“Simon, they’re going to put me on the sofa and you in the guest-room.”

“Do you want to sleep together in your parents’ house—are you mental?”

“I . . .” I feel agitated. I feel thirsty. I should have hunted while Simon was out. I stand up and take off my suit jacket. “I want . . . I don’t want to be closeted in my own home on Christmas.”

“Baz.” Simon waves his arm and makes a face like I’m an idiot. “They already know you’re gay—everyone knows you’re gay! Are you upset that you didn’t get to give a speech? They invited you to bring your boyfriend home to meet them properly. I’ve watched enough telly to know that’s a good fucking sign. How will you be less closeted going alone—than with me right there, sitting next to you?”

“You don’t understand,” I say.

“I really don’t.”

I lean over to put on my shoes. “I’m going hunting.”

“All right.” Simon stands up, reaching for his discarded jumper.

“No, I’m going alone. I need to think.”

“All right.” He lets his arms hang, still holding the blue jumper.

I finish tying my shoes and grab my coat. I stop in the doorway. I don’t turn around.

“I’m coming back,” I say.

“I know,” Simon says behind me.

When I get back to the flat, Simon is in bed. I don’t say anything to him on my way to the shower. All my things are here now. All of my toiletries. My razor. Simon uses whatever soap I leave in the shower. At first I didn’t like it. I wanted him to smell like himself, not me. But he still smells like himself.

I climb into the bed. He has a real bed now. I brought my down duvet from my aunt’s flat, and my pillows. Simon hogs them. He has all three pillows when I climb into bed. I reach out and pull one, and he rolls towards me, letting me have it.

I feel his arm come round my waist. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I don’t answer him. But I find his bare stomach. His warm skin.

“I’ll go wherever you want me to go,” he says. “I’ll spend Christmas with Lady Ruth and Jamie. Like I planned.”

I bring my hand up to his chest and push. He goes where I want him—on his back, so I can lie with my head on his shoulder. He hooks an arm around me.

“You don’t understand,” I say.

“You’re right,” Simon whispers.

“They won’t acknowledge me.”

“I know.”

“We could be married with children—”

“Could we?”

“—and my family still wouldn’t acknowledge what we are to each other.”

Simon is quiet. He’s playing with my hair.

“What,” I say.

“Nothing.”