He smiles. “It really is. We’ll shoot off if the group gets a bit much, and I’ll show you around.”

I smile gratefully at him, and he must sense the slight nervousness I’m feeling because he frowns. “It must be a bit intimidating,” he says. “But I’m here.”

I shrug. “Sorry. I don’t normally get nervous, but I don’t usually stay in places like this either.”

“Not even with customers?”

I shoot him a glance. “I seem to spend more time digging people’s gardens and getting their shopping. I haven’t done a pretend-boyfriend gig in ages, apart from the funeral incident.” I narrow my eyes at the suddenly blank expression on his face. “Why is that?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Oh my God, is it because I’m too old?”

He shakes his head, a funny smile playing on his full lips. “You’re twenty-four, Jesse. No danger of a card from the Queen yet. And here you are being a pretend boyfriend. Your youth is assured. Rest easy.”

I frown at him. “I can’t help but think you’re taking the piss out of me, Zebedee.”

He glares. “Please don’t ever call me that again. What the fuck?”

I start to laugh. “Time for bed, Zebedee.”

“You’re far too young to have ever watched The Magic Roundabout.”

“But my eldest brother wasn’t, and he had the DVD.”

“I feel old,” he bemoans. “I remember the original.”

“Never mind, Grandpa, we’ll get you a nice cup of tea and you can tell me about the war.”

He shoves me, laughing, and my breath catches at how handsome he looks with that wide, white smile and the sun playing in the tangles of his hair, catching the red strands in there and seeming to kindle it.

“Zeb,” comes a shout from behind us and immediately the smile is gone, replaced by his usual unsmiling exterior. He stiffens all over, and I know who it is without turning. Patrick. I rub Zeb’s arm, and for a second when he looks at me it’s as if he’s forgotten who I am. It’s surprisingly unpleasant. Then his expression clears, and he grips my fingers for a second before his hand falls loose, and he turns.

“Patrick,” he says, and I turn and watch the man who was with Zeb for five years walk towards me. Viewed dispassionately, he’s gorgeous. He’s tall and wide shouldered with a head of blond hair which shines expensively in the sunlight. He’s wearing jeans and a purple polo shirt that hugs his muscled torso.