Lex.
The message was a photograph. Lex was standing in front of a full-length mirror in a bedroom with the expensive, characterless décor of his recently purchased flat in Canary Wharf. He was wearing a three-piece suit in a shade of electric blue so vivid it bordered on neon. The jacket had peaked lapels that were unnecessarily wide. The waistcoat was buttoned too tight. A gold pocket watch chain dangled from the fob pocket in a loop thick enough to moor a dinghy.
Beneath the photo:palace reception look #1. thoughts?
Barnaby knew exactly what Lex was doing. He knew it with the same certainty he brought to reading a horse’s stride three fences out. Lex was goading him. This was a controlled provocation, designed to trigger the precise response thatBarnaby was about to give, because Lex had learned, through weeks of proximity and the careful, systematic testing of Barnaby’s limits, that nothing made Barnaby engage faster than a sartorial offence.
He typed:You look like a children’s television presenter who’s been asked to leave the premises.
Three dots. Then a second photo.
This one was worse. Lex had changed into a burgundy velvet blazer over a black shirt unbuttoned to the sternum. Two gold chains sat against his chest, one short, one long, the longer one terminating in a medallion that showed a roaring lion’s head. His trousers were tapered and cropped at the ankle, exposing sockless feet in patent leather loafers.
palace reception look #2. going for more of a continental vibe
You look like a footballer who’s trying to look low key for his child support hearing.
The third photo arrived soon after.
This was the escalation he’d been expecting. Lex had put on a tracksuit; it was cream velour, zipped halfway down, with a gold chain layered over the exposed V of his chest. He’d accessorised with aviator sunglasses pushed up on his forehead, and was holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, label facing the camera.
palace reception look #3. final answer
If you arrive at Buckingham Palace dressed like a cast member from a reality show about retired drug dealers, His Majesty will have you escorted from the premises by the Household Cavalry, and I will watch from the canapé table with a glass of champagne and not a shred of sympathy.
Barnaby set the phone down. He picked up his tea, took a sip, and found it had gone cold. Florence shifted on the rug, groaned and resettled.
His phone buzzed.
He should leave it. He should finish his tea, draft the scathing reply to James that his invitation required, and attend to the rest of his correspondence. He should not pick up his mobile and look at whatever Lex Murphy had sent him, because each photograph was a hook, Barnaby was biting every time, and they both knew it.
He picked up his mobile.
In the fourth photo, Lex had his back to the mirror, twisting to catch the shot over his shoulder. He was wearing jeans that sat obscenely low on his hips, the waistband folded down, exposing the twin dimples at the base of his spine, the upper swell of his arse, and a shadow of his crack. No shirt. No chain. Just the broad, muscled expanse of his back tapering to a narrow waist, and those jeans, just barely clinging on.
There was no accompanying caption.
Barnaby stared at the photo for longer than was compatible with their emerging friendship.
The dimples were the problem. Two shallow indentations on either side of Lex’s spine, just above the waistband, where the muscle thinned and the skin drew close to bone. Barnaby had put his thumbs there. He’d gripped those dimples while Lex was on top of him, and the sense-memory of it arrived: the heat of Lex’s skin, the stretch of his own body around Lex’s cock. That dull, burning fullness that had crowded out every other sensation until pain and want were indistinguishable.
Barnaby typed out a response. His ears were warm.
Thursday. 11 a.m. Gieves & Hawkes, No. 1 Savile Row. You’re being fitted for the reception, and I’m choosing the suit. Bring nothing. Wear nothing memorable. If you arrive in any garment bearing a visible logo, I will send you home and we’ll never speak again.
The reply came in nine seconds.
yes sir marquess sir??
Barnaby set his mobile face-down on the sofa cushion, pressed his palms flat against his thighs, and sat with the quiet of Chester Square settling around him.
Then he picked the phone back up and looked at the fourth photo one more time before locking it for good.
Chapter Thirteen
Lexarrived at No. 1 Savile Row eleven minutes early, which was a personal record for punctuality.
He’d made an effort. A considered, soul-destroying effort. For today he’d chosen dark jeans that were scrupulously clean, a plain white t-shirt and the navy blazer Barnaby had selected for Media Day. There were no visible logos on his body, or gold chains on his neck. He looked like an off-duty accountant, and he knew that this would be Barnaby-approved.
