Bronwyn oofed. “Are you going to need another brownie?”

“I think I might actually. This is on expenses. And I kind of feel like work owes me.”

She did, in fact, bring me another brownie. And I did, in fact, eat it.

“Oh, by the way,” she said, swinging herself onto a repurposed wine crate, “I had a text from Rhys. He wants to know if you’re getting fired or not. He does worry about you, Luc. On account of how you’re such a bellend.”

“I think it went okay. Bellend or not, I’m depressingly good at pandering to straight people when I have to.”

“Well, it’s a living, isn’t it? Probably better than digging a hole.”

I squirmed. “You don’t think it’s…messed up?”

“No point asking me. I’m not the gay pope. You do it. What do you think?”

I carried on squirming. “It’s not a massive part of my job. It just feels like it right now.”

“You mean,” she offered, helpfully, “because you were in the newspapers being a massive junkie slutbag?”

“Excuse me. I’ve recently been in the newspapers having a very nice boyfriend.”

“Yes, but that’s only for pretendsies, isn’t it?”

I face-palmed. “Has Rhys told everyone in Wales about this?”

“Oh, I doubt it. I don’t think he knows anyone in Llanfyllin. Anyway—”she stood up again—“you should bring your fake boyfriend here on a fake date. I’ll even serve him a fake burger.”

“He is actually vegetarian.”

“There you go, then. Hopefully I’ll get some publicity out of it, and you’ll get to enjoy my food without the casual homophobia.”

Now she mentioned it, Oliver would really like this place, and since all I’d managed to bring him during our lunch dates were two identically average avocado wraps from Pret, I owed him some nice food at some point. Plus I could let him order for me, and I’d get to watch him being all earnest and gastronomical and—

Publicity, that was the main thing. I mean, I was sure going to vegan restaurants with the lawyer you were monogamously dating was donor-friendly behaviour.

“Thanks,” I said. “That’d be…um…great.”

She nodded. “I’ll get you the bill.”

I wriggled my phone out my pocket and discovered I had a picture of Richard Armitage waiting for me. Which was definitely my kind of dick.

Want to come to a pop-up vegan restaurant with me? I sent.

And few minutes later I got back, Of course. Is this for work or broader reputation management?

Both. Because it was. But also, it wasn’t. You’ll like it though

That’s very thoughtful of you, Lucien.

It wasn’t. It was very thoughtful of a Welsh lesbian. Still, it was the closest I’d come to trying for a very long time. And that was scary as fuck.

Just not quite scary enough to stop me.

Chapter 28

I hadn’t thought much about how to get to my dad’s. My plan, such as it was, had been to put it completely out of my mind until Saturday night, then panic, and maybe discover I couldn’t make it after all. Oliver, however, had not only pre-Googled the route but rented a car for the weekend. Which was very considerate. And also infuriating.

With an eye for logistics that could have seemed romantic if you squinted—and our relationship wasn’t a total fiction—he suggested that it would be most efficient if I was to stay at his place the night before. I’d have found the idea intensely appealing except I was finding the together-not-togetherness of our arrangement increasingly difficult to navigate. My brain didn’t know what to do with a kind, considerate, supportive man except tell me to get out, get out now before he uses what you’ve given him to hurt you. Which, obviously, I couldn’t because we both needed this and we’d made a deal.

It would have been so much easier if we were just fucking. Then, he’d be a guy I was having sex with and I’d know what it meant—and, yes, afterwards he could go to the papers and tell them a bunch of dirty sex anecdotes. But, at this point, that was barely news, and I’d take it any day over stories about how much I loved my mum or how much my dad had screwed me up or the fact I had a tragic French toast fixation. Stuff about me.

Anyway, I took him to By Bronwyn on Saturday evening, and shamelessly showed off my knowledge of vegan cuisine for about twelve seconds before he gave me an “I call bullshit” look and asked me what a jackfruit was. So I admitted I didn’t have a clue and asked him to order for me, which made him far happier than that should make anyone. He had the rolled tofu, and showing far too much insight into my preferences, he got me the burger I’d have felt too shallow ordering for myself. And it was actually a really nice evening—we talked about Oliver’s case, now it was finished, and I did my impression of Adam and Tamara Clarke, and somehow halfway through a bottle of vegan wine (because apparently most wine contains fish bladder for some fucking reason), we got onto the finer points of Drag Race. And from there to basically everything, the conversation twisting and meandering and turning back on itself the way it normally only did with my oldest and closest friends.

Of course Oliver insisted he didn’t want dessert, and then ate half of my brownie anyway, after a minor scuffle over who got to hold the spoon.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked, when he tried to take it from my fingers. Again.

“I can feed myself, Lucien.”

“You can order your own fucking dessert as well.”

“I told you. I’m not a big fan of dessert.”

I glared at him. “You’re giving my brownie puppy eyes.”

“I…I…” He was blushing. “I feel awkward not eating while you’re eating.”

“Oliver. Is that a lie?”

The blush deepened. “‘Lie’ seems a very strong word. It might be a little…misleading.”

“You can’t have this both ways. You can either get the virtue points for not eating cake, or you can eat cake. And you can see which side of that equation I fall on.”

“I suppose I just feel I shouldn’t.”

Only Oliver could turn a brownie into an ethical quandary. Well, Oliver and Julia Roberts. “You’ll still be a good person if you have dessert.”

“Yes, well.” He gave one of his self-conscious squirms. “There are also practical considerations.”

“What, are you literally allergic to enjoying yourself?”