As I struggled to keep up, James led me past a dining room filled with well-dressed, gossiping diners, all glancing up from their phones to see if I was anyone worth noticing and then jerking their heads away to make sure I knew that I wasn’t. But they were also snubbing the tiny squibs of artisanal, farm-to-table delicacies on their huge white plates, so I was in good company.

“You will address His Highness solely as Your Highness, you will wait for His Highness to sit and speak first, you will ask no personal questions, your replies to whatever His Highness may ask must remain brief and modest and you must not entertain the slightest notion of becoming anything beyond an ill-advised footnote in His Highness’s daily calendar. Am I understood?”

“Okay . . .”

“Okay?” James repeated, as if I’d spat on his lapel.

“Yes, sir.”

James stared at me, and every part of me shrank many inches. Then, and I can’t be sure of exactly how but James did something with his face that was his version of a smile, and it occurred to me that James wasn’t just the most clinically English person of all time—he was gay. “Darling,” he said, “don’t worry. You’re doomed.”

Then he opened a door flanked by two security guards and ushered me into a private dining room, a hushed chamber with lustrous mahogany wainscoting, jewel-toned Venetian brocade wall coverings and a brass chandelier I’d once seen on 1stDibs, valued at twice my yearly salary.

Prince Edgar, the ultimate luxury object, was standing beside a table draped in at least three layers of fabric and set with a warehouse’s worth of china and crystal. I felt like James Bond about to be offered an assignment, or maybe a handful of uncut diamonds.

“Mr. Ogden,” said James, motioning me forward.

“So good to see you again,” said Prince Edgar, offering his hand.

“Your Highness,” I said, suppressing my instinct to kneel and be knighted.

“Edgar, please, or Ed.”

James did that thing of rolling his eyes without my catching him doing it.

“Edgar,” I decided, because I’m sorry, he just wasn’t an Ed. Ed shows up to fix your air-conditioning; Edgar has more than one home. More than ten homes.

“Thank you, James, I think we can manage from here.”

“As you wish. If you need me I’ll be just outside or reachable by text. Should Mr. Ogden exhibit symptoms of violent derangement, what will you do?”

“Applaud.”

“As you wish.”

As James backed gracefully out of the room, Edgar gestured to the gilded chair opposite him, where I hovered, waiting for him to be seated first. He sat. I sat.