“In a manner of speaking. The, um, V-cut you so admire doesn’t maintain itself.”

I stared at him, suddenly feeling guilty. I guess even though I knew rationally that you didn’t get a body like that without basically killing yourself, I’d still taken it for granted. “If it helps, you’ll still get to keep turning me down for sex even if you start looking a bit more like a normal person.”

“You say that. But it wasn’t until I had my shirt off that you expressed any interest whatsoever.”

“Not true. What about Bridget’s birthday?”

“That doesn’t count. You were so drunk I suspect you would have had sex with a bag of crisps.”

“Also not true. And…for the record”—I slugged back some vegan wine—“I’ve actually been into you for quite a long time. The V-cut was just a convenient excuse. Now if you don’t want to eat brownies because of your choices about your body, that’s fine. But if you want the fucking brownie, then we can share the fucking brownie.”

There was a long silence.

“I…I think,” said Oliver, “I want the brownie.”

“Fine. But as punishment for not having the guts to order your own, I’m going to feed it to you in a sexy way.”

Aaaand the blush was back. “Do you have to?”

“Well. No.” I smiled at him across the table. “But I’m going to anyway.”

“I think you’ll find it’s not a sexy food.”

“I’ve seen you eat a lemon posset. I’m going to find this sexy whether you like it or not.”

“Fine.” He gave me a cold stare. “Give it to me, baby. Give it to me hard.”

“You see, you’re trying to put me off. But it’s not working.”

I leaned over the table and slipped a morsel of brownie into his slightly horrified mouth. But within seconds he had that gorgeous, blissed-out Oliver Eating Dessert look. It wasn’t until we got home afterwards, and we were lying decorously in bed next to each other, that I realised getting all sensual and chocolatey with a guy who was never going to shag me had been an epic strategic error. Because suddenly all I could think about were his lips and his eyes gone soft with pleasure and the brush of his breath over my fingertips. And I was losing my fucking mind. But I was in his house, and he was right there, so I couldn’t even wank it off.

I don’t think I slept well. And, on top of that, Oliver made me get up at seven. Which, it is no exaggeration to say, was the worst thing that had ever happened to any human being. And I acted like it, hiding under the covers, whimpering, and calling him names.

“But”—he actually put his hands on his hips—“I made French toast.”

I peered at him from beneath the pillow I’d wedged over my head. “Really? Really really?”

“Yes. Although, having just called me an offensively perky breakfast tyrant, I’m not sure you deserve any.”

“I’m sorry.” I sat up. “I didn’t realise you’d actually made breakfast.”

“Well, I have.”

“And there’s actually French toast?”

“Yes. There’s actually French toast.”

“For me?”

“Lucien, I don’t understand why you’re obsessed with glorified eggy bread.”

I think I was blushing. “I don’t know. It’s just got this domestic bliss vibe to it that I find, um, nice?”

“I see.”

“And, honestly,” I admitted, “I never imagined anyone would actually make it for me.”

He brushed the hair out of my eyes almost absentmindedly. “You know, you’re sometimes very sweet.”

“I…” Fuck. I didn’t know what to do with myself. “All right, all right. I’m getting up.”

Forty minutes later, with me reluctantly showered but full of French toast, we were on the road, bound for Lancashire. And I was slowly coming to terms with the fact that Oliver and I had signed up to take a four-hour car journey together. Or rather, Oliver had signed up to spend four hours driving me to see my dad in a car he was renting. And, once again, I was having to face up to the fact that he was taking this fake boyfriend gig way more seriously than any actual boyfriend I’d ever had.

“Um.” I squirmed. “Thanks for doing this. I think in my head Lancashire wasn’t quite this…far.”

“Well, I did encourage you to reach out to your father, so I suppose I really brought this on myself.”

“I know I’ve barely met the guy, but this feels so typical of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. Making a big song and dance about wanting to reconnect and then dragging me all the way to Lancashire to do it. I mean, what if I didn’t have a fake boyfriend who could drive? This’d be crap.”

“Thankfully, you do have a fake boyfriend who can drive.”

I cast him a sidelong glance. “I know. And I’d offer to make it up to you, but you keep turning me down.”

“Just an observation, Lucien. There are other ways to make things up to people than sex.”

“So you say. I remain sceptical.”

He gave a little cough. “How are you feeling about seeing your father?”

“Inconvenienced.”

And, ever the epitome of tact, Oliver didn’t push it. “Would you mind if I put on a podcast?” he asked.

Obviously Oliver was a podcast person. “Okay, but if it’s a TED Talk or the New Yorker fiction podcast, I’m walking to Lancashire.”

“What’s wrong with the New Yorker fiction podcast?”

“It’s the New Yorker fiction podcast.”

He plugged his phone into the dock, and the car filled up with Twilight-Zoney music and the weirdly sonorous voice of an American man.

“Okay,” I told him, “can we add This American Life to the no-fucking-way list?”

“Welcome to Night Vale,” said the weirdly sonorous American man.

I stared at Oliver’s serene profile. “What is happening?”

“It’s Welcome to Night Vale.”

“Yeah, I got that from the guy using the words ‘welcome to Night Vale.’ Why are you listening to it?”

He gave a little shrug. “I like it?”

“I figured that on account of you choosing to play it in the car for what will be a four-hour journey. I just didn’t think it was the kind of thing you’d even have heard of.”