Rhys was giving a no-harm, no-foul grin. “Still, nice to have a good debate now and then, though, isn’t it? Next week we’ll do religion.” He turned his attention back to his phone. “Anyway, folks, that’s all from me for now. I’ve got work to be getting on with. Remember to look up the Cee-Arr-Ay-Pee-Pee website and to follow us on the Twitter, the You Tubes, the Instant Gram, Tick Tocks and Only Fans. Be seeing you.”

He closed the stream and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“Umm, Rhys,” I began tentatively, “what was that last platform you mentioned?”

“The Tick Tocks? You’ve got to be on the Tick Tocks these days, Luc. It’s all about video content.”

“Got to get with the twentieth century,” agreed Alex.

“No, not TikTok,” I said. “The one after?”

Rhys beamed. “Oh, Only Fans? Yes, I was reading this article and people were saying that it was getting very popular, and so I thought, as head of social media, I should probably be on that too. It’s been doing rather well.”

“Has it?”

“Oh yes. People do keep asking me to take my shirt off, though.”

I wasn’t sure how far down this road I wanted to go. “And do you?”

“Well, not in the last couple of weeks because it’s been quite nippy out.”

Okay. So I wanted to go exactly this distance and no further. “Great. Good on you. Nice to see that you’re taking initiative. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some very important…fundraising to do.”

I didn’t exactly bolt, but I didn’t exactly not bolt either. The advantage of having your own office was that it always gave you somewhere to hide when you suddenly discovered that one of your coworkers had unwittingly stumbled into the world of soft-core pornography. Which admittedly wasn’t a thing that happened often but was within the spectrum of things that happened often enough at CRAPP that having a sanctuary was really, really nice.

My ancient computer had barely finished booting up when my phone buzzed. The text preview read Just for your information, which told me it was Oliver before I even saw his name.

Just for your information, I think we were photographed walking back to the party.

I can send you the article if you’d like but it’s nothing to worry about.

Two years ago I’d have seen it already because my Google alerts would have told me about it. But the new, sensible shit-together-having me didn’t need to stare obsessively at every mention of my name in every scandal sheet. It’s cool, I texted back. I trust you.

The door swung open and Alex Twaddle poked his head inside. “Luc, old man, Dr. Fairclough wants to see you about something media-y.”

Fuck. Not again.

Actually do send it to me. I might need it for self-defence.