I gave her my best smile. “That’s so you.”

“Well”—Adam almost looked like he’d never been an investment banker—“you know how Tamara and I believe in living our principles.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, “I haven’t introduced you to my partner yet. Oliver, these are Adam and Tamara Clarke. Adam and Tamara, this is Oliver Blackwood.”

Handshakes, air-kisses, and entirely one-sided Namastes followed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Oliver had his good-at-social-situations face on. “You’re the couple behind Gaia, aren’t you?”

They both lit up like locally sourced Christmas trees.

“Yes.” Tamara’s eyes grew soft. “It’s been our whole life for five years.”

Another of Adam’s nods. “Our mission’s always been to bring ethical values to the convenience food sector.”

I clutched at Oliver’s hand in a way that I hoped signalled “I’m in real danger of laughing right now” and he squeezed back in a way that suggested he got it.

“That’s very admirable,” murmured Oliver, “especially considering how many businesses in that sector have unethical values.”

“I know,” replied Tamara with absolute sincerity. “It’s terrible.”

Adam seemed oddly distracted considering that their business, and by extension themselves, had always been the Clarkes’ favourite topic of conversation. Then I noticed his gaze kept catching on my hand, still resting in Oliver’s. And, y’know, that gave me a bit of a dilemma. Because, from a certain point of view, it was my job to make these people comfortable. But, from a different point of view, fuck him. I’d jumped through a stack of hoops over the past couple of weeks to satisfy the Adam Clarkes of this world, but not holding hands with my boyfriend—my very nice, very respectable boyfriend who nobody could possibly disapprove of—was a hoop too far. And if Adam and Tamara decided to take their chequebook home because they went to a party and saw two guys being mildly affectionate to each other, well, then they could explain that to all their trendy leftie friends.

“So”—he gathered himself—“Oliver. What is it that you do?”

“I’m a barrister.”

“What kind?” asked Tamara.

“Criminal.”

That earned an indulgent chuckle from Adam. “The sort that locks up innocent people or the sort that puts murderers back on the streets?”

“Well, both, but mainly the murderer sort.” Oliver offered a placid smile. “I’d say the money helps me sleep at night, but it’s not even that well paid.”

“If you ever need help finding peace”—Tamara’s earnestness could have stripped bone—“I could put you in touch with a number of excellent yogis.”

Before Oliver had to work out how the hell to respond to that, Adam chimed in with “I used to be in a very similar situation myself. I mean, financial sector, obviously, not legal. But Tamara really helped me find my path.”

“Thank you,” said Oliver, with an impressive air of meaning it. “I’ll look you up if I ever feel ready.”

They made appreciative, if slightly condescending, noises, congratulated me on the authenticity of the Welsh male voice choir, and finally let us go. I cast Oliver an “I’m sorry, they’re the worst” glance but couldn’t risk saying it out loud, just in case they—or let’s be fair, anybody else—heard me dissing some people who were about to give me a very large sum of money.

“Don’t worry.” He leaned in, somehow managing to whisper without looking shady. “If I can pretend to respect Justice Mayhew, I can pretend to like the Clarkes.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“It’s exactly what you needed me for.”

Well. Didn’t that feel all complicated and confusingey? Because he was right—having someone who could convincingly fake an interest in me and my donors had been the whole plan. But seeing it in action, especially now I genuinely liked him, made the whole thing…icky. “You’re better than this.”

“Better than what, Lucien?” His eyes gleamed softly at me. “Better than being polite to people I don’t particularly care about at my partner’s work event?”

“Um, yes?”

He brushed his lips against my brow, hiding his smile. “I’ve got news for you. For those of us not raised by ’80s rock legends, this is just…life. It’s fine. I’m happy to be here with you, and later we can go home and laugh about it all.”

“When we go home,” I told him firmly, “there won’t be time for laughing. You have no idea how good you look in those trous—Oh shit.” Across the room, I saw to my horror that Dr. Fairclough was interacting with a guest. Which never, ever ended well. I grabbed Oliver by the elbow. “Sorry. This is an emergency. We have to go.”

As we drew closer, trying not to look too much like we were staging an intervention, I realised we were even more fucked than I thought. Because Dr. Fairclough was talking to, or rather at, Kimberly Pickles. And the problem with Kimberly Pickles—which I knew well from having painstakingly developed her and her wife over the last year and a half—is that she did not give a shit about beetles, and she did give a shit about lots of other things. Things that she felt very strongly her incredibly wealthy partner would be better off spending her money on.

“…can’t be sure whether you’re being wilfully ignorant,” Dr. Fairclough was saying, “or simply ig—”

“Kimberly.” I swept in. “How lovely to see you. I don’t think you’ve met my partner, Oliver Blackwood. Oliver, this is Kimberly Pickles, who you might recognise from—”

“Oh, of course,” he said, not cutting over me, but kind of gliding in effortlessly. “Your recent miniseries on child sexual exploitation was remarkable.”

She beamed, but sadly not in a “totally disarmed” way and said, “Aww, fank you” in the broad Estuary accent that, ten years ago, would definitely have kept her off the BBC.

“And this is my boss”—I indicated Dr. Fairclough warily—“Dr. Amelia Fairclough.”

“It’s so good to meet you.” Oliver didn’t bother extending a hand for her to shake, which I initially thought was uncharacteristically impolite. But he must have realised that Dr. Fairclough would have (a) not given a shit and (b) seen the requirement to engage in a pointless social ritual as a waste of time. “Lucien’s told me all about your monograph on rove beetles.”