“Of course you can,” piped up Alex. “It’s easy.”
We both stared at him.
“Friend of mine from Eton, Mulholland Tarquin Jjones, got into a terrible pickle a couple of years back over a misunderstanding with a stolen car, three prostitutes, and a kilo of heroin. The papers were beastly to him about it, but then he got engaged to a lovely little heiress from Devonshire, and it was all garden parties and spreads in Hello from then on.”
“Alex,” I said slowly. “You know how I’m gay, and this whole conversation has been about me being gay?”
“Well, obviously I mean a boy heiress, not a girl heiress.”
“I don’t know any heiresses of either gender.”
“Don’t you?” He looked genuinely confused. “Who do you go to Ascot with?”
I put my head in my hands. I thought I might be about to cry.
Which was when Dr. Fairclough took control of the conversation again. “Twaddle does have a point. With an appropriate boyfriend, I daresay you’d become endearing again very quickly.”
I’d been trying very hard not to think about my abysmal failure with Cam at The Cellar. Now the memory of his rejection flooded me with fresh humiliation. “I can’t even get an inappropriate boyfriend.”
“That is not my problem, O’Donnell. Please leave. Between the emails and this conversation, you’ve already taken up too much of my morning.”
Her attention snapped back to whatever she was doing on her computer with such intensity that I half thought I’d actually stopped existing. Right about then, I wouldn’t have cared if I had.
My head was swimming as I left the office. I put a hand to my face and discovered my eyes were wet.
“Gosh,” said Alex. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“Do you want a hug?”
“No.”
But somehow I ended up in his arms anyway, having my hair awkwardly patted. Alex was supposed to have been a serious cricketer at school or university or something—whatever serious meant for a sport that was basically five days of eating strawberries and walking slowly—and I couldn’t help notice he still had the body for it, lean and rangy and solid. On top of which he smelled implausibly wholesome, like freshly cut grass in summer. I pushed my face into his designer cashmere cardigan and made a sound that definitely wasn’t a sob.
To his credit, Alex seemed entirely unperturbed by this. “There, there. I know Dr. Fairclough can be a bit of a rotter, but worse things happen at sea.”
“Alex.” I sniffed and surreptitiously attempted to wipe my nose. “People haven’t said ‘worse things happen at sea’ since 1872.”
“Yes, they have. I said it just now. Weren’t you listening?”
“You’re right. Silly of me.”
“Don’t worry. I can see you’re upset.”
Having dragged myself about two inches above rock bottom, I became painfully aware I was crying on the shoulder of the office doofus. “I’m fine. I’m still trying to process the fact that having been basically single for half a fucking decade, I have to get a boyfriend overnight or lose the only job that would have me—working for a charity whose standards for employment are so low that they’d hire you and Rhys.”
Alex thought about this for a moment. “You’re right. That is terrible. I mean, we’re complete duffers.”
“Oh, come on,” I growled. “At least be offended. Now you’re making me feel like a total dick.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
There are times when I almost wonder if Alex is secretly a genius and we are but pawns in his grand design. “You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?”
He gave a smile that was either enigmatic or just vacant. “In any case, I’m sure you could get a boyfriend easily. You’re nice-looking. You’ve got a good job. You’ve even been in the newspapers recently.”
“If I could get a boyfriend, I would have a boyfriend.”
Alex propped his hips against the side of his desk. “Chin up, old thing. We can crack this. Now, do your parents know anybody suitable?”
“You remember that my dad is a recovering druggie on reality TV and my mum is an ’80s recluse with exactly one friend?”
“Yes, but I assume they still have a club?”
“They don’t.”
“Don’t worry. Plenty more options.” A pause. “Just give me a moment while I think of them.”
Oh hello, rock bottom. Nice to see you again. Do you want to be my boyfriend?
After several long moments, Alex perked up like a beagle scenting a rabbit. “What about the chaps you went to school with? Ring them up and ask if any of them has a nice sister. I mean, brother. I mean, gay brother.”
“I went to school in a tiny village. There were three people in my year. I’m not in touch with any of them.”
“How peculiar.” He tilted his head quizzically. “I assumed you must have been a Harrow man.”
“You know there are people who went to neither Eton or Harrow?”
“Well yes, obviously. Girls.”
I was in no state to explain the socioeconomics of modern Britain to a man so posh he didn’t even think it was weird that you pronounced the t in Moët but not merlot. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but can we please get back to you trying to fix my love life?”
“I have to admit I’m a bit stumped.” He fell silent, frowning and fiddling with his cuffs. Then, out of nowhere, he beamed at me. “I’ve thought of something.”
Under normal circumstances, I would have taken this with the giant grain of salt it deserved. But I was desperate. “What?”
“Why don’t you say you’re going out with me?”
“You’re not gay. And everyone knows that you’re not gay.”
He shrugged. “I’ll tell them I’ve changed my mind.”
“I’m really not sure that’s how it works.”
“I thought these things were meant to be fluid nowadays. Twentieth century and all that.”
This was not the time to remind Alex what century it was. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, Miffy. I’d quite forgotten. But she’s a terrific girl. She won’t mind at all.”
“In her place, I would mind. I would mind a lot.”