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‘Fuck’s sake.’
The woman stares at Fergus, who looks back in terror, hoping she misheard his words. He tries to replay the phrase in his mind to work out what it might sound like. It doesn’t yield much. He wonders if it sounds similar enough to ‘foot ache’, but it’s futile. Her lips part, seemingly in slow motion, and he prepares for outrage he’ll inevitably flail his arms around attempting to dispel. Last time this happened, he was standing on a pier in Eastbourne, trying to look interested in seaside town renewal, when some offhand comment had annoyed a passing old man, who had stopped and lectured Fergus for ten minutes on proper manners and conduct before being told Fergus was an MP. The man’s outrage had increased and Fergus was only rescued by that predictable of things, the Great British Weather, which chose to piss it down and force a retreat.
This time, however, Fergus is spared the lecture, or shouting, or threats to complain.
‘I think it’s time to get a move on,’ says Adam with a significant look at Fergus, who understands he’s being given a merciful rescue. ‘The junior minister has a tight schedule.’ Adam accents the ‘junior’, as he always does when he’s getting across displeasure in public.
Fergus suitably chastised and the woman left behind, they cross the street outside the building and wait for the car. Fergus is about to make a comment about how surprisingly spring-like the weather is, but Adam is too quick for mundane subject changing.
‘You can’t swear in front of the fucking public,’ Adam says as if he never does. ‘They don’t like it, they think you’re trying to be “hip”.’
‘Can’t be hip with an advisor who says the word “hip”, can I?’
Fergus doesn’t say ‘boyfriend’, because it still doesn’t roll well off the tongue. At least he’s never had to train himself not to say it in public. It’s a battle to even think it, because Fergus just thinks ‘Adam’ and knows what he means. Knows without terrifying terms. It’s a useful way of being able to stand in Adam’s kitchen, passing him all these things that he knows the homes of, without panicking quite so much about doing so, about being there in the lazy kitchen scene of domesticity. They are far away from that now. Adam’s face is starting to grow red.
‘Just don’t fucking swear, okay?’ His voice is raised, and Fergus looks around nervously. Junior minister told off for expletives by angry boyfriend is not a headline he’ll enjoy, nor is anything catchier and probably more offensive. This is far too ridiculous to become news, not when Mannion’s around to be caught roasting disadvantaged children over a fire or charging cats for not contributing to society. Thankfully the car arrives before Fergus can make the papers.
‘I’ll try not to swear,’ he concedes as they sit in the backseat, returning to DoSAC. Adam nods, then seems to come to some kind of epiphany. A sinister kind that makes the edges of his mouth curl.
‘Maybe you should give it up for Lent, that’s soon.’
‘What?’
Adam’s mouth turns into a full grin.
‘Yes, perfect. Give up swearing for Lent.’ Fergus is about to argue, to laugh it off and ask why the fuck he’d do that, when Adam utters the magic words. ‘Bet you couldn’t.’
And thus, Fergus is giving up swearing for Lent. Fuck.
-
‘Christ, they were all cunts,’ mutters Adam as they round the corner. Fergus is inclined to agree, and the meeting was a waste of fucking time, but he cannot vocalise this. He simply nods vehemently to approve of the expletive. He’s not allowed those any more.
Down a couple of corridors and then Terri appears, holding a clipboard like she’s organising a sports day or a school trip. She’s even wearing trainers, Fergus is slightly horrified to note. Terri Coverley and trainers makes any day a little more unnerving.
‘A rogue journalist rang to enquire about you two,’ she says, jabbing her pen in their direction in case they thought she meant another pair in the vicinity. ‘What did you want me to say?’
‘What do you fu-’ Fergus realises what he’s about to say, ‘-ink. Think. What do you think? We’ve been through this already.’
‘Adam told me to check with you every time,’ says Terri, jabbing the pen just at Adam this time. Fergus turns his head, sees Adam’s smile, and realises what he’s doing. Ten days in, and Adam is trying to win. Terri’s eyes look calculating. It’s time to get rid of her, as it always is.
‘Yes, that’s right actually Terri, checking with me was fine, but now, I think you’re ready to soar free of the reins, and answer queries without me holding your-’ He stutters where he would usually add a casual ‘fucking’ at the least. ‘-hand.’
Fergus waits until Terri has left and then hisses, ‘You didn’t.’
‘I fucking did.’
‘You’re doing this on purpose.’
Adam grins smugly.
‘Of course.’
Fergus wants to do something, mostly kiss that smug look off Adam’s face and perhaps make Adam swear a little more to make up for it, but sadly they are at work, and besides, Adam might take that as a success.
-
By halfway through Lent, Adam has started threatening to make Fergus be in a room with the most annoying people he can think of. It’s mostly Janet Street-Porter and the guy from the Go Compare adverts, however, as Adam seems to be thinking realistically about whose career is that desperate. Fergus isn’t even sure the guy from the Go Compare ads would turn up. Meanwhile, Fergus has started putting normal words in place of expletives in the hope that they’ll serve until Easter, meaning that he refers to a guy on the street as a ‘fat fridge’ and threatens Phil that ‘if there’s any more of your sausages, I’ll stab you with a lolly stick’ (he’s embarrassed about his choice of weapon, but when the threat’s already compromised, it’s difficult to think up a decent ending, and he panicked).
Their usual squash games have been slightly hampered due to Fergus’ inability to either trash talk (well, he can, but it tends to make Adam crack up rather than retort) or swear when things go wrong. At least twice weekly, they play the current political sport of choice: originally, as a method of discussing shit outside of the office (and because Fergus thought he might appear healthy and rounded to be seen carrying a squash racket), and later, because it was a habit they actually enjoyed. Fergus used to store up the images of Adam being finickity about his hair in the changing rooms afterwards, mostly as an excuse to store up any images of Adam, especially out of breath and changing out of sports gear. Now, he doesn’t need to, although occasionally he forgets this fact and feels guilty for remembering such scenes. No, you twat, he tells himself, you can think about him all you want.
Meanwhile, nobody in DoSAC has noticed that Fergus has stopped swearing, which he’s starting to believe might be because Adam seems to be swearing doubly much to compensate, which makes for an awful lot of sentences completely interwoven with the word ‘fuck’. The only people who have publicly given up things for Lent are Phil, who has given up crisps so keeps staring longingly at other people’s bags of them and then claiming that it is a kind of ‘warrior test’, and Robyn, who keeps telling everyone she’s given up alcohol, but has been invited to no drinks-based events to prove it.
The sun beams in through his office window, reminding them that it is spring before the rain starts again, and Fergus thinks, I can fucking do this. He just has to keep himself from saying it aloud.
-
‘You alright?’
Fergus jerks his head around at the civil servant’s voice.
‘Yes,’ he stammers, startled. He is, to be fair, standing by the lift doors and looking confusedly at them, like lifts are brand new technology. The civil servant (female, looks vaguely concerned the minister is having some kind of episode) nods encouragingly, but doesn’t move.
‘Waiting for my advisor,’ Fergus adds, yet again with the word ‘advisor’. It’s not like he couldn’t say ‘Adam’, of course the entire office knows who fucking Adam is (and who, indeed, Adam is fucking). This, at least, causes her to leave, probably reassured that Fergus Williams is not having a breakdown at the office and is just a bit weird. He runs his fingers along the strap of his sports bag and wonders what the hell is taking Adam so long in that fucking last minute meeting, because it’s the end of the day and he really wants to leave before he’s roped into any more bullshit policy ideas in favour of his own, much better ones (in his opinion).
Adam dashes round the corner.
‘Bag?’ Fergus asks.
‘Fuck.’
Adam disappears off towards Fergus’ office, and whilst he waits, Fergus considers how Adam’s run is a little more dignified than his own, but only by a very small margin.
Both carrying their squash gear, they leave the department, ready for some after-work squash. By now, with less than a week until Easter, Fergus has realised that exercise is a good way of letting out the frustration that might otherwise cause him to swear, and lose the bet. There are no stakes but pride, but still, it has gone too far to give up now. On the way to the sports centre, they bitch habitually about people they’ve interacted with during the day. Fergus continues his recent habit of making all insults out of randomly selected words in an attempt to annoy Adam in revenge.
‘So Mary told the prosthetic golf club to get the chocolate digestive off his chandelier and do something about the numbers fly up, or she’d personally spread rumours about him, regardless of the consequences.’
Adam stares for a moment, working it out, as they walk through the reception area.
‘Why can’t you fucking do it?’
‘She’s punishing Peter.’
‘She’s always punishing Peter.’
‘Well.’
Fergus raises his eyebrows, and they laugh simultaneously.
They change quickly and soon they’re on the tiny court, working up a sweat whilst Adam calls Fergus a cunt as usual and Fergus cannot reply with anything but threats that take up far more concentration than neat expletives. The sounds - the little ball against the walls, floor and rackets, the skid of shoes, the panting breath - are so familiar that they lull Fergus into a haze, focusing only on the ball and on Adam. He’s playing well today, and Adam starts to fall behind, so makes riskier shots to try and claw his way back, for they are ever competitive.
‘Fuck you,’ gasps Adam as Fergus makes a shot unexpectedly and Adam messes up the return.
‘I don’t need swearing when I can just beat you,’ grins Fergus back, getting ready to serve. Adam growls, an actual growl, and it takes all of Fergus’ concentration to swing the racquet successfully.
They both start taking more and more risks: Adam in desperation, Fergus out of a sudden burst of cockiness. Overdramatic feints and sudden volleys, plus a slight disregard for the rule prohibiting obstructing the other player’s movements. It is instinctive, them playing off the knowledge of the other’s style, reenforced by hundreds of sessions, hours and hours on a little court facing off against each other. Fergus keeps up the lead, almost at the victorious eleven points. He grins to himself and, catching an opening, makes a drop shot that hits the wall and barely moves any further. Adam dives forward, determined to make the return, but it is hopeless.
Instead, he tumbles to the floor, balance completely lost. Fergus is laughing before he hits the ground, unable to help himself. Adam’s racquet clatters down beside him as he turns from political aide to pile of assorted limbs in a pair of shorts.
‘Cunt.’
Fergus laughs harder, and doesn’t think before responding.
‘Don’t want to admit your boyfriend’s fucking better than you.’
‘You twat-’ Adam replies from the ground, but he has barely sounded the second T before he stops, realising. ‘You said…’
Fergus says ‘boyfriend’ at the same time Adam says ‘fucking’. They both stare at each other. Fergus hadn’t even realised he’d sworn. There’s an awkward pause, in which Adam doesn’t move to get up. Fergus gulps for air, wondering what Adam will do now he’s admitted which word terrifies him. His mouth is too try to speak, not helped by the exercise nor the panic. Adam looks apprehensive, but eventually, he breaks the silence.
‘Of course you said “boyfriend”. Christ, Fergus, you’re allowed to say things that are fucking true.’
Under the scorn, there’s a hint of something else. Adam looks up at Fergus, waiting for his response. Fergus steps across the court and extends a hand.
‘C’mon, you look like a twat down there.’
‘You’re not meant to be swear-’
‘I know. You won.’
Adam takes Fergus’ offered hand and their combined efforts get him back to his feet.
‘Ow,’ he complains, rubbing his back. ‘Still, I won the bet. You failed, the temptation to swear was too great.’ He’s almost singing.
‘Stop fucking gloating.’
Adam smirks.
‘Only if for the rest of Lent you call me your boyfriend at least three times a day. And at least once a day it can’t have ‘fucking’ before it.’
Fergus rolls his eyes as Adam picks up his racquet.
‘Fine, but I’m using at least one of the ‘fucking’ ones in the office, Peter might have a stroke. Okay, boyfriend?’
‘Fuck off and let me beat you in the next game.’