“You can also,” I offered, “bid on a Fortnum & Mason hamper in the silent auction.”

“Fuck that. I’m going for the rove beetle book.” She grinned Cheshire cat–style. “I might give it to Bridge for Christmas.”

“Oh, Soph.” Oliver shook his head. “You’re a terrible human being.”

“You can’t say that to me anymore. I support dung beetles.”

Since Sophie and Ben were wandering, that probably meant I should be wandering too. Semireluctantly, I got up and offered Sophie my chair. “I’ll leave you to catch up for a bit.”

“I’m happy to accompany you,” Oliver said. “I see far too much of these two as it is.”

Ben’s eyes widened in outrage. “You bloody well don’t. I know we’ve been out twice in two weeks, but Jennifer’s birthday was my first night off since we forced the grandparents to take the little shits for Boxing Day.”

“What about the Alternative Valentine’s Day party that Brian still insists on doing even though he’s married now?”

“Sophie came to that. I was at home because Twin B had chicken pox and Twin A was about to get chicken pox.”

I patted Oliver on the shoulder. “You stay. You’ve been heroic enough this evening.”

“Don’t say that.” Sophie winced. “He loves playing the hero, and the last thing he needs is encouragement.”

Oliver shot her a sharp look. “That’s not true. I just think it’s important to be useful.”

“Useful, dear, is for dogs and crescent wrenches. Friends and lovers should care for you even when you’re not a blind bit of good to anybody.”

“Okay.” I gave an exaggerated side step out of an imaginary firing line. “Now I’m definitely leaving you to it.”

Having given his wife what he clearly considered a sufficient grace period, Ben claimed my chair. “Don’t worry. This is how they relate. Can I have your dessert?”

“What?” I spluttered. “How dare you? You’re taking advantage of the fact it’s my job to be nice to you.”

“Yes. I absolutely am. I had to scrub poo out of this tie to be here tonight. I think I deserve another panna cotta.”

“Okay. Fine. I can see your need is greater than mine.”

He pounced on my spoon in preparation. “Oliver has chosen well. We shall be friends.”

I gave Oliver a “you’re still my hero” kiss and went to, y’know, work. The rest of the evening unfolded smoothly—funds were raised, things were auctioned silently, nobody was too horribly insulted, and we managed to catch the earl just as he was about to get in a taxi to Heathrow with a companion into whose background we did not look too deeply. By the time we’d cleaned up, packed up, and given up, it was slightly after two and I let Oliver pour me into a taxi and take me home.

“Thank you for tonight,” I told him, somewhat slurrily, resting my head against his shoulder.

“You can stop thanking me, Lucien.”

“But you were amazing. You were nice to everybody, and everybody liked you, and you talked to Dr. Fairclough and you didn’t punch the Clarkes…”

“You shouldn’t listen to Sophie.” He shifted a little uncomfortably. “I don’t need you to act like…like this was anything special.”

My brain stumbled over something but was too foggy to see what it was. “Why are we talking about Sophie?”

“We’re not. I just didn’t want you to think that I think that… I don’t know.”

“I’m really not thinking much at all right now. But this evening went really well for me, and part of that was you.” I remembered something else important. “Also you look really hot in black tie. And the moment we get in, I’m going to… I’m going to…”

The next time I was aware of, well, anything, I was in bed, and Oliver was taking off my clothes in a tragically unerotic way.

“Come here.” I made a plaintive pawing motion. “We’re going to do all of the sex things.”

“Yes. Lucien. That’s exactly what’s happening now.”

“Good. Because you’re so wonderful…and I really want…and did I mention you look really hot in that…”

Then I opened my eyes and it was dawn and Oliver was fast asleep beside me—looking all peaceful and stubbly and perfect. And, on the one hand, I was annoyed I’d been too knackered to fuck him six ways to, from, or possibly on Sunday. But there he was, warm and curled up against me, holding me tight, in this strangely protective, strangely vulnerable way.

And, y’know, I guess that was okay too.

Chapter 43

“Knock, knock,” I said to Alex.

“Oh, I know this one.” He paused. “Who’s there?”

“The interrupting cow.”

“The interrupt—”

“Moo.”

“—ing cow who?” He continued to look at me expectantly. “This is your bit.”

“No, no, I did my bit.”

“Sorry, did I miss it? Shall we try again?”

“I’m honestly not sure that will help. You see, and”—I was starting to get that sinking feeling—“now that I find myself having to articulate it, I’m beginning to realise that this was probably a poor choice. The interrupting-cow joke is sort of a subversion of the knock-knock joke form.”

“Ah. You mean like Ulysses?”

“Probably? But more about a cow and less about…I’m going to go out on a limb and say sad Irish people?”

Alex thought about this for a long moment. “And so I’m led by the intrinsic structural features of the knock-knock joke medium to anticipate that the punch line will be delivered following my delivery of the expected reply ‘the interrupting cow who’ but because the interrupting cow is an interrupting cow, it instead delivers its punch line during said response, thus confounding my expectations with hilarious consequences.”

“Um. I think so?”

“It’s rather good.” He leaned sideways. “I say, Rhys. Come in here.”

Rhys Jones Bowen’s head appeared in the doorway. “What can I do you for, fellows?”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

Alex shot me a conspiratorial look. “The interrupting cow.”