Of course, taking Monday off meant having to catch up on Tuesday. And since the Beetle Drive was rolling over the hill like a clump of dung under the hind legs of a Scarabaeus viettei—wow, I had been working at CRAPP way too long—I had a whole lot to do when I got in the office.

We’d decided that the fundraiser should include a silent auction back when we (that is to say, I) set up the first one a few years ago and I think we’d just thought it sounded good. But it turned out they were a fuckton of work because you needed either a small number of expensive things and a lot of rich people, or a large number of moderately priced things and a reasonable number of rich people, and every time it was touch and go whether the balance was going to shake out right.

It didn’t help that Dr. Fairclough insisted on donating a signed copy of her monograph on the distribution of rove beetles in south Devon between 1968 and 1972, which was apparently a wild time for the Devonshire rove beetle. And I wound up having to buy it every year under a series of increasingly unlikely pseudonyms because nobody else would bid on it. The most recent had gone to a Ms. A. Stark of Winterfell Road.

Just as I was securing a helpfully obscene discount on a Fortnum & Mason hamper—which always did well at an auction even though they aren’t actually especially hard to get hold of—Rhys Jones Bowen appeared in my doorway with his usual impeccable timing.

“Busy, Luc?” he asked.

“Yes, fantastically.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll only be a moment.” He claimed my spare chair with the air of a man who has no intention of only being a moment. “I’m just here to pass on a message from Bronwyn. She said thank you for getting photographed outside her restaurant. It did her the world of good, and she’s booked out for the rest of the pop-up. She was going to offer to cook you dinner, but she can’t because now she’s got too much on.”

What with Cam’s wanky think piece nearly destroying my relationship with Oliver, I’d taken a break from my Google alerts. “No problem. Honestly, I kind of hadn’t noticed.”

“It was a lovely article in the end, all about how you were turning over a new healthier leaf, and trying to get your shit together like your dad. And the newspaper man asked Brownyn, and she said you weren’t nearly as much of a knobhead as she thought you were going to be. So that’s good, isn’t it?”

“In an ideal world, my press coverage wouldn’t include the word ‘knobhead’ at all but, yeah. I’ll take it.”

I waited hopefully for Rhys Jones Bowen to leave, but instead, he sat there stroking his beard. “You know, Luc, I’ve been thinking. As what you might call a social media guru, I recently discovered that there’s this website called Instagram. And apparently, if you’re a little bit famous and a bit of a bellend, you can make loads of money on it pretending you like things.”

“Are you suggesting”—it took me a moment to even make my head go there—“that I should become a social media influencer?”

“No, no, I’m just saying you should go on the Instagram and help people like Bronwyn. That’s what we in the business call leveraging your platform.”

“Thanks, but I think I like my platform unleveraged.”

“Well, you do you, as they say.” He stood up, stretched theatrically, walked halfway out the door, then stopped and turned. “By the way, you know how much you and your nice boyfriend enjoyed Bronwyn’s pop-up dining experience?”

I wasn’t sure I liked where this was going. “Yes?”

“Well, I’ve got this mate Gavin from Merthyr Tydfil, and he’s done a series of glass sculptures inspired by the Rising of 1831.”

Now, I definitely didn’t like where this was going, but for some reason I asked a question about it anyway. “The who? The what?”

“That’s so typical of the English. Set the 93rd Highlanders on my countrymen, and then don’t even have the decency to teach it in schools. Anyway”—he paused ominously—“you can learn all about it when you go and get your picture taken at Gavin’s exhibition.”

Call me paranoid, but I was beginning to think Rhys Jones Bowen had an ulterior motive for wanting me on Instagram. I was about to tell him that I had no intention of going to his mate’s glass sculpture show, but I did owe him for the whole vegan rescue, and also…I guess…helping people was nice? Besides, it was probably the sort of thing Oliver would actually be into. “Okay,” I said. “That sounds interesting. Email me the details, and I’ll ask my boyfriend if he’s up for it.”

“Don’t worry, Luc,” Rhys said, nodding. “I completely under—oh right. I’ll be honest, I expected you to say no to that one.”

“Must be Gavin’s lucky day. But I really do have to get back to work.”

“Tell you what, I’ll bring you a coffee.”

I thanked him and went back to silent auction hustling. Well, silent auction hustling and texting Oliver: Want to come with me to an exhibition tonight?

What sort of exhibition?

Funny you should ask that. Glass sculpture. About—it was while typing this that I realised I’d forgotten what Rhys has said it was about, and even if I could remember, I wouldn’t have been able to spell it—something bad that happened in Wales

I’m not sure that narrows it down.

An uprising?

There was a pause. Anyone else would have been Googling, but Oliver was just typing. There’ve been several.

Yes. One of them. Rhys wants me to get some publicity for a friend of his and I said I would because you’ve made me a better person you bastard

My apologies. I didn’t mean to.

It’s fine. You can pay for it by making me look like I understand art

I’d love to, Lucien, but I have to work tonight.

Sorry. Not getting out if that easily. It’s on all week.

I am genuinely keen to go. Of course he was.

Weekend then?

We have Jennifer’s birthday. Followed quickly by: I mean I have Jennifer’s birthday, and you are invited to come but should not feel obligated. Followed quickly by: Of course you’ll be very welcome. They’d like to meet you.

Calm down. How about Friday?

Works for me.

Okay. On to trying to score some premium tickets for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child at a non-exorbitant price. I was beginning to think the box office was never going to get back to me when my phone rang.

“Hello, Luc O’Donnell speaking.”

“Hullo, Luc.” It was Alex from the front desk. Which meant somebody was trying to call me but there was about a 50 percent chance he’d already hung up on them. “Got a slightly queer chappy on the line for you. Okay if I transfer him?”