It was a bit disorientating getting back to his house and realising that it was Friday night, and I wasn’t at home alone being miserable or out at a party being miserable. It was even more disorientating being in bed before one. Then again, Oliver’s bed had compensations—Oliver being the most obvious—but I’m pretty sure his sheets were Egyptian cotton, and were usually freshly laundered.

“Um,” I said, from where I was tucked under his arm, “you know that thing where I was going to be open and honest about, like, my feelings and stuff?”

“I hope you’re making that sound unnecessarily ominous.”

I cringed. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s always ominous in my head.”

“What is it, Lucien?”

“My dad rang. He wants to meet up for some one-on-one father-son bonding.”

“And what do you want?”

“I don’t know, that’s the problem.” I tried to shrug, but it turned into more of a…nestle? “I told him I needed to think about it.”

“Probably wise.”

“Yeah, get me with my probable wisdom.”

Oliver’s fingers drifted soothingly up and down my spine. “Do you have any sense which way you’re leaning?”

“Really not. It’s one of those things where I want to but I don’t want to. Every time I decide to just walk away, I get this little voice in my head saying ‘He’s got cancer, you knob.’ And I know I’d be an idiot to trust him and I know it’s probably going to suck. But I think—shit, I might actually be vomiting a little in my mouth as I say this—it’s something I’ve got to do.”

“I understand.”

Of course he did. “Of course you do.”

“I can’t work out if I feel appreciated or taken for granted.”

“A little of both?” I wriggled down and nuzzled into his neck. “I mean I guess I’m taking it for granted that you’re going to be amazing. But that doesn’t mean it’s not amazing.”

He gave an embarrassed little cough. “Thank you. Although I should add I’m not completely unconcerned. I know I’ve only met your father once, but I can’t say he made a good impression.”

“I don’t think he likes you either.”

“I’m sorry if I made things difficult for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I de-nuzzled and kissed him instead. “You always make things better. And I’m not sure I’d be into anyone Jon Fleming actually got on with.”

“Even so, I fear I’ve burned a bridge that didn’t have to be burned.”

“It was a shit bridge, Oliver. And I’m still not completely sure which side of it I want to be on.”

“I’m sure you don’t need to be told this,” he said, after a moment, “but there’s a chance he could hurt you again.”

I twisted my head, gazing up at Oliver with the sort of intensity you could only really get away with when you were both in bed and mostly naked. “It’s a very good chance, isn’t it?”

“Again, I’m rather stating the obvious here, but I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I’m not mad keen on it myself. I guess I just feel like…I’m in a place where even if it goes wrong, I’ll be okay. Like it won’t utterly wreck me.”

“That’s”—he gave me a slightly crooked smile—“strangely reassuring.”

* * *

Sitting on Oliver’s freshly made bed the next day, I was starting to think I might have overstated my case utterly-wrecking-me-wise. It had been comparatively easy in my sort-of-a-bit-fake-sort-of-a-bit-real boyfriend’s arms to claim I was okay. I was not feeling okay right now. But eventually I got enough of my shit together to phone Jon Fleming on the number he’d had his people send my people. Well, me. I’m kind of my own people.

“Jon here,” rumbled my dad, with the confidence of man who knows he’s the only Jon that matters.

“Um. Hi. It’s me.”

“Me who? It’s not a good time, I’m about to go on set.”

“Me your son. You know, the one you want to connect with.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” Oh, he wasn’t talking to me, was he? “What was that, Luc?”

“I was just ringing to say—”

“Yeah. No. That’s great, thanks. Appreciate it.” Still not talking to me.

“Look,” I said, “if you want to meet up, I’m free sometime this week.”

“I’d like that. How about Wednesday? Do you know The Half Moon in Camden?”

“Well, no, but I can Google it.”

“I’ll see you there at seven. On my way, Jamie.”

And he was gone. If I’d been superstitious, I would have said it wasn’t the best sign that the last thing he’d said to me was “On my way, Jamie” but I guess I was committed now. And I had an appointment with Jon Fleming. My dad. On my own. So he could maybe tell me he was sorry he left me.

There was no way that was happening, was there?

My first instinct, born from years of practice, was to… Actually, I didn’t know. Five years ago, I’d have gone out, got wasted, and got laid. Six months ago I’d have gone home, got drunk, and got under my duvet. Now I just wanted to be with Oliver.

And I could? Because he was downstairs?

This semblance of a healthy lifestyle was going to take some getting used to.

I found him sitting at the kitchen table, elaborately hand-wrapping a wholesale carton of Kinder Happy Hippos.

“I can’t believe,” I said, “I ever thought you were boring.”

He gave me what I’d come to recognise as his “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be insulted” look. “You mean because when I give somebody a gift, I like to pay attention to its presentation?”

“I’m not being sarcastic, Oliver. This is delightfully strange of you and not what I was expecting to see today.”

“I’m wrapping a present. What on earth is strange about that?”

“It’s the fact you’re going full Love Actually cinnamon stick on a job-lot of cheap German chocolate.”

He gave a little cough. “Italian.”

“What?”

“It’s Italian.”