The purpose of the event was to show off our circle of three, but instead, Freddie was dialed in as a solo act. He deployed a well-received joke about sharing ginger genetics with Henry VIII that magically avoided veering into the minefield of how Henry’s first wife originally married his older brother. He remembered one of the Hampton Court tour guides from a previous event at a totally different historic royal palace. He fist-bumped a child, then high-fived its parent. (Nick knew better than to try to outdo any of this, so he simply laughed along and exuded calm warmth, even if inside it had to be killing him.) At one point, Nick fumbled the tapestry’s country of origin and Freddie loudly corrected him; when Nick asked how long it could withstand the projections of light that illustrated its original splendor before sustaining damage, Freddie piped up, “Six minutes at a time, five times a day, if I remember correctly?” I couldn’t ding him for being prepared, but it was disorienting, and disingenuous, because Nick and Freddie both knew Nick was simply asking the second question to engage the computer technicians. The guides moved on to a different subject, oblivious, but I saw Nick angrily tighten his light blue tie as if trying to strangle himself. Freddie’s apparent commitment to upstaging us was complete.

As we gathered in a small break room for a sip of water before Nick’s speech—out of sight of the reporters trailing us—Nick walked straight past Freddie to the tall blonde in the flowered dress who’d been steering us through the palace with helpful details.

“Annie!” he said, hugging her. “What’s it been—fifteen years? I didn’t know you were going to be here!”

She beamed. “I wasn’t meant to be! But I’m consulting for the facility in Manchester that worked on this, and their regular PR lad got a kidney stone.”

“How’s Shanghai?” he asked.

“Dubai, and it’s lovely, but Artie’s liver is acting up, so we’re home for a bit,” she said.

The two of them slipped into merry, familiar chatter as I stood off to the side, forgotten and craving a Diet Coke.

“Annabelle Farthing,” Freddie said in my ear. “Married to some hopeless old marquess with a huge pile in Somerset. Her father’s friends with Agatha so we knew each other as kids.” He nudged me. “You know that bit in Bridget Jones where she played naked in Colin Firth’s paddling pool? It’s like that.”

“Oh, and how often have you seen that movie?”

Freddie fidgeted. “Well, you know, it’s Marj’s favorite. Ah, they’re ready for us,” he said. “Let’s go play happy families again.”

“Right,” I said to his back. “Happy families.”