“Jemima said you were a perv.”

“Sorry?”

“You were looking at my arse.”

“Can you blame me?” She is wearing a very tight red dress.

She leans in and whispers in my ear, “I’m not mopping up Jemima’s sloppy seconds.” So Jemima has been talking. Intriguing. I thought she’d be too afraid the chinless wonder would find out. “Oh, sweetie. I know everything. But your secret is safe with me.” Does she really think I would give a shit if people knew Jemima had wanked me off a few times in the office? I thought she might actually have something more interesting to tell me, or at least would tease me for a little longer.

I order us both a drink, red wine for me and a Bird Flu for her (a gin fizz made with egg white—whoever had come up with the cocktail menu had obviously begun scraping the barrel by this point in the proceedings). “Cheers,” I say, tapping my glass against hers gently to avoid spilling any of her concoction with its foamy head like a pint of Guinness.

“You know who he is, don’t you?” Her eyes have narrowed as she stares into the crowd, her lips only millimeters from the rim of her glass.

“Who who is?” I ask.

“The one who keeps Jemima from going to bed with you properly.”

“You sound jealous.”

Charlie throws her head back and laughs. The skin of her décolletage is so pale it is almost luminescent in the glow of all the fairy lights. “Jealous? I wouldn’t let him anywhere near me.”

“Is he that bad?”

“He has no chin.”

“I’d noticed.”

She puts her hand in front of her mouth and sniggers into it. “But when you have a daddy like his, you don’t need one.”

I am going to have to bite. “OK. So who is he?”

She leans in, so close I can smell the spliff she smoked before she came out for the evening, our lips almost touching, her eyes boring into mine. When she tells me the dynasty he belongs to, part of me wishes she had kept quiet.

The chinless wonder is the son of the most powerful man in British media. No wonder Jemima doesn’t want our involvement advertised. I’m almost impressed. He could be a very useful ally.

I buy Charlie another cocktail, then another, then another. She has a constitution stronger than the horses she rides. When she goes to the bathroom, a guy sidles up to me at the bar. “You Jemima’s boss?” he asks.

“Yes. Jeremy Crumpton.” I extend a hand before realizing he has gone for the elbow bump. It’s awkward. I hate how it makes me feel like a socially inept fool.

“How can you do it?” For a split second I think he means Jemima and me. “Defend someone who you know is guilty,” he clarifies.

I take a large gulp of wine and look him straight in the eye. He’s younger than me—of course, everyone here is younger than me—with floppy light-brown hair and an accent from somewhere north of Milton Keynes. His suit is off-the-rack but brand-new, his shoes shined to perfection. “Let me guess,” I say and take another drink, “Durham?” The chosen university of those not quite good enough for law at Oxbridge, but with ambition despite their lack of privilege.