“Happy birthday, mate,” Gaz said, clapping Nick on the back. “Please thank old Dick for the invitation. It was kind of him.”

“Kind would’ve been scheduling this for tomorrow,” I muttered.

“But at least we get to raise a glass together,” Cilla soothed me. “And please tell Gaz we don’t need to bid four hundred pounds for an artist’s rendering of a dirt road.”

Nick laughed. “Gaz, in fine form as usual,” he said. Then he lowered his voice. “This evening was meant to suck dry the hopelessly rich viscounts of such and such, not people we actually like.”

“It’s not just any dirt road. It’s Knightsbridge, right by our flat!” Gaz said. “Happy memories, my love.”

“It says they think it’s Knightsbridge. It could be any old grubby strip,” said Freddie, appearing between them and wrapping an arm around each shoulder. “All ancient dirt roads look a bit the same, don’t they?”

Gaz sucked in some air. “Hopefully someone will outbid me, then,” he said.

Cilla smacked him in the chest. “You didn’t tell me you’d already bid,” she exclaimed. “You know, my great-grandfather’s cousin was a cartographer. They say he was fired from every job he had because he’d draw all the maps wrong if he had a vendetta against anyone in the area.” She grinned. “As you might imagine, that was rather a lot.”

The five of us bantered so comfortably even Eleanor would have been fooled into thinking there was no fire where there had once been smoke. But then Cilla got too deep in her cups and developed a competitive urge for Gaz to lock down the Knightsbridge etching, and an old Naval admiral pulled Nick away into a conversation about submarines that I was more than happy to miss. Suddenly, it was just me and Freddie.

“My, won’t people talk?” he quipped.

“I think that’s the idea,” I said. “Try to look like I’m not interesting. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

He laughed. “But it’s been such a stimulating few weeks,” he said. “Your endless small talk had me about ready to move out until I realized I’d started to depend on your pastry deliveries.” He tried to look nonchalant. “You’ll be pleased to know I’d planned for you to meet Hannah tonight.”

I brightened. “We’re talking about this now?”

“Seemed about time.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Or maybe you’ve simply nattered me into submission. For the love of God, either write that Sheffield Wednesday detective series or don’t.”

I craned my neck as if I’d recognize Hannah in a crowd, or even at all. “Is she here?”

“Alas, no,” he said. “She’s stuck at work. She’s a barrister, a very fancy one, actually. Human rights. Makes me feel like a lazy tosser by comparison.”