“Who are you wearing?” someone yelled from the crowd.

Okay. They were definitely not talking to me. My clothes were much closer to a “what” than a “who.”

Miffy tossed back her hair and reeled off something incomprehensible that I assumed was a list of designers.

This was fine. I was fine. I just had to look vaguely like I belonged in this nice world where nice people could have nice things. How hard could it be?

“Have you set a date yet?”

“The eighteenth.”

Relax. But not too relaxed. Smile. But not too much. I tried to remind myself that journalists were like tyrannosauruses. Their vision was based on movement.

“Eighteenth of what?”

“Yes,” Miffy said.

Were they getting closer? I was sure they were getting closer. Also not sure I could breathe. I must have been photographed enough by now, right? Good publicity was starting to feel worse than bad publicity. At least bad publicity, or the sort of bad publicity I was used to, didn’t pin you into a corner and yell at you.

I scanned the jostling horseshoe of newspersons, looking for a gap between the bodies. But I could hardly see for the after-images, and the idea of being grabbed at and pulled at as I tried to force my way through a pack of strangers made my stomach twist. I was this close to throwing up. On camera. Again. Another crackle of silver, and when the starbursts faded, I realised I was looking this one guy straight in the eye. I tried to turn away, but it was too late. “Is that Jon Fleming’s kid?” he yelled. “You into Rights of Man, Miffy?”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

“I’d so love to chat”—her voice ebbed and flowed in my ears like the tide—“but I have to see a horse about a man.”

“Which horse?”

“Which man?”

Another lightning storm of flashes—this time pointed much more squarely at me. I threw an arm across my face like a vampire trying to dab.

“What’s the matter, Luc?”

“Overindulged?”

“Making the old man proud?”

“N-n-no comment,” I muttered.

“Have you joined the Cadwallader Club?”

“What have you been drinking?”

“Are you turning over a new leaf?”

No way was any of that not a trap. “No…no comment.”

“Cat got your tongue, Luc?”

“Are you coked up right now?”

“Where’s your bunny ears?”

“That’s enough.” There was suddenly an arm around my waist. And then I was being drawn against Oliver’s side—right up against that warm, gorgeous, um, coat. It was the most pathetic thing I’d ever done, possibly the most pathetic thing in the world, but I turned in to him and hid my face against his neck. The scent of his hair, so clean and, somehow, so him, slowed the panicked racing of my heart.

“What’re you hiding from?”

“Come on, mate. Give us a smile.”

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

“My name is Oliver Blackwood.” He didn’t shout, but he didn’t have to. There was something about the way he spoke that sliced through the clamour. “I’m a barrister at Middle Temple, and I suggest you get out of my way.”

“How’d you meet?”

“How long do you think you’re going to last?”

“Have you done him in an alley yet?”

I was basically made of day-old spaghetti at this point, but Oliver got me through the crowd. It wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. Mostly people fell back, and when they didn’t, a look at Oliver’s face seemed to make them reconsider. And, all the time, I sheltered in the circle of his arm, and nothing touched me but him.

Eventually, though, we got far enough and I calmed down enough that I became very aware of what a total arse I must have looked, clinging to Oliver and trembling like a kitten.

“Okay,” I said, making a bid to pull away, “we’re clear. You can let me go now.”

Oliver’s hold tightened. “They’re still following. Endure me a little longer.”

As ever, Oliver wasn’t the issue. The problem was me, and how good this could have felt if I’d let it. “We can’t do this forever. Just get me to the Tube and I’ll sort myself out from there.”

“You’re obviously shaken. We’re getting a taxi.”

Wait. What did he think was happening? “Hang on, what’s this we?”

“I’m taking you home. Now stop arguing with me in front of the press.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “We can argue on the way.”

Oliver flagged down a passing cab which, of course, actually stopped for him instead of speeding past with an air of contempt. He bundled me into the back, and I reluctantly gave my address. Then off we went.

Knowing Oliver would probably disapprove if I didn’t, I resentfully fastened my seat belt. “Look, I appreciate the whole chivalry bit. But you are absolutely not coming into my flat.”

“Not even”—his eyebrow flicked up nastily—“if I appear unannounced on the doorstep after standing you up?”

“That was a very different situation.”

“Which doesn’t alter the fact that I’ve welcomed you into my home and you’re pushing me away from yours.”

“Well, I’m sorry. Let’s chalk this up to one more example of you being a fundamentally better person than me.”

“That wasn’t what I meant. Although”—his expression grew grave in the flicker of the city lights—“I found your behaviour tonight somewhat…surprising.”

“Because I was supposed to sit there and take it while you completely ignored me in order to chat up Alex Fucking Twaddle?”

Now he did the Lucien is being terrible temple-massaging thing. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was trying to make a good impression because I understood that to be the purpose of the exercise.”

“Then you succeeded,” I retorted with more vehemence that perhaps made sense in context. “They clearly thought you were just ducky.”

“I’m confused. You’re angry because I did too well at reflecting positively on your taste in boyfriends?”

“Yes. I mean. No. I mean. Fuck you, Oliver.”

“I don’t see how that’s helpful.”