I threw my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, I’ve got the information now. Thank you both very much. Rhys, it was not my intent to speak ill of your homeland.”

“It’s all right, Luc. I quite understand.” He nodded in a reassuring way. “And if you did want a trip up to God’s own kingdom, I’ve got a friend who’s got a lovely little place outside of Pwllheli that he’ll let you have at mates’ rates for three hundred quid a week.”

Alex gave a little gasp. “Why don’t you take your new boyfriend?”

“Yeah, the whole idea of a getting a new boyfriend, which you ought to remember because it was your fucking idea, is to be seen dating someone appropriate. I’m not sure even the most farsighted paparazzi are going to be lurking around rural Wales just on the off chance I’m over there for a weekender.”

“Ah. Well. We could do that thing they do in Westminster.”

“Fiddle my expense claims?” I suggested. “Send pictures of my penis to journalists pretending to be teenage girls?”

“Oh Luc, I’m sure both of those situations were taken very much out of context by an unfair press establishment.”

“So what are you talking about?”

“We should leak it. The next time you’re having dinner with the CFO of an international news organisation, casually let it slip that you’re planning to go to Wales.”

I stifled a sigh. “Do we really need to have the ‘what sorts of people the average human being has dinner with’ conversation again?”

“Well, gentlemen,” announced Rhys Jones Bowen, correctly concluding that he didn’t have much more to contribute to the conversation. “I think I’ve done enough good here for one day. If you need me, I’ll be updating our Myspace page.”

And with that, he ambled off, providing me with a narrow window in which to steer things in a less ludicrous direction. “The trouble is, Alex, I’m not sure the plan’s working. And now I say it out loud, I don’t know why I ever thought it would.”

He gave one of his slow, bewildered blinks. “Not working how?”

“Well, I’ve managed to avoid getting flayed in the press for the last week or so, but I’ve tried reaching out to some of the donors we lost and nobody’s biting. So they either haven’t noticed I’m respectable now or they don’t care.”

“I’m sure they care, old thing. They care so much they dropped you like a light-fingered footman. You just need to get their attention.”

“The only attention I know how to get is the wrong kind of attention.”

Alex opened his mouth.

“And if you say, oh it’s easy, ring up the Duchess of Kensington, I will stick this biro up your nose.”

“Don’t be silly. I’d never say that. There is no Duchess of Kensington.”

“You know what I mean.” He probably didn’t. “You have a whole bunch of nice society people you can reach out to, and they’ll get you in Hello! or Tatler or Horse & Hound or something. I can get in the Daily Mail by sucking somebody off in a fire escape.”

“Actually, I was going to suggest that you come with me to the club. Miffy’s always got men following her with cameras. I mean”—he wrinkled his nose—“I think they’re mostly journalists, although there was that awkward business with the kidnapping last February.”

“Sorry. Did your girlfriend get kidnapped?”

“Silly business. They thought her father was the Duke of Argyll when he’s actually the Earl of Coombecamden. How we laughed.”

I decided to let that go. “So you’re telling me that if I hang out with you, I’ll either get my picture in better-quality magazines or I’ll be abducted by international criminals.”

“Which will also get you in the papers. So I think that’s what the kids today are calling a win-win.”

For the sake of my sanity, I decided now was not the time to explain to Alex what slang was and, more to the point, what it wasn’t. “I’ll see if he’s free,” I said and then retreated to my office via the coffee machine.

Since Sunday, Oliver and I had been sporadically fake-texting, which was becoming increasingly indistinguishable from real texting. My phone was never far from my hand, and my sense of time had distorted around my understanding of Oliver’s schedule. He always sent me something first thing in the morning, usually an apology for the continued absence of dick pics, then it would be silence ’til lunchtime because important law stuff was happening, and sometimes he would work through lunch so I wouldn’t hear from him at all. Come the evening, he’d check in before and after hitting the gym, and diligently ignore my request for updates on his V-cut. And once he was in bed, I’d bombard him with as many annoying questions as I could think of about whatever he was reading, usually based on the Wikipedia plot summary I’d just Googled. All of which was a long-winded way of saying I was surprised when he rang me at eleven thirty.

“Is this a butt-dialling,” I asked, “or is someone dead?”

“Neither. I’ve had a bad morning, and I thought it would look suspicious if I didn’t call the person I’m supposed to be dating.”

“So you thought they’d notice you not calling me, but they wouldn’t notice you saying ‘supposed to be dating’ aloud on the phone?”

“You’re right.” He was quiet a moment. “I think, perhaps, I just wanted someone to talk to.”

“And you picked me?”

“I thought giving you an opportunity to laugh at my expense might make me feel better.”

“You’re a strange man, Oliver Blackwood. But if you want to be laughed at, I won’t let you down. What happened?”

“Sometimes people don’t help themselves.”

“Okay, there’d better be more to this, or I am going to let you down.”

He appeared to be taking calming breaths. “You may be aware that occasionally defendants change their stories, and this tends to get brought up in court. My client today was asked why, when originally questioned regarding a recent robbery, he’d claimed that he was with an associate of his. Who, for the sake of this anecdote, I shall call Barry.”

There was something about the way Oliver was relating this to me in his best “I care deeply about the right to a fair trial even for petty criminals” voice that made me giggle before I was probably supposed to.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Your expense. I thought we’d established.”