“Yep.” I nodded. “Sounds like them.”

“So you can see,” Bridge pressed on, “why he’s not very good at having relationships.”

Even though Oliver wasn’t here, and it was the mildest possible criticism, I still felt a strange need to defend him. “He was amazing at them when he was with me. He’s the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

“That,” offered Priya, “is because you’re a titanic romantic disaster with incredibly low standards.”

I gave her a look. “You know we really do only hang out with you for your truck.”

“Stop doing banter.” Bridge pounded her fist on the nearest solid object which was, unfortunately, me. “This is important. We’re sorting out Luc’s love life, and his low standards aren’t the problem.”

I was about to protest that I didn’t have low standards. But I was in this mess because I’d told my friends I needed literally anyone who would go out with me. “So what is the problem?”

“You can’t feel close to someone,” Bridge went on, “when you’re spending the whole time trying to be what you think they want.”

“But he is what I want.” Except then I remembered Oliver telling me he wasn’t who I thought he was. “Oh fuck. Isn’t he?”

Priya’s eyebrows did something very aggressive. “We’re about a third of the way to Durham, mate. He better fucking had be.”

I was so confused. Or maybe I wasn’t. Maybe all this stuff about expectations and pretending and who people really were was so much smoke and bullshit. And maybe I’d just done a terrible job of showing Oliver that what made me happy wasn’t the V-cut or the French toast or the socially acceptable career: it was…him. Maybe it was that simple.

“Yeah,” I said. “He is.”

Chapter 51

It probably said something about Oliver’s sense of humour—even when he was apparently in the middle of an existential crisis—that he’d chosen to stay in a place called the Honest Lawyer Hotel. Going by my complete lack of historical knowledge or interest, it looked like a converted coaching house, all sash windows, sloping tile roofs, and chimney stacks. There was a blossom tree in full bloom out front, which made it, in theory at least, a great location to try and romance somebody back into your life. And, for that matter, county.

We stuck the truck in their carpark and piled through the front door, looking in no way suspicious.

“Um. Hello,” I said to the be-suited man behind the desk—who frankly, and fairly, already seemed to have had enough of my shit.

“Can I help you?” A pause. “Any or all of you?”

“I’m looking for Oliver Blackwood. I think he’s staying here.”

He got that weary expression that people in service industries got when you were asking them to do things that definitely weren’t their jobs. “I’m afraid I can’t give you information about guests.”

“But,” I pounced, “he is a guest.”

“I can’t give you information about whether someone is a guest or not.”

“He’s not a film star or anything. He’s just my ex-boyfriend.”

“That doesn’t make a difference. I’m not legally allowed to tell you who’s staying here.”

“Oh. Well. Please?”

“No.”

“I’ve come a really long way.”

“And”—to give the receptionist his due, he was being way more patient than I would have been—“you brought all these people with you?”

“We’re moral support,” Bridget explained.

“If you know this man,” said the receptionist slowly, “wouldn’t you have his phone number?”

“I guess I was worried he wouldn’t pick up.”

“But you thought he’d be fine with you showing up at his hotel with no warning and an entourage?”

I turned away from the desk. “Bridge, why did you think this plan would work?”

“It shows you’re going above and beyond.” She tripped forward to join me. “It shows how much you care.”

“Yeah.” That was Priya. “I’m coming to the conclusion that it mostly shows you didn’t think this through.”

“I have to agree,” said the receptionist.

Sheepishly, I pulled out my phone and rang Oliver. It went to voicemail, but since there was no message I could conceivably leave, I hung up quickly. “I think he might be screening me.”

Desk guy folded his arms in a smug, vindicated way. “You see, this is why we don’t give out information about guests.”

“But this is, like, love and shit,” I tried.

“This is, like”—the receptionist was still visibly unmoved—“my job and shit.”

“Don’t worry,” cried Bridge. “I’ll call him. Nobody screens me.”

James Royce-Royce struck a despairing pose. “I try to, pumpkin. But you never take no answer for an answer.”

“She once left me thirty-seven consecutive voicemails,” agreed James Royce-Royce, “about a shop she’d found that was still charging 15p for Freddos.”

“Really? Where?” asked the receptionist.

Bridge gave him a haughty glare. “I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to give that information away.”

“Can you please”—I tried very hard to sound calm and in control—“call Oliver for me.”

“Don’t worry.” Bridge was already rummaging in her bag. “I’ve got this. I’ll be incredibly subtle.”

“Well,” said Priya, “we’re fucked.”

There was a brief pause as Bridge unlocked her phone. And she’d been right—Oliver wasn’t screening her. Which was good under the circumstances but also made me feel like shit.

“Hi,” she trilled, not, I’ll be honest, entirely convincingly. “I just thought I’d check in for no reason… No, everything’s fine… No, no crisis… How’s Durham… What do you mean you’re not in Durham… Oh. That’s nice… Been lovely talking to you. Bye-bye.”

“Okay.” I stared at Bridget, reminding myself she was my best friend, and you didn’t wish your best friend would fall into an open sewer and die. “What was that about him not being in Durham?”