“There are rules,” said James. “The royals are to be presented with dignity and restraint at all times. So you must stand slightly behind His Highness and never overshadow him or suggest you’re his equal. Avoid all overt displays of physical affection. Don’t be photographed eating, picking your nose or repositioning your crotch. Always appear to be fascinated by whatever His Highness is saying or doing. You may wave politely to spectators, whom the security detail will hold at bay. Should you speak to anyone other than His Highness, restrict your remarks to the weather, the noble spirit of athletic competition and the glorious nature of the British people.”

“I apologise for all this,” added Edgar. “But it’s efficient, and I’d like the world to see us at our finest.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Does this mean I can’t buy one of those huge foam rubber ‘We’re Number One’ hands, or paint my face in team colors, or drink beer from a gallon plastic cup, like people do at American football games?”

“We can leave Mr. Ogden in the car,” said James. “We don’t even have to crack the window.”

As we were being escorted to our seats, Edgar asked me, “Are you certain you’re up for this? It’s quite a bit to ask.”

I was anxious, like the lesser partner of a Hollywood power couple nearing the red carpet at the Golden Globes. This was a moment of pure fame, divorced from any achievement or worthy cause. I’d borrowed one of Edgar’s navy cashmere topcoats, and he was wearing a down-filled vest, so we were going for a young-hedge-fund-managers-just-before-the-indictment vibe.

“Let’s do this,” I said, and I was about to take Edgar’s arm until I caught myself, remembering why this wasn’t the right idea and was, in fact, the opposite of the right idea.

Edgar was greeted with a roar of appreciation from the crowd as we took our place in a middle section of the bleachers, acting like two friendly, down-to-earth guys who just happened to be surrounded by a security team, who were wearing plain clothes to blend in.

“Just breathe,” Ian said in my ear. “Only not too loudly.”

“Pretend you’re straight,” Clark said, from over my shoulder. “Get drunk and fall down.”

The stadium was packed, and the enthusiasm grew more boisterous as Edgar’s beaming, waving image was projected on the enormous Jumbotrons with a nervous and intimidated-looking American beside him, a cross between a dutiful Republican wife and someone who really needed to use the bathroom but was too jittery to ask for directions.

“You’re doing splendidly,” Edgar whispered to me, without turning his head. “Steady on.”