“I can’t remember,” I confide and then laugh. “Shit. I feel terrible.”

“Have you been in court today?”

“This morning. Luckily, I was able to come back here afterwards.”

“Did you sleep?” He leans forward. “I’d have locked the door and had a kip.”

I gesture at my desk and the surrounding floor, where twenty lever arch case files are stacked. “Not much room for that.”

“Are those the testimonial files from your twinks?” he says, biting his lip and startling a belly laugh out of me.

“No, but that is a genius idea. They’d be excellent reports, though,” I advise him.

“Of course.”

I eye him. “Not that this visit isn’t lovely, but why are you here?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Laurie, I don’t remember much beyond putting the Pink Floyd album on.”

“That’ll have done it. They’d bore anyone into submission.”

I put a hand on my chest. “I’m horrified,” I say in a stern voice. “I’m unsure we can continue to be friends.”

“Power through it,” he advises me. “I came about the dog.”

I look blankly at him. “What dog?”

He tsks disapprovingly. “The dog you agreed to get.”

“Laurie, I may have consumed over half a bottle of vodka. It was over half,” I say before he can protest. “You’re very much a lightweight with vodka. I can barely remember my name today, but I’m pretty sure I’d recall getting a dog. Why on earth would I want one of those?”

“It’ll be company for you.”

“I get plenty of that already,” I say, picking up my pen and attempting to dismiss him. “And I don’t have to feed or take them out for a shit.”

“I somehow know you’re classifying that as low-maintenance behaviour.” He leans back and sticks his feet on the edge of my desk.

I eye the offending pair of tatty trainers and glare at him. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting,” he says with an air of surprise that’s belied by the glint in his eyes.

“Is it for death? Because I do wish you’d do it somewhere else.”

“No, I’m waiting for you to finish work so we can go and get the dog.”

“Do you listen to anything I say?”

“Not really unless it’s, ‘Oh, Laurie, what a smashing artist you are.’”

I struggle against laughter. “I know very well that I’ve never said that to you.”

He grins at me, his face alight with laughter, and I catch my breath, taken aback again by how stunning he is. It’s a quiet beauty not seen immediately, but once you notice, you can’t stop looking at those eyes and the sharp face, the tumble of hair and the lithe length of his body.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “Earth to Mags.”