We exit the building into the warm May air. Fleet Street is busy with traffic and the afternoon exodus from work, so we don’t speak for a few minutes as we push our way through.

“Sweeney Todd’s barber shop was on this street,” he observes. “Just in case you are considering a haircut.”

“Should I be?”

He purses his lips. “It would be very ill-mannered of me to suggest that.”

“And yet I’m sure that won’t stop you.”

His chuckle makes me smile. The crowds slowly lessen as we move away from the main thoroughfare and take the back streets, passing delis and small shops. We pass a florist, and for a second, the air is full of the sharp scent of soil and flowers.

“So, you have a pupil, then?” I say, appreciating the fact that he’s set a slow pace. I don’t think my leg is up to anything else. Already it’s aching like a bitch. “What are you teaching him? Extreme sarcasm with a minor in Danish witticisms?”

He laughs. It’s a warm and rich sound that makes his eyes crinkle and lets me know my original guess was correct. “Not exactly.” He shoots me a look. “Do you know much about being a barrister?”

“Doesn’t come up much in the life of a poor portrait artist,” I say slyly.

He shakes his head. “Poor? Ridiculous. I looked you up, and you could definitely afford something better than that monstrosity of a jumper with the prices you charge.”

“What’s wrong with my jumper?” I look down at the offending object. It’s thin and navy, and… I curse as I notice the paint on my sleeve.

He rolls his eyes. “It would be easier to ask what is right with it.”

I laugh. “So, you’ve been looking me up, have you?” I nudge him and am fascinated to see a tinge of red on those wide, high cheekbones. “How intriguingly stalkerish of you.”

He clears his throat. “Out of idle interest,” he says quickly. His lip twitches. “I wouldn’t have to move too fast if I actually was stalking you.”

This time he startles a full laugh out of me. It echoes through the small square we’re crossing. “So, now you’re taking the piss out of my injury. You’re a terrible person, Mags.”

He sighs. “Is it worthwhile to tell you that my name is Magnus? It’s a perfectly serviceable name and one I’ve answered to for many years.”

“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “Mags suits you. It’s quirky. It says, ‘I am a strange Danish man who shags twinks who like to accessorise with penis decorations.’”

He grunts. “Hopefully, that will never happen again. Young people can be so alarmingly impetuous.”

“Alright, Grandad,” I say, nudging him again. He sighs long-sufferingly, and I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Is that what you like?”

He raises his eyebrows at me.