He rolls his eyes. “No, just loads of top literary critics who proclaim that a book is good and everyone else immediately jumps up to say they agree, because they don’t want to argue with an expert and they want to appear literary. I prefer the awards voted for by readers. More honest.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” I say slowly. “I’m going to do a library book award and make up displays. We can have weekly voting.”

“Less librarianing and more loving,” he advises me quickly, because he obviously recognises that I’m about to become swept up with ideas. He smiles at my grunt of disapproval and throws himself next to me before reaching down as my legs spread automatically. I give a happy sigh as he pets the skin around my hole before pushing a couple of fingers gently inside me. I hate the emptiness when we’ve finished fucking, and he knows it.

He kisses my neck and then my mouth before giving a contented rumble. After a few minutes, he removes his fingers and draws me next to him to lie in a patch of sunlight.

I nudge him. “Nice day for a white wedding.”

He groans. “Please don’t say that, Billy Idol.”

“But it is. Especially when it’s your mum.”

“Oh God,” he says faintly. “Charlie, can’t we say I have flu and can’t make it?”

“Even if you had flu she’d still expect you to walk her down the aisle.”

“What about Ebola? Would that matter to Bridezilla?”

I laugh. “Jackie isn’t Bridezilla. She’s very chilled.” I nudge him again. “You’re the one having a meltdown.”

“I do not have meltdowns,” he says, sounding highly indignant. Then he catches my eye and laughs. “It was so much easier when I was sleeping with men I didn’t know. They couldn’t lecture me in any way.”

I still. “Do you mean that?”

He shoots me a surprised look. “Of course I fucking don’t. You know that.” He pauses. “You do know that, don’t you, Charlie?”

We’re interrupted when his alarm sounds, and a few seconds later the radio comes on. Misha has always hated the sound of an alarm. “Magic” by Coldplay starts to play, and I smile, rolling on top of Misha.

“What are you doing?” he asks, giving me the sleepy smile that’s so special. It’s soft, the edges blurred with sleep and a good orgasm, and I love that I’m the one who gets to see it.

I smile determinedly down at him. “This is my song for you,” I say.

He cocks his head to one side. “Does Chris Martin know that you’ve nicked it?”

I pinch his side. “I mean it.”

He stills and looks at me. “What?”

I take a deep breath. “The words of the song. I really mean them.”