“So.” Sophie changed the subject with the poise and dignity of somebody who’d drunk entirely too much to give a fuck. “If not a rock star, what do you do?”

“I’m a fundraiser for a charity.”

“Oh, of course you are. Oliver, why are your boyfriends always so drearily ethical?”

“Don’t worry.” I slanted a secret grin at Oliver. “I’m not ethical at all. I used to be in PR before I got fired for becoming the story. And now I work for the only people who’ll have me.”

“That’s far better. Keep this one, darling. He’s a lot more interesting than the others.”

“Yes.” Oliver lifted a brow. “Appeasing my evillest friend is exactly what I look for in a boyfriend.”

“You joke, but it should be.” Her attention flicked back to me. “What’s your charity trying to save-slash-prevent?”

“Um. Dung beetles?”

She blinked. “Normally this would be obvious, but saving or preventing?”

“Actually”—Oliver gave my knee a squeeze under the table—“they’re extremely ecologically important. They aerate soil.”

“My children are six miles away, I’ve had an awful lot of wine, and Oliver seems to want me to care about dirt. I’m doing my best, but”—Sophie wafted her glass solicitously—“does anybody have a fuck I can borrow because I’m fresh out.”

The part of my brain that had actually been showing up to work recently kicked in before I could stop it. “Look, I can absolutely help you find a fuck to give, but I’m very aware that I’m at someone else’s birthday party and probably shouldn’t be fishing for donors.”

“No, please fish Sophie.” Jennifer flashed a smile at me across the table. “She’s got pots of money and doesn’t deserve any of it.”

“Excuse me, I work very hard for my morally bankrupt clients. But go on, charity man”—Sophie propped her chin on her palm and gazed at me challengingly—“land me.”

I gave Sophie a once-over. Remarkably together despite the truly stupendous amount she’d drunk. From her choice of dress, she liked people to underestimate her and, from the way she spoke, she liked to remind them that they had. There was a strategy that would probably work here, but it was risky.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m guessing that you donate to charity for exactly two reasons, which are tax breaks and sticking it to your do-gooder friends. I could try to explain to you why dung beetles are a vital part of the country’s ecology, but clearly you don’t care. And that’s okay. So instead I’ll tell you this: any arsehole with a credit card can give money to puppies with cancer or toys for sad children, but nothing says ‘I have thought about my charitable donations better than you have’ like giving your money to an environmentally vital but fundamentally unattractive insect. In the ‘who’s best at philanthropy game,’ the person with the most obscure charity wins. Always. And you do not get more obscure than us.”

There was a pause. A deeply uncomfortable pause that lasted just long enough for me to wonder how badly I’d blown it.

Then Sophie’s lips twisted into a gleeful smirk. “Sold. How much do you need?”

Ben burst out laughing.

And I wasn’t sure where to go from here. “Um. Great. That’s great. But given you’re really pissed right now, and you’re Oliver’s friend, and I don’t want him to be cross with me—”

“I’m perfectly happy,” he interrupted. “Bleed her dry.”

“Even so, I do actually have some professional ethics. You can ring me tomorrow if you want or I can call you or we can set up a lunch or, y’know, there’s a big do next week, where you can come and hang out with posh people and throw all your money at us if that’s how you’re feeling.”

“You have a Dung Beetle Do?”

“Yeah, we call it the Beetle Drive. Aren’t we adorable?”

Another pause.

“I feel compelled to point out,” said Sophie finally, “that you’ve just refused to take money from me now because I’m drunk. But you’ve invited me to a party where you presumably try to get a lot of people drunk and then ask them for money.”

“Yeah, it’s not unethical if you print invitations.”

“Then I suppose I’ll see you there.”

The table broke into only slightly sarcastic applause.

“Anyway”—Jennifer began to help Peter clear the table—“to bring things back to my birthday, do people need a pause before dessert?”

Brian stroked his beard. “Very much depends on what dessert is.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Does that mean it’s something we’re all going to hate?”

“Ooh.” A thought struck Amanda. “Is it Angel Delight?”

A different thought appeared to have struck Ben, who shuddered theatrically. “If it’s Black Forest Gateau, I’m leaving.”

The frozen dessert banter looked set to continue for a while, which a couple of people seemed to read as a cue to stretch their legs and take bathroom breaks. I was more or less happy where I was, but then Oliver leaned over, and whispered to me that I should come outside a moment.

Oh shit. I shouldn’t have tried to develop his friend. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Feeling distinctly chastised, I trailed Oliver into the hall.

“Look,” I started, “I’m sorry I—”

At which point he pressed me against the wall and kissed me.

It was fair to say we’d done a decent amount of kissing since putting it on the boyfriend menu, but it hadn’t been like this since my Guardian-related freak-out. I was beginning to think dumping him had put him off me somehow. And while I’d have really liked to get back to how things had been that night on my sofa—the sweet, sharp certainty of wanting, and being wanted—I’d been wary of pushing my luck. We hadn’t managed to see each other for most of the week, and it was hard to expect a guy to look at you as a passionate and intensely sexual being when your last two meetings had involved crying on a bathroom floor and an exhibition of glass sculptures. But, apparently, being moderately supportive at a party and trying to make one of his friends give money to dung beetles had done the job just fine.

In any case, I was here for it. Very, very here for it.

As, briefly, was someone else who told us to get a room on his way to the loo.

But fuck it. These weren’t yeah whatever kisses. They weren’t take it or leave it, get your coat you’ve pulled kisses. They were everything I thought I could never have, everything I’d been pretending I never wanted, telling me that I was worth it, that he’d be there for me and put up with me, and wouldn’t let me drive him away.