That’s when the skies open. There are no warning drops. Rather, we’re unloaded upon in a diagonal sheet of roaring water. The crowd shrieks and squeals, and scrambles to take cover in the cathedral. Alfie moves to follow after them, but I grab his arm and nod at a wooden gazebo only a few feet behind us. Arm in arm, we run through the rain and take shelter beneath it, gasping and laughing. The guards do the same, and take their spots not too far from us.

“Christ,” I moan, lifting my arms as well as I can. They’re laden down by the weight of my sodden peacoat, and I’m dripping so heavily the water is bouncing off the concrete ground beneath me.

Alfie looks much the same. He runs his hands down his face to wick off as much water as he can, then takes one look at me and bursts into peals of laughter. “You look like a drowned rat.”

“Mm. Thanks very much.” I shoot daggers at him as he approaches and tries his best to push back the hair sticking to my forehead in tendrils.

He laughs again, but it’s softer this time. More awkward. He gives me a funny look, and then takes a step back to get a better look at me. “Much better,” he says, referring to my hair, I think. “Just let me…” He comes closer again and fiddles with my coat collar. “There.”

He’s extremely close to me. So close that it takes me by surprise. I notice, with his hands only inches from me, that he’s wearing the watch “I” gave him.

“Thank you,” I say, but it’s rather difficult to speak at full volume to someone standing so near, so my voice comes out quite softly. Something about that rings an alarm bell in the back of my mind, but I’m slow to cotton on to just where the danger is.

The paparazzi are still standing right where we left them. Most of them have pulled the hoods of their waterproof jackets up, and they have umbrellas. Some of them have started to make their way closer to the gazebo.

Alfie looks pensive. “I wish we saw each other more, Rosie.”

“Oh. I did only just see you at Mum’s birthday … and the rugby game…”

He lowers his lashes and looks down at me. “It’s not nearly enough though, is it?”

The thought hadn’t really occurred to me. But it feels rude, even for me, to continue disagreeing, so instead I say nothing. I just look back at him, hoping he changes the subject to something that makes a little more sense.

I realize too late, far too late, that I look in his eyes for too long. Too long, given how close he’s standing to me. Too long, given his hands are still resting on my collar, from when he was fixing it.