I nod. “To paraphrase Charles Dickens, it wasn’t exactly the best of times.” We walk along a shadowed path, and I inhale the scent of something sharp and fresh. “Denmark was rather different,” I say. “Much more relaxed. It was the first country in the world to legally recognise same-sex registered partnerships. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but I lived with artists who were thoroughly relaxed about everything. Then I was sent to live here, and I was horrified. I was suddenly a teenager at a single-sex boarding school who knew he liked other boys, and I was living in a country where homosexuality wasn’t spoken about and then it was even banned from being discussed in schools. Like we were fucking criminals. Then came AIDS, and to some bigots, we were actually fucking lepers. Don’t get me wrong, I was a little young to experience the worst, but I do remember seeing the hatred and the abuse.” I sigh. “It was terrifying for a teenager who knew he was gay. I won’t forget it, and I refuse to live according to the ideas of narrow-minded bigots. They don’t get a say in my life, and they never will. They need to look to their own lives. They must be quite narrow if they’re so obsessed with what grown adults do in their own beds.”

“I’m surprised you stayed once you were eighteen.”

I smile at him and pet Endof when he leans into me. “I love Denmark, and a small part of me will always miss it, but I love England too. We had a difficult start, but she’s a grand old country who gave me a wonderful education. The people are funny and dry and never take themselves too seriously. I like living in a place that registers irony. I love the history, the pubs, and football when Arsenal are winning.”

He chuckles. “Not often, then.” I give a woeful sigh and he smiles. “I miss England. Funnily enough, I miss it more, the older I get. But I love the South of France too. I like the pace of life and my home.” He looks determinedly ahead. “Do you think you could live somewhere like that?” he asks, and my breath stops for a second.

Is he asking me what I think he is?

I’m pondering how to respond when we emerge onto another path, and he exclaims, “I know where we are now. Charles the First took his last walk here.” His tone is full of forced cheer.

I exhale discreetly. I don’t know whether I’m happy or sad that he didn’t wait for my answer.

“It was the morning of his execution.” Laurie’s eyes flick towards me, his shoulders tensing. I pin a smile on my face and gesture for him to continue. “His walk ended at Banqueting Hall on Whitehall where he was beheaded.”