His eyes narrowed. “Have you been crying?”

“No.”

Ignoring my obvious and pointless lie, he stepped out of the doorway. “Oh, for God’s sake, come in.”

Inside, Casa de Blackwood was everything I’d expected in some ways and nothing like I’d expected in others. It was tiny and immaculate, all white-painted walls and stripped wooden floors, with flashes of jewel-bright colour from rugs and throw pillows. Effortlessly homey and grown up and shit, leaving me jealous and intimidated and weirdly yearny.

Oliver closed his laptop and hurriedly tidied away a selection of already neatly stacked papers before settling onto the far end of the two-seater sofa. He was in what I guessed to be his casual mode: well-fitting jeans and a light-blue cashmere jumper, and bare feet, which I found strangely intimate. I mean, not in a fetishy way. Just in a “This is what I look like when people aren’t around” way.

“I don’t understand you, Lucien.” He rubbed at his temples despairingly. “You ditch me with no explanation—by text, because a phone call would apparently be too much. And then you turn up on my doorstep, still with no explanation because a phone call would apparently not be enough.”

I tried to pick a not-avoiding-or-crowding-you spot on the sofa and sat in it, knocking my knee against his anyway. “I should have phoned. Like, both times. Except, I guess, if I’d phoned the first time, I wouldn’t have had to phone this time.”

“What happened? I honestly thought you couldn’t be bothered.”

“I’m not that much of a flake. I get that the evidence is kind of against me here. But I do need this…this”—I gave an inarticulate wave—“thing we’re doing. And I’ll try to do better if you give me another chance.”

Oliver’s eyes were at their silverest—soft and stern at the same time. “How can you expect me to trust you’ll do better next time, when you still won’t talk to me about this time?”

“I had some family shit. I thought it was important but it wasn’t. It won’t happen again. And you signed up for a fake boyfriend, not a real basket case.”

“I knew what I was getting into.”

I wasn’t quite strong enough for Oliver’s opinion of me right now. “Look, I get I’m not what you’re looking for, but can you please stop throwing it in my face?”

“I… That…” He seemed genuinely flustered. “That wasn’t what I meant. I was just trying to say that I didn’t expect you to be something you weren’t.”

“What, like remotely reliable or sane?”

“Like easy or ordinary.”

I stared at him. I think my mouth might actually have been hanging open.

“Lucien,” he went on, “I realise we’re not friends, and that, perhaps, we’re not naturally suited to one another. That, given the opportunity, you’d have chosen to be with anybody else rather than me. But”—he shifted uncomfortably—“we’ve agreed to be part of each other’s lives, and I can’t do this if you can’t be open with me.”

“My dad’s got cancer,” I blurted out.

Oliver looked at me the way I’d like to imagine I’d look at somebody who’d just told me their dad had cancer, but blatantly wouldn’t. “I’m so sorry. Of course you had to be with him. Why on earth didn’t you say that at the beginning?”

“Well, because I didn’t know. My mum just told me something important was happening, and I believed her because…I’ll always believe her. And I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d think it was weird.”

“Why would I think it’s weird that you love your mother?”

“I don’t know. I always worry it makes me sound like Norman Bates.”

His hand settled warmly on my knee, and while I probably should have, I didn’t see any reason to shake him off. “It’s very admirable of you. And I appreciate your honesty.”

“Thanks. I… Thanks.” Wow, Oliver being nice to me was way harder to deal with than Oliver being angry with me.

“Is it all right if I ask about your father? Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah, you can not ask about my father.”

He patted my knee in this gently sympathetic way that I could never have managed without it feeling like a come-on. “I understand. It’s a family matter and I shouldn’t intrude.”

I’m sure he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad. But he was doing a really good job of it regardless. “It’s not that. I just hate the fucker.”

“I see. I mean”—he blinked—“I don’t. He’s your father and he’s got cancer.”

“He still walked out on Mum and me. Come on, you must know this.”

“Know what?”

“Odile O’Donnell and Jon Fleming. Big passion, big breakup, small kid. Do you not read the papers? Hasn’t Bridge told you?”

“I was aware you were peripherally famous. I didn’t consider it relevant.”

We were quiet a moment. God knows what was going through his head. And I was just confused. I’d always resented people thinking they knew who I was from something they’d read or seen or heard on a podcast, but I’d also apparently got used to it. So used to it that having to actually tell a person about my life was a little bit scary.

“I can’t decide,” I said, finally, “if this is really sweet or really apathetic of you.”

“I’m pretending to date you. Not your parents.”

I shrugged. “Most people think my parents are the most interesting thing about me.”

“Perhaps that’s because you don’t let them know you.”

“The last person who knew me… Never mind.” No way was I going there. Not today. Not ever again. I let out a shaky breath. “Point is, my dad’s a dick who treated my mum like shit, and now he’s doing this big comeback where everyone’s acting like it’s okay, and it’s not okay, and it fucks me off.”

Oliver’s brow wrinkled. “I can see how that would be difficult. But if he truly might die, you should probably be sure you aren’t making any choices you can’t unmake.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that, if the worst happens, and afterwards you regret not giving him a chance, there’ll be nothing you can do about it.”

“What if that’s a risk I’m willing to take?”