you’re nice to me. And that’s really all that matters to her.”

He gazed at me for a long moment. I had no idea what he was thinking, but suddenly I was all to pieces. My mouth had gone dry and my pulse had gone wild and, in that moment, the only thing I wanted in the world was for him to—

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll be late.”

Chapter 25

I was about to put my key in the lock when the front door flew open, almost as if my mum had been lurking behind it, watching the road through the stained-glass inset. Like a total creeper.

“Luc, mon caneton,” she cried. And then turned her attention, viperlike, to Oliver. “And you must be the fake boyfriend.”

I sighed. “This is Oliver, Mum. Oliver, this is my mum.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. O’Donnell.” From anyone else, that would have sounded stilted. With Oliver, it was just the way he talked.

“Please call me Odile. You are most welcome.”

Okay. This was going well.

“But,” went on Mum, “you must clear something up for me.”

Or maybe not.

“Luc tells me that you are a fake boyfriend but not a fake gay. If that is the case, why are you not going out with my son for real? What is wrong with him?”

“Mum.” I flailed on the doorstep. “What are you doing? You don’t even know Oliver, and now you’re trying to browbeat him into dating me.”

“He looks nice. Clean, tall, he’s wearing a good jumper.”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to pimp me out to a complete stranger because you like his jumper. He could be a serial killer.”

“I’m…I’m not,” said Oliver quickly. “Just for the record.”

She glared at me. “It is the principle. Even if he is a serial killer, he should still want to go out with you.”

“To reiterate,” said Oliver. “I’m not a serial killer.”

“That does not answer my question. I want to know what is wrong with my son that you are only willing to pretend to go out with him. I mean, look at him. He’s lovely. A bit untidy, I suppose, and his nose is a little large, but you know what they say about men with big noses.”

Oliver gave a little cough. “They make good sommeliers?”

“Exactement. Also they have big penises.”

“Mum,” I exploded. “I’m twenty-eight. You’ve got to stop embarrassing me in front of boys.”

“I’m not being embarrassing. I’m saying nice things. I said you had a big penis. Everybody loves a big penis.”

“Stop. Saying. Penis.”

“It’s just a word, Luc. Don’t be so English. I raised you better than that.” She turned to Oliver. “Luc’s father, you know, he had a huge penis.”