“Go right ahead.”

“Righto. Any idea how I…you know…do that?”

I didn’t sigh. I felt very proud of myself for not sighing. “Did you already press Transfer before you called my extension?”

“Yes. I remembered to do it that way around because I’ve got a clever mnemonic. I just remember the phrase Sic transit gloria mundi, then I remember that you press Transfer first because ‘transit’ is the second word in the old memory aid. Deuced thing is, I can’t remember what comes next.”

“Hang up.”

Alex seemed hurt. “Steady on, old chap, no need to be like that. Just because a fellow has a bit of a tricky time remembering how to use the telephone machine doesn’t mean you should just tell him to hang up out of nowhere.”

“If you hang up the phone,” I explained, “it will transfer automatically.”

“Really? That’s dashed clever on it. Thanks a jillion.”

“No problem. Thanks, Alex.”

There was the briefest click of a line reconnecting, and then Jon Fleming’s legend-of-rock voice rumbled down the line at me. “Hello, Luc. I don’t think Sunday went the way either of us wanted it to.”

That was the problem with reaching out to people. Sometimes they reached back. And while I was mostly trying to be a kinder, gentler, nicer person, Jon Fleming was the exception. “No fucking shit.”

“I’m back in London. I said I’d look you up.”

“Well, you have. Congratulations on partially following through on a commitment.”

“So how’ve you been?”

There was no way I was telling him about, well, anything. “Good, as it happens. Which, I should clarify, has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

There was a slight pause. “I can see you’re still carrying a lot of anger with you. I was the sa—”

“Don’t even think about telling me you were the same when you were my age.”

“As time passes, you learn to be more accepting of things that aren’t as you’d wish they were.”

“Did you want to talk”—I cradled my office phone awkwardly against my shoulder as I ran down a list of other auction possibilities—“or are you practicing sound bites for the next time you’re on Loose Women?”

“I was wondering if you’d be free to meet up while I’m in town.”

Oh fuck. I’d just about made my peace with the idea that I’d reached out and it hadn’t worked and I was never going to see Jon Fleming again. And the fucker hadn’t even given me that. “Um. Depends. How long are you here for?”

“There’s no hurry. We’ll be filming for the next month or so.”

I glanced around my office, which was a carnage of pre–Beetle Drive prep. “I don’t suppose,” I tried, since by all rights there should be some upside to having a famous father, “you want to come to a fundraiser for the charity I work for.”

“I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you one-on-one. I’d like an opportunity to set things right.”

“Look, I…”

Note to self: Don’t start sentences you have no idea how to end. I absentmindedly flicked the release, and my swivel chair sunk about three inches—pretty much matching my mood right down to the weary hiss. Basically, I had no idea what a “setting things right” conversation with Jon Fleming would even begin to look like, but I had a creeping suspicion that it would end with him feeling better and me feeling worse.

I’d obviously left a really audible thinking gap because he said, “You don’t have to decide immediately,” in this tone that made it sound like he was doing me a massive fucking favour.

“No, it’s fine. We can get dinner or something. I’ll find out when Oliver’s available.”

Another pause. From him this time.

“I’m glad Oliver’s in your life, but do you not think it’d be easier if it was the two of us?”

Easier for him maybe.

“Besides,” he went on, “I know barristers have very busy schedules. It might be difficult to find a window we can both make.”

As was so often the case when it came to Jon Fleming: I just couldn’t. Was I supposed to be flattered that he wanted me all to himself? Or creeped out that he was acting like someone off To Catch a Predator? I mean, nothing good ever began with “and be sure you come alone.”

And there was another of my “I’m very conflicted, please talk into this silence” gaps.

Whether out of sensitivity to my needs or a love of his own voice, Jon Fleming talked. “I’m aware I’m being selfish here. Of course you can bring your partner if that’s what you feel you need.”

Great. Way to make me feel weak and codependent.

“But the truth is”—he hesitated, as if he was sincerely struggling with something—“it’s not easy for someone like me to admit when I’ve done wrong. And it’ll be that much harder in front of an audience.”

“W-wait. What?”

“This isn’t the kind of conversation we should be having over the phone.”

He was right. But this was the closest I’d ever come to getting anything even halfway real from my father. And I didn’t know how not to just…grab at it. Except I couldn’t. Because how could I be sure he wouldn’t disappear like a gateway to Narnia the moment I went looking for him? There’d been a time when I’d wanted this so much, and maybe that made it worth the risk.

Or maybe it really, really didn’t.

“Can I…” I asked. “Can I think about it?”

There was a longer-than-I-would-have-liked pause. “Of course you can. I’ll send you my personal number, and you can contact me on your own terms. Just remember, I’ll be here for you until…until the end.”

And with that helpful little reminder he had cancer, Jon Fleming hung up.

Chapter 35

Oliver seemed to genuinely enjoy Gavin’s exhibition, although I could have done without his first words as we went through the door being “Ah, so you meant the Merthyr Tydfil Rising of 1831.” In any case, while it wouldn’t have been my first, second, or indeed twelfth choice for an evening out, I was quite enjoying being the sort of person who took his socially acceptable barrister boyfriend to pop-up dining experiences and indie art events. Also, it gave me a bunch of culture points that I immediately cashed in by treating myself to a Twix McFlurry on the way home. Which, despite his objections to both the contents of the dessert and the business ethics of the company that sold it, I generously shared with Oliver.