She narrows her eyes. “Well, with all that charm I can see now why you get so much cock, Misha.” Mr Turner chokes on his own mince pie and she pats his back while still talking. “It was always a bit of a mystery to me before.”

“Oh, lovely,” I say faintly. “Well, as long as you’ve seen the light now.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She looks back at where Charlie is talking to some parents. “He’s not right, Misha,” she says, dropping her humour.

I sigh. “I know. I’m going to do something about it. I’ve let this go on for too long.”

She looks at me thoughtfully. “Make sure you do. That boy is an angel.”

I smile at her. “He is. But I have to point out after years of knowing him that his halo is slightly dented and no one ever notices.”

“Oh, darling, we’ve all got dented halos. Of course, yours is probably languishing in a scabby old junkyard somewhere, buried beneath a mountain of rusting metal and the failed dreams of your latest twink.”

I blink. “That’s fairly graphic.”

“Misha, Misha.” She pats my cheek and pinches it gently. “If you weren’t destined for someone else I would be in you quicker than when I go through John Lewis’s doors during the sale.”

I freeze, not wanting to make any sudden moves. “Erm, didn’t you black someone’s eye last year? Not sure that’s quite my idea of good sex.”

She shakes her head with a coquettish look on her face. “One should never reject new experiences.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what Ann Boleyn said about marriage.”

Marlena laughs. “Oh Misha, don’t think too hard, you pretty, pretty boy.”

I suddenly remember what she said. “Anyway, who the hell am I destined for?”

She smirks at Mr Turner and jerks her head towards me. “Pretty, but not terribly bright, Arthur.”

The little old traitor nods. “You are, as usual, completely right.”

She accepts that as her due and gets to her feet. “Well, I must be off. My Brian will be waiting in the car park.” Brian is her husband, a small bald man. The two of them look unlikely spouses, but they adore each other.

Mr Turner and I get to our feet.

“My queen,” Mr Turner says, taking her hand and kissing it.

She inclines her head regally and pats him on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.” She turns to me. “You may hug me,” she instructs me, and I hasten to obey her. She hugs me tight. “I mean it,” she whispers. “Make sure that boy gets looked at.”