I’d taken it as a good sign on a number of levels that Oliver was willing to argue quite fiercely with my mum about Drag Race. Not only did it show he cared about me enough to regularly watch reality TV with my family, but it also showed he was comfortable enough with them to be himself, instead of the perfect houseguest he’d been raised to be. He’d even stopped eating the special curry. Lucky git. “Mum, I’m not going to get into a proxy debate about whether Lawrence Chaney’s consistently strong performance should have counted for as much as Bimini’s growing confidence.”

“Well, of course it shouldn’t,” retorted Mum. “She had no arc. The whole point of the show is to have an arc so people can say, ‘Oh, I thought this person was rubbish, but now they are great.’”

“You say that, but that’s why mediocre dancers keep winning Strictly.”

“They are entertainment shows, Luc. I am going to vote for who entertains me. If all you wanted to see were people being good at dancing, they would take away the celebrities completely.”

She did kind of have a point. Not that I could address it because I’d rung up for a reason. “Um,” I said. “Look, there’s no good way to raise this, but do you have a private number for Dad?”

The silence at the other end of the line suddenly radiated concern. “Luc, I thought you had decided that your father was a miserable, bald, old piece of shit with a tiny penis you never wanted to speak to again.”

She had a point there too. “He is a miserable, bald, old piece of shit whose penis I’m not comfortable talking about, but I think I might”—I swallowed a gagging noise—“need him.”

“What could you possibly need him for?” There was an edge of hurt in Mum’s voice, and I couldn’t blame her. She’d given me everything my whole life, and all Dad had ever done was mess me about and screw me over.

“Bridge’s wedding venue has fallen through, and I’m hoping Dad can pull some magic celebrity bullshit for her.”

I’d tried to keep it light, but Mum still didn’t seem happy. “You know, I am a celebrity too, Luc.”

Technically that was true. And if Bridge had wanted to get married in an indie recording studio, the name Odile O’Donnell would probably have opened every door in the building. “I do know, but right now Dad’s got that…that big I’m-on-TV, give-me-free-stuff energy, and I really need free stuff.”

“I understand,” she said in a way that implied that understanding didn’t stop her resenting. “And Bridget has put up with you for a very long time, so she deserves to get something back.”