BY THE TIME Friday night came around, Cormac was absolutely exhausted from the driving, from the myriad different cases he now had—he’d never treated sickle cell disease in his life before, for example, and was studying up as fast as he could. He went for a pair of twill trousers he had bought by mistake online once, and never worn out in the village because everyone would laugh at them (they were a little tight, particularly down on the ankles), and a green-gray shirt Emer had bought him that she said exactly matched his eyes, which made him feel like a bit of a prick when he wore it, in case anyone thought that he had bought it for himself because it matched his eyes and because he thought he was terribly good-looking.

Kim-Ange found him ironing in the laundry room. She narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Some house?”

“Somebody’s house?”

“No,” said Cormac, wrinkling his face. “It’s called a house but it’s not a house. But I don’t know what it is. I have to give my name at the door.”

“Soho House?”

“No. But like that.”

“Stockton House?”

“Yes!”

“Oh my God!” said Kim-Ange. “That’s, like, a totally cool private members club. You can’t just walk in there.”

“Why not?” said Cormac. “Is everything free?”

Kim-Ange snorted. “No! Very expensive.”

“So why?”

“Exclusive, darling. For the glamorous people!”

They both looked down at the shirt he was ironing.

“No,” said Kim-Ange. “You want to stand out.”

“I really, really don’t,” said Cormac.

“This is London, not Buttington McFuckington! You’re not going to a sheepdog-shagger trial!”

Cormac gave her a look. “You’re being quite rude.”

“Come with me,” she ordered.

KIM-ANGE’S ROOM WAS as different from Alyssa’s as could be, despite being the identical size and shape. Somehow she’d squeezed a double mattress in there, which took over the entire corner of the room next to the window. Purple-and-red cloth with tiny mirrors was draped over the walls and the ceiling, and there were large red-shaded lamps that gave the room a pink glow (“More flattering,” said Kim-Ange). Purple cushions were scattered everywhere, and scented candles cluttered up the surfaces, their scent lingering even though they weren’t lit. Fairy lights lined the old, faded curtain rails.

“Welcome to my boudoir!” said Kim-Ange, and Cormac had to admit, it was undeniably a boudoir.

“Now,” said Kim-Ange. She disappeared into the cupboard, rummaging among tightly stacked boxes, as Cormac looked at a collection of fabulously high-heeled shoes.

Eventually, Kim-Ange brought out an old cardboard box. She smiled at it ruefully.

“Sentimental reasons,” she said.