“Neither am I. I want to go in there and get into bed with Charlie.”

I shake my head. “It’s baffling to me that you actually consider you’re still welcome after your performance tonight.”

For a second shame crosses his face. Then he blanks his expression. “You talk as if you have a say in the matter.”

“For tonight, I have.” I open the door and remove his weekend bag that I stashed there earlier while Charlie was asleep. It’s half-open, and his stuff is spilling out of it. I look at Harry and throw it at him. As it hits him, the clothes burst out like they’re a jack-in-the-box cascading to the floor.

“There’s your shit,” I say. “Now, fuck off. What Charlie wants to do tomorrow is up to him, but I’m in charge tonight, and I’m telling you that you’re not getting anywhere near him, so sling your hook and do one.”

He throws me a fulminating glance and bends down to start stuffing the clothes back in his bag. As he stands up, I reach down to pick up a lacy pair of panties which have fallen out of a bundle of clothes. I throw them to him. “You’ve forgotten something, Harry.”

He looks down at them, and a nasty expression crosses his face. “Oh, they’re not mine,” he says softly. “They’re Charlie’s.” As the shock hits me, I gape at him, and he smiles. “Well, well, it seems there are some things that you don’t actually know about your bestest friend. I wonder why that is, eh, Misha? I wonder why you never knew that Charlie likes wearing pretty lacy knickers. Maybe he didn’t feel like he could confide in you.” I flinch, and he laughs before chucking the scrap of fabric back at me. I catch it reflexively, and my fist closes around the material, the lace rough on my skin. He laughs again. “This is hilarious. Wait until I tell the lads at work about—”

He doesn’t get any further because a red mist descends, and I throw myself at him, tackling him and taking him down to the ground. His hold on my T-shirt ensures that I follow and we roll around on the floor for a few seconds grunting and trying to land punches.

There’s the sudden sound of a door opening behind us, and an aggrieved posh voice says very loudly, “Do you know what time it is, you inconsiderate wankers? It’s midnight, and I need to go to sleep.”

“Well, go to fucking bed, then,” Harry mutters as I push his face into the carpet.

The door slams and I redouble my efforts at breaking his face.

“Stop it,” he grunts. “Fuck off, Misha.”