Great. Now I had Dad, a random donor, and Oliver all coming at my self-esteem from different directions. And, yes, I deserved it in Oliver’s case, but that wasn’t making me feel any better.

“This is jolly interesting,” piped up Alex. At this point the odds were fifty-fifty that he still thought we were talking about badgers. “But I can’t help feel a chap is still better off with a judge. I mean, just seems more likely to be a chap’s sort of chap, you know?”

Oliver turned back to him with an effortless smile. “In your specific case, Alex, I very much agree.”

“Gosh. Really? Well, look at me. See, I’m always a bit less wrong than people think. Like a stopped clock. Oh I say, it’s Miffy.”

Alex leapt to his feet, followed more gracefully by Oliver with the instinctive courtesy of the properly brought up. I stumbled after them, listing a little because of the buttock issue.

“Hello, boys.” An immaculate gift box of a woman—mostly eyes, cheekbones, and cashmere—was gliding towards us. “So sorry I’m late. Had a beastly time getting through the photographers.”

There followed a brief flurry as she and Alex exchanged a surprisingly complex sequence of air kisses. “Don’t worry, old girl. I kept them entertained. This is Oliver Blackwood—he’s a lawyer. Frightfully clever fellow.”

More air kisses, which Oliver fielded expertly. Because apparently everybody got to touch my boyfriend—I mean, my fake boyfriend—except me.

“And this is Luc O’Donnell, who I’ve told you all about.”

She came in to kiss me and I moved my head wrong and we banged noses. “Gosh,” she said. “You look very young to be Speaker of the House.”

“Um. No. That’s not me.”

“Are you sure? That’s definitely who Ally was telling me about.”

“Is it possible,” I asked, “he’s told you about more than one person?”

She blinked. “Possibly, but that would get terribly confusing.”

“Anyway”—that was Alex again, and for possibly the first time in my entire life I was relieved he was speaking—“Luc and Oliver are boyfriends. Only not really. They just have to pretend until the Beetle Drive. It’s the most tremendous wheeze.” He blushed modestly. “My idea actually.”

“Oh, Ally. You are a smarty-pants.”

“Only don’t tell anybody because it’s a gigantic secret.”

She tapped the side of her head. “Video et taceo.”

“And this,” Alex went on, “is my… I say, Miffy, are we engaged?”

“I don’t recall. I feel like we probably should be. Let’s say we are for now and work out the details later.”

“In which case, this is my fiancée Clara Fortescue-Lettice.”

I knew I was going to regret this. But I said it anyway. “I thought she was called Miffy?”

“Yes.” Alex gave me a what-is-wrong-with-you look. “Miffy, short for Clara.”

“But it’s the same number of sylla… Never mind.”

Alex drew Miffy-Short-for-Clara’s arm through his with easy confidence. “Shall we tootle into the dining room?”

“Yes, let’s,” she agreed. “I could eat an entire dressage team.”

Oliver and I eyed each other nervously, uncertain if we had a linking-arms type of relationship, before falling into step beside each other like estranged relatives at a funeral. Yep. I’d been demoted from “Don’t kiss me” to “I cannot bear the thought of physical contact with you.”

“So,” remarked Miffy as we made our way down another absurdly opulent corridor, “what have you boys been nattering about?”

Alex glanced briefly towards us. “Actually it’s been fascinating. Oliver was just telling us about the merits and drawbacks of jury trials.”

“That does sound fascinating. My father’s against them, of course. Terrible for dairy farmers.”

Oliver moved his hand swiftly to his mouth as if to stifle a cough. But I was 99 percent certain he was smiling. Unfortunately he wouldn’t look at me, so I couldn’t even share that.

Chapter 17

It turned out there were two dining halls—the Eden Room and the Gascoyne-Cecil Room—but Alex found the Eden Room, in his words, “chummier.” Although what precisely was chummy about mustard-yellow walls, wainscoting, and massive portraits of severe-looking men dressed entirely in black, I couldn’t say. The menu offered roast chicken, roast beef, roast pork, beef Wellington, roast pheasant, game pie, and roast venison.

“Ah,” exclaimed Alex, “lovely. Just like school dinners.”

I gave him a look. Maybe if I focused on how annoying I found Alex, I’d find myself more bearable. “Often had pheasant at school, did you, Alex?”

“Not often. You know, once or twice a week maybe.”

I glanced at Oliver, who was scrutinising the menu as if he hoped he’d somehow missed the non-dead-animal option. Was this a fake boyfriend job? It was probably a fake boyfriend job. And if I did it right, he might start paying attention to me. Fuck, I was pathetic.

“I should have mentioned,” I said gallantly, “Oliver’s a vegetarian.”

“I’m so sorry.” Miffy gazed at him with genuine concern. “What happened? Is there anything anyone can do?”

Oliver gave a wry smile. “I’m afraid not. But please don’t worry, I’ll manage.”

“No no,” Alex protested. “I’m sure it’s fine. Let’s ask James.” He made a gesture and a completely different butling person who still, apparently, answered to the name James appeared at his elbow. “I say, James. Queer business. Seems I’ve accidentally brought a vegetarian.”

James did one of those mini-bows straight off Downton Abbey. “I’m sure the chef can accommodate the lady, sir.”

“I’m not a vegetarian.” Miffy’s eyes widened in outrage. “My father’s an earl.”

“I do apologise, madam.”

Oliver made a charmingly bashful gesture. “I’m afraid I’m the difficulty, James. If you could arrange something along the lines of a garden salad, that would be more than sufficient.”

He took the rest of our orders, and twenty minutes later we were surrounded by various meats, most of them roasted, some of them in pastry, and Oliver had an actually quite pleasant-looking pile of leaves. I mean, I wouldn’t personally have wanted it for dinner, but I guess it served him right for having ethics.