Shitting hell… “Must we?”
“You’re about to get married. Of course, you should have. What if one of you does and one of you doesn’t?”
Oh no. What if one of us did and one of us didn’t? What if I did?
What if I didn’t? We could barely agree on band versus DJ, let alone baby versus not baby. My options were to calmly reflect on the sensible advice my good friend was giving me or get incredibly fucking defensive. “Oh right,” I said. “Because I suppose you two knew everything about each other’s plans and goals and hopes and dreams before you even got engaged.”
“Obviously we did.” James Royce-Royce was trying really hard not to be aghast but was failing dismally. “Marriage is a serious commitment. It’s forever, Luc.”
I squirmed. “It’s not, though, is it? Divorce is a thing. And also, eventually one of you will die.”
“Tell you what,” said Tom. “If those are your vows, I will have so much respect.”
“They’re not my vows.” Now I thought about it, I probably needed to finish writing those. “I just mean you can work it out as you go and it’s possible to overplan.”
The other James Royce-Royce took his husband by the hand and pulled him gently away. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Everyone’s got their own way of doing things.”
“But,” James Royce-Royce was protesting, “but…but…”
“Look at Baby J.” James Royce-Royce manoeuvred James Royce-Royce’s phone to James Royce-Royce’s eyeline.
James Royce-Royce visibly melted. “Look at his little face. His darling little face. I miss him so much. Do you not miss him, James?”
“Well”—James Royce-Royce was at his most impassive—“I was with him all day and we’ve been out for two hours. So. No.”
We were interrupted by the tip-tap of heels on the concrete floor and a cry of, “Luuuuuuuc. I’m so sorry I’m la— Oooh, are those new Baby J photos?”
“This is my non-gender-specific animal party, Bridge,” I wailed.
“We’re meant to be celebrating the end of my wild single youth. Not —”
It was too late. James Royce-Royce had his phone under Bridge’s nose and she was staring at it, entranced. “Look,” he was saying, “here’s Baby J—”
Bridge clapped her hands. “Oh my God. He’s grown. He’s grown so fast.”
“He has. He’s got so much bigger. I remember when he was only as big as a medium-sized turbot.”
“That’s very specific,” I put in.
But it was ignored. Because baby.
“This is him,” James Royce-Royce continued. “Well, actually. I’m not sure what he’s doing with those bits of plastic fruit, but it seems advanced. He might be grouping them by size and colour.”
James Royce-Royce squinted at the phone. “Honestly, I think he’s just licking them.”
“That’s advanced,” insisted James Royce-Royce. “That’s using all of his senses to make independent cognitive leaps.”
Moving to the baby huddle, Tom put his arms around Bridge.
“James, have you been at the parenting books again?”
“It’s important to be informed.”
Bridge gave another squeal. “What’s he doing here?”
“Sitting down,” explained James Royce-Royce.
“In a remarkable way,” added James Royce-Royce.
I was getting the feeling this would go on for a while. And I took it as a sign of my personal growth that I felt no compelling desire to compete for my friends’ attention with an absent two-year-old. Or maybe I just knew I’d lose.
In an effort to look sophisticated and at home, I circled the sculpture, trying to look like I was appreciating it on an emotional and intellectual level.
“So what do you think?” asked a nearby stranger.
While I didn’t jump exactly, I gave a busted-not-understanding-art hop. “Ummm…” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “The thing about art,” I bullshat, “is that it’s not supposed to have one interpretation. It’s supposed to be, like, about how you think and feel.”
He folded his arms, in a calling-my-bluff kind of way. “So what does it make you think and how does it make you feel?”
Since James Royce-Royce was stealing my friends, I decided to steal his criticism. “It’s sort of melancholy. And sort of…oh my God, I bet raw is a really clichéd thing to say about art. But, like, the choice of materials. And the way the figure is like…barely holding it together.”