“Isn’t Kinder German for ‘child’?”

“Yes, but the company is based in Italy.”

“I’m so glad we’re focusing on what matters here.” I folded myself into a chair opposite him. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

“It’s for Jennifer’s birthday.”

“Oh yes,” I affirmed convincingly. “That is a thing I definitely remembered.”

He gave me one of those annoying looks that people give when they’re not disappointed because they know and care about you, instead of not being disappointed because they have incredibly low expectations. “How was your father?”

“Dick like always.” I fiddled pointlessly with the vase of newly refreshed table flowers. “And I know I’m trying to be better at this, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to. And I’d understand if you weren’t feeling up to the party tonight.”

“No, I want to. If only for the expression on your friend’s face when she discovers you’ve bought her five hundred loosely hippo-themed wafer treats filled with a gooey substance that vaguely resembles chocolate.”

He blinked petulantly. “It’s not chocolate. It’s a milk and hazelnut cream. And they’re what I always get her.”

“And yet somehow you remain friends?”

“She likes them. And it’s sort of a tradition.”

I ran my toes up his shin. “I somehow thought you’d be too…grown-up or something to have a shit gift ritual.”

“I think you’ll find I can be just as quirky as you can, Lucien.” He haughtily attached a sprig of lavender to his exquisite creation. “When I choose to be.”

“Yeah, but I thought straight people were into, y’know, bottles of wine. Or, I don’t know, toast racks.”

He covered his mouth with his hand. I wasn’t sure if he was laughing or appalled. “Lucien, you work with heterosexuals. Your mother is heterosexual. Bridget is heterosexual.”

“Yeah, and I always buy them wine.”

“But”—he actually wagged a finger at me—“and please be honest with me when you answer this question: never toast racks.”

I sank lower in my chair and nearly wound up on the floor. “I…I…panicked, okay? Yes, I know some straight people. But I’ve never chosen to hang out socially with a large number of them all at once. I’m scared.”

“What do you think they’re going to do? Put bees on your face?”

“I don’t know. What if they don’t like me? And think you should go out with a woman or a better gay?”

“They’re my friends, Lucien. They’ll be happy I’m happy.”

I stared at him. “You’re…you’re happy? I make you happy? That’s a thing I do?”

“You know it is. Just maybe don’t grill them about their toast racks. They might think you’re a tad peculiar.”

This opened a whole new chasm of anxieties. “What do I talk to them about, then? I don’t watch any sports.”

“Well, neither do most of them. Jennifer’s a human rights lawyer who likes hippos. Peter’s a children’s illustrator who likes Jennifer. They’re just people. I’ve known them for a long time. And at no point have they threatened to ostracise me if I couldn’t tell them…tell them…” He paused for a long moment, frowning. “I was going to cite some obscure piece of sporting information, but, as you can see, I don’t know any and that’s perfectly all right.”

I sighed. “Fine. So I’m being silly.”

“You are, but explicably so. And you are being rather charming about it.”

“I think,” I admitted, “I’m fixating on the straight thing because…these people are important to you. And I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“The way I see it”—it was Oliver’s gravest voice so I braced myself for an onslaught of sincerity—“either you won’t, which will be nice. Or you will, which will be funny.”

I burst out laughing.

And then, pushing the beautifully wrapped hippos gently aside, leaned over the table to kiss him.

Chapter 36

That evening, I was standing with Oliver and an over-decorated box of hippos on the doorstep of a very suburban-looking house in Uxbridge. And I already felt incredibly out of place.

“Is this okay?” I asked. “Am I okay? Am I dressed okay?”

“You’re fine. This is a nice, relaxed evening. Everyone’s going to be very casual and very normal and—”

The door swung open, revealing a stunningly put-together redhead, wearing a full-length evening gown and an actual fucking fascinator. At which point, my mouth also swung open.

“Oliver,” she cried. “I’m so happy you could make it. And you’ve brought Luc. At least, I assume it’s Luc.” Her eyes widened. “Crap. You are Luc, right?”

I was trying, without much subtlety or success, to hide behind Oliver. This was clearly not the kind of party to wear my artfully ripped jeans to. “Um. Yes. That’s me.”

“Come in. Come in. Brian and Amanda are already here, because of course they are. And Bridge is running late because of course she is.”

We came in, me pulling at Oliver’s elbow like a small child at the supermarket in order to signal precisely how little I had signed up for this. A man in full black tie met us at the door to the living room.

“Hi,” he said, presenting a silver tray with a teetering pyramid of Ferrero Rocher on it. “And be careful because this is actually quite unstable.”

Once again, I tried to safe-word to Oliver with my eyes. But he seemed to be taking this totally in his stride, gently plucking a chocolate from the stack. “Monsieur.” It was his driest, most laconic voice which, believe me, was pretty fucking dry and laconic. “With these Rocher, you are really spoiling us.”

The guy nearly spilled his tray in excitement. “Thank you. Brian completely fluffed it. And this took hours.”

“You know,” called a deep voice from within, “you can buy them in pyramids now.”

“Shut up, Brian. You have forfeited your right to have an opinion on this.”

“Peter,” said Oliver, as we were ushered past the Ferrero Rocher and into the living room, “please tell me that this whole evening isn’t going to be a sequence of pointlessly elaborate ’90s references.”