While I didn’t jump exactly, I gave a busted-not-understanding-art hop. “Ummm…” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “The thing about art,” I bullshat, “is that it’s not supposed to have one interpretation. It’s supposed to be, like, about how you think and feel.”

He folded his arms, in a calling-my-bluff kind of way. “So what does it make you think and how does it make you feel?”

Since James Royce-Royce was stealing my friends, I decided to steal his criticism. “It’s sort of melancholy. And sort of…oh my God, I bet raw is a really clichéd thing to say about art. But, like, the choice of materials. And the way the figure is like…barely holding it together.”

“It’s also pretty angry,” said the guy. He was small and slight, with a faint rash of dark stubble across his jaw.

“Is it?” I squinted.

“Well, I was angry when I made it.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I gave him a dirty look. “That’s cheating. It’s hard enough having opinions about art without the artist standing there laughing at you.”

“I’m not laughing. You were looking at my sculpture. I thought you might be interested.”

“Yeah, you have massively misread the situation. I mean,” I went on quickly when I realised how rude that sounded, “I’m sure it’s great. I just suck at culture. If I was a yoghurt, I–I wouldn’t be a yoghurt.”

He gave a slow, sly grin. “Wow, you also suck at analogies.”

“I suck at many things,” I told him.

“And now”—his eyes met mine—“you’re just bragging.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again quickly. This was gently circling the outskirts of flirty. And on the one hand that was nice and weirdly affirming, especially because, now I thought about it, I hadn’t once thought to ask him if he was planning to sell my story to the newspapers. On the other hand… “Um… I don’t mean to… At the risk of making assumptions, I’m engaged.”

He laughed. And I flattered myself that he also looked just a tiny bit disappointed. “Oh right, you’re Luc. I should have guessed when you had no idea about art.”

“Hey, there are at least four other people here who are exactly as ignorant as I am.”

“I can go flirt with them if you like,” he said.

“Nope. All married. So you’re stuck with me. Or I suppose you could go talk with literally anyone else.”

“Well.” His lips quirked back into that devilish smile. “I kind of already know this crowd. So unless you want to go back to your married friends, I’m good.”

I gave a hollow groan. “Please don’t make me go back to them. They’re still looking at baby pictures, and two of them are trying to get a mortgage.”

“That’s one hell of a stag do.”