They let each other go. She's used the ever so popular 'he released her' formula quite a few times, varying the wording, of course; but she can't say she's particularly fond of the amount of a man's control over the proceedings portrayed in such scenarios. Shouldn't it be reciprocal? Apparently, these days, Emilia is all about a healthy balance of power in a relationship. It might be ironic considering that her handbag looks like a spicy flagellation implement; but Emilia will count that as a major accomplishment.

Suddenly his hand covers her lower back, and he softly turns her and carefully manoeuvres her to the side of the room. Emilia would go anywhere with him, and he's still endlessly respectful and considerate – but that's an unusual level of pushiness for him.

"Clarissa Drummond. Features Director at The Caravel magazine," he says quietly and points with his eyes at a woman who's just entered the exhibition.

Emilia is definitely slightly squiffy at this stage; so she finds it so very amusing that everything about the journalist reminds her of writing instruments. Her black tight dress has one asymmetric shoulder that makes Emilia think of a tip of a marker or a dipping pen. The blunt brunette bob is more of an allusion than a simile: in her head, Emilia hears Sian Clifford's voice complaining about her new haircut. And then Emilia's inebriated writer's brain conjures such convoluted monstrosity as 'oxblood lipstick on a pale face, the colour of ink perfect for particularly unforgiving marginal notes.'

"I owe her a thank-you for a charity piece for one of my fundraisers," Daniel, meanwhile, explained in a hushed voice. "She'll come over if she spots us, and she'll want to make something of it. Do you want to stay here, or to come with me? Whichever you prefer."

Oh fiddlesticks.

"What do you mean by 'make something of it'?" she hisses anxiously.

At the same time she has a small, tentatively smug thought that she can make much more of said 'something' out of anything that has to do with Daniel Oates. The man is officially her Beatrice, her Zelda, her Pattie Boyd.

"She'll assume it's romantic. That would be the first in my case," he adds. "She'll get excited."

Him having his first adult romantic relationship with Emilia isn't news, but it still makes something ticklishly flutter in her chest.

And that is definitely champagne talking, but somehow the next line comes very easily to her.

"But it is romantic." More so, she's just given out an undignified giggle. "We've just snogged in front of everyone."

"Yes," he says and gives her a tiny smile. "But we are not for her to print."

Ooph. Firstly, 'we.'

Secondly, maybe damn with it all. What's another wee snog, since they've already given everyone such a show?

"Will she start digging into who I am?" Emilia asks, forcing herself to focus on his words and not his lips.

"She might," he says. "She likes being the first to know."

"Do you—" Emilia hesitates. "Do you want to hide us from her?"

He shakes his head. "Only if you're uncomfortable with it. I'd be proud for anyone to know, but not at your expense."

He, as always, is perfect – but the situation isn't. Emilia decides there's only that much of his high-end, crème de la crème, larger than life world that she can handle. She's just dealt with a peacock of a stylist; she's not ready for a journalist magpie. A small breather is in order.

"I'll sit this one out, I think," she says hesitantly. "But you don't have to hide anything, if you want to tell her. I'll let you handle it."

He nods. There's a pause, and she wonders if there's something else to discuss – but it turns out he's suffering from the same affliction she's been fighting since they stopped their consultation of mouths. That immediately makes her feel rather self-satisfied.

"Go talk to your Clarissa," Emilia shoos him away.

Oates tears his gaze away from the lower half of her face, nods again, and turns away from Emilia.

Honestly, one would think they were in their teens! Or characters in one of her racy little numbers. Yearning for each other, dreaming of shy busses. As if they hadn't pretty much done the full tour of a suite in a BDSM club. All puns present and accounted for.

She enjoys the view of his departing back – and there's plenty to enjoy – but then quickly twists away. Emilia doesn't need Kate to recognise that she's reached the limit of her social grace.

Where's Kate, by the way? Last Emilia heard from her was hours ago, in the midst of what she now realises was an actual panic attack. Well, that's a turn.

She might not be the best at making rounds and working the room; but she definitely has one socialising gift. She can fade into the background like she's just another twig in Morris's Strawberry Thief pattern.

Soon enough she finds a quiet little spot in a tucked-away window alcove, just around the bend from the main room. The angle of the wall hides it from most of the gallery; and a few large plants by the sill – unnaturally green and glossy – give it a bit of cover. There's a plush, modern S-shaped sofa, in deep bottle green velvet.

She once saddled her poor Marquess with the arduous task of having a proper heart-to-heart with his future better half on an ancestor of this sofa – a tête-à-tête bench. On the one hand, one ends up wonderfully close to the object of one's yearning; on the other, the positioning is endlessly inconvenient. One either half turns their body, hoping to appear elegant, or only turns the head – and that just gives one a crick in the neck, innit?

She sits down and thinks wryly that she should've done more thorough research: her dress doesn't even have any wires in it, and she's been wrestling with it like a novice camper folding a stubborn tent. Surely Sophie wouldn't be able to sink gracefully onto the velvet seat, as Emilia described it.

And even Julian Oakerton, Marquess of Senlac, couldn't arrange himself on the wretched thing to both show off his physique to his paramour – and to the readers, of course – and convey a whole range of emotions. Whether, being of the male persuasion, he would even be capable of such complicated feelings is another matter entirely.

"Ah there you are," a velvet male baritone softly rumbled somewhere behind the surrounding foliage.

Roy Amaratunga steps out from between the oversized palms, looking as if someone dared him to be the best-dressed man in the building and he accepted without blinking. A burgundy velvet jacket; sharp black trousers; a crisp shirt pretending its undone top button is an accident – his espresso-dark curls complete the picture, doing their usual coup against any attempt at discipline, bringing together an ensemble that is, just like a certain flying nanny, practically perfect in every way.

"May I?" he asks.

Taking a metaphor too far, one could expect their hair to stand on end from the man's magnetism. Emilia weakly nods.

Amaratunga walks around the curve of the sofa with the controlled, silent focus of a big cat selecting the driest, warmest, flawlessly shaped branch – and then he coils, with one easy shift of weight, long leg extending, elbow easing over the armrest between them. Trust Roy Amaratunga to demonstrate the correct use for the sofa's befuddling geometry.

He props his chin on his fist and looks her over. Emilia wonders how red her face is, champagne and all. More like champagne and intensive exposure to the wealthy and aesthetically blessed.

"Hiding?" he asks with a cheeky half-smile. "It's a good spot. I clocked it the first time I was here. I don't know how Daniel does it. I get 'peopled out' right away and need a quiet moment to myself, and he's probably secured a couple of contracts just now."

"But you're an actor!" Emilia exclaims and clasps her hand over her mouth, forgetting about Marigold's warning.

On the other hand, there's no more lipstick to worry about. Daniel's currently digesting most of it.

"Uh-huh." Amaratunga's long fluffy eyelashes flutter in a gesture that feels almost too genuine. "An actor with acute social anxiety."

Her disbelief must show on her face, because he chuckles and gives her another glance over.

"For a celebrity writer, you're shockingly uninformed. It was all over social media last month." Something in his nonchalant tone is definitely off. "Hashtag autograph apocalypse. 'The Sri-Lankan Siren Flees from His Devotees,'" he sing-songs and sweeps an open hand in a broad dramatic arc.

"I had my first ever panic attack a couple of hours ago," Emilia blurts out.

His fanbase-adored chartreuse eyes widen. Emilia might be madly in love – yeah, yeah, what's the point of denying it? We all know she's hopelessly, irrevocably, unreservedly, a hundred percent besotted with Daniel Oates – but even she can't ignore the devastating effect a specimen like Amaratunga can have at such short distance.

Maybe she should revisit the bench setup. After all, the furniture piece is in Sophie's family home, so it's only natural that Julian and she could find themselves on it. And the possibilities are à gogo!

And then her head fills with images of Oates, in place of Amaratunga, knees open, large body relaxed, leaning back. Now her face is definitely flaming. The S-shaped back slash armrest is just the right height, like the railings on a swimming pool ladder. Grab, pull yourself up – and enjoy your premium seat.

And that's when Emilia finally manages to turn her mind back to reality. It's only been a few seconds, so 'The Covent Garden Demigod' – she's not that uninformed as to miss his fandom on all possible platforms! – is still gawking at her.

"Yeah, it took me a moment to even understand, but it was definitely a panic attack," she mumbles. "In a hairdresser's chair, of all places. And I'm not a celebrity writer. I mean, I've got a reader base, but I'm not that big. You can ask John."

Amaratunga blinks and suddenly starts laughing loudly.

What's that all about?