He sighs dramatically. “We haven’t got time for one of your grown-up conversations now, Mags. There’s fun to be had.”

I slide my wallet into my back pocket. “I’m not sure if those words should strike fear into a man’s heart the way they do mine.”

He steps back towards the door. “Gird your loins.”

“Another ridiculous phrase,” I cry, but he’s vanished, and I follow him out, trying not to ogle his fine backside in those grey shorts. Summer has finally arrived in England, and it’s hot, so he’s paired the shorts with a plum-coloured T-shirt and grubby white Converse. I can’t help noticing the bulge of his biceps. Where does an artist get those muscles?

I revert to staring at his arse, which is why, when he comes to an abrupt stop, I flail slightly, trying not to trip over him. His mouth opens as if to say something, but he must realise where my eyes just were, because his expression heats. It’s subtle, and I might have missed it a few weeks ago, but I’ve learnt enough about him to catch the moods as they flit across his thin face.

Seconds stretch like treacle as we stare at each other, and I swallow hard. Shit. I don’t need this. He moves almost imperceptibly towards me, and my hands rise to grab his arms.

I’m not sure whether I was going to kiss him or shove him away, but luckily, one of the clerks comes around the corner and nearly bumps into us.

“Sorry, Mr Carlsen,” the clerk says quickly. “Didn’t see you there.”

“It’s not a problem, Edwin, and I’ve told you before to call me Magnus,” I say. My voice is hoarse, and Laurie shoots a quick look at me but I keep my focus on the clerk. “Mr Carlsen was my grandfather.”

“Not your father?” Edwin asks and immediately looks mortified at the personal question.

“No. My father’s surname was Frederick. He was the poet of the family, and I don’t think I’d be suited to spouting poetry.”

“God forbid,” Laurie says cheerfully. “You’d still be looking for a word that rhymes with clitoris.”

I can’t help my laugh, and on that note, we’re off. After nodding goodbye to Edwin, who looks scandalised, we make our way out of the building.

“Where are we going?” I ask as we begin to walk. The sun is low in the sky, but it’s still warm, and the pavement is hot beneath my feet. “God, I hope it involves alcohol,” I say fervently.

Laurie holds a hand up to summon a taxi. “I don’t think God spends a lot of time listening to you, and it’s a good job. We don’t need his mental health suffering.”