Which was why Amanda felt the need to come back with a “That’s not what—” which she was unable to finish before she was drowned out by Bridge and James introducing their baby and toddler photos as if they were a plate of Levantine dumplings.
“And there he is on his tricycle again.”
“And there she is rolling over.”
“Here’s him standing on one foot—you know most children can’t do that until four.”
“He was holding him up,” James Royce-Royce clarified.
“Nothing in the books says you can’t be holding him up,” protested James Royce-Royce.
Bridge, who had been leaning across the table to show me her own pictures, returned her arse to her seat. “Autumn’s just started blowing bubbles. It’s sooooo cute.”
James Royce-Royce nodded. “That’s a five-month development milestone. Although I’msureBaby J started when he was only—”
“James.” Bridge seemed to be wincing with her whole body. “Could you maybe…not?”
“Not what?” asked James Royce-Royce, in such sincere innocence I almost felt bad.
“Not,” said Bridge hesitantly, “um. Not turn around every time I mention something about Autumn and tell me that Baby J did it better?”
Even James Royce-Royce, drama queen that he was, didn’t do the fingertips-to-chest-how-very-dare-you gesture often. He was doing it now. “Well,pardon mefor beingproudof myson.”
“It’s not about being proud of your son,” Bridge tried to explain.
“You just kind of take all the oxygen out of the room,” added Tom.
James Royce-Royce took an ironically deep breath. “All theoxygenout of the room.”
“This is new and exciting for us.” Bridge sounded slightly plaintive. “But it’s hard to be excited when you won’t give us a moment to…well. Be excited.”
The fingertips-to-chest-how-very-dare-you gesture was rare enough. James Royce-Royce kicked it up a notch to the palms-crossed-faux-mortification pose. “Oh no! There’s a space that isn’t totally dedicated to celebrating a straight couple’s biological child! Whatever shall we do?”
“First,” said Tom, way snappier than I’d ever heard him, even when he’d been dumping me, “not fucking straight.”
“And of course we want to celebrate Baby J too,” added Bridge, who was psychologically incapable of not seeing at least a little bit of the other person’s point of view. “But you can be a touch…” To my horror, Bridge was shooting ahelp me outlook squarely in my direction. “A touch, you know…”
“Dominatey?” I suggested, trying to throw it out there like a tennis ball and realising only afterwards that it might have been a bit more like a stick of dynamite.
“Dominatey!” James Royce-Royce projected.
“Don’t want to be a dick, Luc,” James Royce-Royce added, “but that’s not even a real word.”
I shouldn’t have got involved, because it inevitably meant teams were going to form, and once teams formed it was all over.
“All Luc means,” Bridge said, making the teamification irreversible, “is that I’m not the only one who’s noticed and not the only one who’s been bothered.”
James Royce-Royce fixed me with a look of real betrayal. “Is that true, Luc?”
I didlittle bitfingers.
“Well, of all the—” For a moment, James Royce-Royce looked genuinely betrayed. “I’d expect that from her, but as a gay man, I’d have thought you’d understand.”
Aaaand now we were playing the bad gay card. Shit. “Hold on, that isnotfair.”
“Also, once again”—Tom was fully glowering now—“feeling pretty fucking erased over here.”
“I just meant,” said James Royce-Royce—and if the teams hadn’t fucked everything, this would, because nothing good ever came afterI just meant—“that you should see our perspective. Fostering is different, of course, but we’ve both had to go through a lot of intrusive poking and prodding and proving we’re worthy just to get something that straight”—he just about checked himself—“opposite-sex couples take for granted.”
