An old man gasps next to us, and I smile at him in mute apology before turning back to my best friend. “Well, it’s definitely better if it improves your conversation level. You’re like a caveman when we’re in a club. I wouldn’t be surprised if you just threw your conquests over your shoulder and grunted at them.”

“And yet still they fall,” he says in a singsong voice. He pulls me forward as the guide gestures. Removing his wallet, he smiles at her. “How much for two, please?”

“Oh, it’s free,” she says, her cheeks pinkening at the visible display of his charm.

Misha gapes at her. “Free?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turns to me, looking discombobulated.

I grin. “Art is free, Misha. Just as it should be.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” he says to the woman darkly. “He’s about to get on his soapbox. It’s too late for me, but you can still save yourself.”

She laughs, and I gesture him over to a clear Perspex box. “You leave a donation in here.”

“So, not free, then,” he says cynically. “Just forcibly voluntary.”

“Of course that would be your perception.” I shake my head as he forces a wad of notes into the box. “That’s far too much, Misha.”

“Not for someone who’s had to listen to so many of your weekly lectures on how our historical treasures and art should be free for the people. If two hundred quid stops that in its tracks, it’s cheap at half the price.”

“I take back the swallowing a dictionary remark,” I say as we walk up the stairs to the gallery. “You’re a Neanderthal with men and art.”

“I can’t remember the men. I haven’t had any since you’ve been gone,” he mutters.

“What?” I pull back and stop dead on the stairs, making a couple tut at me. “Are you telling me that you haven’t had a bloke for six weeks?” I whisper.

He shrugs, looking abashed. “Just haven’t felt like it.”

I stare at him. “Has there been a lunar eclipse or some other sign that the world is about to end?”

He shoves me up the stairs. “No more chat, Charlie,” he says grimly. “Let’s do art.”

I snort and pull him into the first room. The National Gallery is like a very elegant rabbit warren where you wander from room to room with the vague sense that you’re missing something. But it’s a gilded rabbit warren with honey-coloured wooden floors and beautiful wallpaper in opulent jewel colours that make the rooms glow like they’re inside a music box.

“You love it here?” he asks, watching me intently.