“I don’t mean to cherry-pick, but did you just call me admirable?”

“You must have imagined it. And now, ironically, I’ll have to get an Uber because I can’t make the train and I’ve got no cash for a cab.”

He cleared his throat. “You could stay the night if you wanted.”

“Wow, you are seriously committed to me not supporting Uber’s business model.”

“No, I just thought it might be… That is.” A self-conscious little shrug. “For the sake of verisimilitude.”

“Who do you think is going to notice where I sleep? Do you think we’re being monitored by the FBI?”

“I believe surveillance outside the United States is more likely to be carried out by the CIA, but actually I was mostly considering the paparazzi.”

That was a fair point. They’d caught me leaving various people’s houses on various mornings down the years.

“And it would be no inconvenience,” he added awkwardly. “I have a spare toothbrush, and can sleep on the sofa.”

“I can’t make you sleep on the sofa in your own house.”

“I can’t make you sleep on the sofa when you’re a guest.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” I pointed out, “if neither of us can sleep on the sofa, then either I go home or…”

Oliver faffed with a sleeve of his jumper. “I think we’re mature enough to share a bed without incident.”

“Look, I know what happened outside the restaurant was a bit much, but I usually wait for an invitation before I jump on someone. I’m an incident-free zone, I promise.”

“Then, it’s getting late. I suggest we head upstairs.”

And, just like that, I’d apparently agreed to spend the night with Oliver. Well. Not with Oliver. More sort of in Oliver’s general vicinity.

Except, right then, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, there didn’t feel like much of a difference.

* * *

It should have come as no surprise to me that Oliver owned actual pyjamas. In dark-blue tartan. Also that he made his bed like an actual grown-up, instead of throwing a duvet vaguely in the direction of a duvet cover, somewhere near a mattress.

“What are you staring at?” he asked.

“I’d assumed people stopped buying nightwear in 1957. You look like Rupert Bear.”

“I don’t remember Rupert Bear wearing anything remotely resembling this.”

“No, but he would have, if it had been available.”

“That seems specious.”

I struck what I assumed to be a lawyerly pose. “M’lud. The honourable counsel for the prosecution is being specious.”

“I think”—Oliver seemed to be giving this far more consideration than it deserved—“unless you had established expertise in the field, your speculation as to what Rupert Bear would have worn, had he been given the opportunity, would not be admissible in court.”

“M’lud. The honourable gentleman is being mean to me.”

He pursed his lips peevishly. “You’re the one who said I looked like Rupert Bear.”

“That’s not mean. Rupert Bear is cute.”

“Given he’s also a cartoon bear, I’m still not certain I can take it as a compliment. And I happen to have a spare pair of pyjamas if you’d like to borrow them.”

“What. No. I’m not a child in a Disney movie.”

“So will you be sleeping fully clothed or completely naked?”

“I…did not think this through.” I flailed mentally for a moment. “Look, do you have a spare top or something?”

He rummaged around in a drawer and threw me a plain, grey T-shirt that had clearly been ironed. Refraining—with some difficulty—from further comment, I retreated to the bathroom to change. Normally, I put a bit more thought into what underwear I have on the first time a guy’s going to see it, not least because it might end up in the papers. One of the few upsides of my self-destructive manslut phase is a largeish collection of sexy underpants—I mean, sexy in the sense of making my dick look big and my arse look perky, not in the sense of crotchless or edible. Of course, today, safe in the knowledge that they would go entirely unobserved, I was wearing my comfiest pair of schlumping shorts.

They were a slightly faded blue, with tiny hedgehogs picked out on them in white. Oliver’s T-shirt, which smelled of fabric softener and virtue, was long enough that it mostly covered the design, but it was a good thing I definitely didn’t want to get it on with him because Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle—the hedgehog design, that’s not what I call my penis—would have nuked my chances.

By the time I emerged, Oliver was already in bed, propped up against the headboard, his nose buried in a copy of A Thousand Splendid Suns. I darted from the doorway and dived under the covers, wriggling myself into a sitting position and trying to get close enough it wasn’t weird but not so close it was weird.

“I feel like Morecambe and Wise,” I said.

Oliver turned a page.

“You know you’re wearing pyjamas wrong, right?”

He didn’t look up. “Oh?”

“Yeah, you’re supposed to just wear the bottoms, and have them hanging low on your hips, displaying your perfectly chiselled V-cut.”

“Maybe next time.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Are you saying you have a perfectly chiselled V-cut?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

“What if someone asks? I should know for verisimilitude.”

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “You can say I’m a gentleman and we haven’t got that far.”

“You”—I gave a thwarted sigh—“are a terrible fake boyfriend.”

“I’m building fake anticipation.”

“You’d better be fake worth it.”

“I am.”

I hadn’t quite been expecting that and didn’t quite know how to reply. So I just sat there, trying not to think too hard about what Oliver’s idea of “worth it” might be.

“Good book?” I asked, to distract myself.

“Relatively.” Oliver glanced my way briefly. “You’re being very talkative.”

“You’re being very…not talkative.”