“And no one will mention . . .” Am I going to mention it? Can I just say it? The thing we’re really talking about here? That I’m gay. That I’m practically living with another man. That the reason I’d bring Simon home for Christmas is because I’m in love with him?

Daphne reaches over the table to touch my arm. “No one will mention anything that troubles you, Baz. And I know that you won’t mention anything that troubles your father. We’ll have a lovely meal. And we’ll open gifts. We’ve cleared out the attic and made it into a guest-room—it’s all ready. We’ll put Mr. Snow up there and you on the sofa. It’ll be marvellous, you’ll see. It will be a start.”

I frown down at my scone, picking at a sultana. Simon in the guest-room. Me on the sofa. No one saying anything to upset each other.

“It’s awfully nice of you to invite him, Mum. But Simon Snow is having Christmas with the Salisburys this year.”

“Oh,” Daphne says. She sounds surprised. And disappointed. “Of course. How very nice for him.”

Simon isn’t home when I get there. I did bring back petit fours for him and a piece of Battenberg. (I didn’t have to use my pockets; they gave me a box.)

I try to study. I have a research paper I’m working on, and I should be happy to have the flat to myself. Simon’s out with Penny. Eventually he texts to say he’s on his way back. Then an hour later, he texts to say he’s actually on his way back. I give up on coursework and try to watch a football match, but I can’t focus.

When Simon finally gets home, I’m slumped on his pink sofa with my feet on the coffee table.

He walks in and takes off his coat. He’s wearing a blue woollen jumper underneath. Simon’s a great one for jumpers now that he’s figured out how to fold his wings up tight and then hide them under one.

“How long have you been home?” he asks, looking down at the table. “You’re still wearing your shoes.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry.” I kick off my Oxfords, surely scuffing the backs. They fall in two thumps onto the table. I push them off.

“For fuck’s sake,” Simon says. “What’s got into you?”

“Nothing . . . Long day. Couldn’t concentrate.”

Simon pulls his jumper over his head and shakes his red dragon wings out behind him. He’s wearing one of his new shirts, with flaps that wrap around his wings and cleverly button where he can reach them. “Are you cross with me for getting home late?”

I frown at him. “What? No. Weren’t you with Penelope?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would I be cross about that?”