“Clearly I have hidden depths. Also I’m rather invested in Cecil and Carlos.”

“Genuinely? Do you ship them? Do you have a Tumblr as well?”

“I don’t know what any of those words mean.”

“I’d have believed that, right up until the point I discovered you’re into Welcome to Night Vale.”

“What can I say? I sometimes need a break from listening to documentaries about current affairs and looking down on people.”

I was about to retort but something held me back. “Did I do the bad teasing again?”

“Maybe. I just didn’t realise you’d find it so shocking that I had an interest outside the law and the news.”

“I’m sorry. I…I like seeing other sides of you.”

“Is the side you normally see so objectionable?”

“No,” I grumbled. “I like that too. Is this why you don’t have casual sex?”

He blinked. “Because of Welcome to Night Vale?”

“Because you’re waiting for someone with perfect hair.”

“Yes. That is the reason.” He paused. “That, and instructions from the Glow Cloud.”

Chapter 29

Between Cecil’s honeyed tones and the fact I’d got up at seven, I might have fallen asleep. Oliver shook me gently awake, and I peeled myself out the car somewhere round the back of Dad’s insultingly idyllic rock-star farmhouse. To my complete lack of surprise, the parking area where we’d stashed the rental was very, very full of what looked an awful lot like a working film crew. I mean, there was even a motherfucking food truck, from which a bald man in a leather jacket was getting a baked potato.

“Well,” I said, “I’m really looking forward to spending some quality time with my emotionally distant father.”

Oliver’s arm went round my waist. It was worrying how natural that was beginning to feel. “I’m sure this will all be wrapped up soon.”

“It should have been wrapped up yesterday.”

“Then I suspect it’s overrun, which is hardly his fault.”

“I’ll blame him if I want to.”

We crunched over the gravel and between some outbuildings—all thatched and charming, although at least one of them had obviously soundproofed windows—and managed to nearly reach the front door before we were accosted by security.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I sighed. “I’ve been asking myself that since we left London.”

“Sorry, mate.” The man put up a hand. “You can’t be here.”

“We were invited,” said Oliver. “This is Luc O’Donnell.”

“If you’re not on the show, you can’t be here.”

I half managed to turn away, but Oliver’s arm was making it difficult. “Oh, what a shame. Let’s go. If we hurry, we can make that lovely service station in time for dinner.”

“Luc”—Oliver wheeled me back around—“you’ve come a long way. Don’t give up now.”

“But I like giving up. It’s my single biggest talent.”

Sadly, Oliver wasn’t having any of it. He fixed the security guard with his best lawyer look. “Mr… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Briggs,” offered the security guard.

“Mr. Briggs, this is Jon Fleming’s son. He has been invited and, therefore, has a right to be here. While I appreciate that it is your job to tell us to go away, we aren’t going to. If you try to physically prevent us from seeing Mr. Fleming, that will be assault. Now I’m going to walk past you into the house, and I recommend you go and speak to your manager.”

Personally, even putting aside how little I wanted to be there, I wouldn’t have chosen the course of action that had “get assaulted” as a possible consequence. Oliver, apparently, didn’t have a problem with it. We walked round the guy and into the house.

Where we were immediately yelled at by a red-haired woman in her early fifties. “Cut. Cut. Who the fuck opened the door?”

We were standing in what, when it wasn’t full of boom mics and angry people, would have been a gorgeously rustic entrance hall, with stripped wooden floorboards, slightly faded rugs, and an enormous fireplace set into a stone wall.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Oliver said, unperturbed. “We’re here to see Jon Fleming. But there seems to be a schedule clash.”

“I don’t care if you’re here to see the fucking Dalai Lama. You don’t walk onto my set.”

At this moment, Jon Fleming stepped through from the room beyond—a sitting room decorated in the same style, which somehow managed to look cosy despite also being enormous.

“Sorry. Sorry.” He made what James Royce-Royce would call a mea-culpa gesture. “They’re with me. Geraldine, you okay with them sitting in?”

“Fine.” She glared at us. “Just be quiet and don’t touch anything.”

“Well”—I sighed sadly—“there goes my plan to scream and lick the furniture.”

Jon Fleming gave me a look of sincere contrition, though I was sure that he was neither sincere nor contrite. “I’ll be with you soon, Luc. I know this wasn’t what you expected.”

“Actually. It’s pretty much exactly what I expected. Take as long as you need.”

It took him five fucking hours.

Most of it, he spent mentoring Leo from Billericay through a soulful acoustic rendition of “Young and Beautiful.” They were sitting on one of the expansively homey sofas—Leo from Billericay, with his guitar cradled on his knee like it was a dying lamb, and Dad watching him intently with this look that said “I believe in you, son.”

I knew shit all about music but Dad was depressingly good at this stuff. He kept making insightful, but non-pushy technical suggestions and offering the sort of praise and support that stayed with you for a lifetime. And, incidentally, also made for great TV moments. At one point he even guided Leo from Billericay’s fingers into a better position to transition between chords.

And then we had to clear the entrance hall so Leo from Billericay could sit by the fireplace and tell the camera how amazing my dad was and how important their relationship had become to him. Which took several takes because they kept asking him for more emotion. By the end he was on the verge on tears, although whether that was because it had been such a meaningful experience for him, or because he’d been sat under hot lights for the whole afternoon with nothing to eat or drink while people shouted at him, I couldn’t say. Well, I could. But I didn’t really care.