“It’s a billion-dollar deal. The contract with the navy is only for a few million dollars. That’s still over nine hundred million dollars unaccounted for. No wonder Stuckey is incandescent. Not, I hasten to add,” Oliver hastily added, “that this justifies his sexually assaulting anyone.”

“Are you going to be like this when we go and see the musical?” I asked.

He slid me a mischievous look. “Only if there’s a song about business ethics.”

“I’m kind of assuming it’ll be songs about…shopping? And maybe, I don’t know, sex work?”

“Ah,” said Oliver, “so you think it’ll open with Vivian climbing out of a window in her thigh-high boots, singing,”—he sang—“The laws that are supposed to protect me make things worse in practice. And well-intended regulations can have negative con-”—he tapped the steering wheel—“se-quen-ces. If my profession was decriminalised, it wouldn’t be unfairly stigmatised. And I wouldn’t have to worry about the sexual offences…” He paused and finished in his normal voice, “Act, 2003.”

I was sitting in a car with a man who would and, thinking about it, could improv a mediocre show tune about the complexities of the UK sex industry. And for some reason I was okay with it. “You,” I told him, “are a dork who cares too much.”

“And it has taken you two years to work this out?”

“I worked out the cares-too-much thing pretty quickly. The dork has been creeping up on me.”

Oliver was blushing very slightly. “Yes, I try to keep it close to my chest.”

“Oliver, the only dork you need to keep close to your chest is me.”

“You do realise that according to some etymologists, dork means penis.”

“You can keep that close to your chest too, if you like.”

“I think that’s poor road safety.”

“Fine,” I said in fake huff, “I’ll go to sleep, then.”

Oliver’s hand briefly left the gearstick to pat my knee. “You should. It’s going to be a long day for you.”

And how. I was sure it was going to be a worth-it long day, but I was probably going to be in post-someone-else’s-wedding recovery for at least a month. Or to put it another way, I was going to be in post-someone-else’s-wedding recovery until the next time I needed to go to someone else’s wedding. “But how will I entertain and delight you if I’m unconscious?”

“I’ll put a podcast on.”

I groaned massively. “Not The Magnus Archives.”

“What’s wrong with The Magnus Archives?”

“I’m trying to sleep. It’ll give me nightmares. About worms.” I paused. “Or spiders. Or strangers. Or the sea. Or the sky. Or meat. Or Edinburgh.”

“It’s Magnus,” said Oliver firmly, “or This American Life.”

I groaned massively again. “Fine. Put on Magnus.”