This, Ben thought, had been a terrible idea.

He looked around the garden. Children sporting fairy wings chased each other, knocking over cupcakes and face paint. Vienna was balancing on a stool, whacking another child over the head with a plastic wand. Her small face was contorted with glee.

Ah, well.

At least the birthday girl was happy.

Ben cracked open a cider. He spotted Louise standing by a group of mothers, swirling around a clear liquid that he suspected was mostly vodka. Imogen Sanders was rattling on about her trip to Paris and saying the word cw-oissant in a terrible French accent. Louise caught his eye and gave him a look that very clearly said, Help me.

Ben smiled.

Waved.

He hadn't forgotten about the frozen pickles incident. This was payback.

He crouched down, gathering up the face paints. To her credit, Louise had done a great job with the party; she'd hidden little silver notes all over the back garden — in the knoll of a tree, or under a rock — and told Vienna that fairies had visited. The toddler had been so excited that she ran into the garden in her pajamas.

"It's Ben, right?" a voice asked.

Ben turned. A blond man in a camel-coloured coat held out a hand, a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm.

"Yeah."

The man smiled. "Nice to meet you, mate. I'm Sebastian."

Ben shook. "Are you a parent?"

"Oh, no." Sebastian set the wine down on the table. "No, I'm Louise's boss. Didn't she tell you I was coming?"

Well, no.

She didn't.

Ben dropped his hand. Whenever Louise had spoken about her boss Sebastian, he'd assumed that he was a pudgy, middle-aged man with a penchant for gambling. But he wasn't. Ben's grip on the face paints tightened.

"Bent—" He caught himself. "Louise didn't mention how young you are."

"Ah," Sebastian said. "But she has mentioned me?"

"Only briefly."

Sebastian's smile didn't waver. "She hasn't spoken much about you either."

Ben shrugged. "Don't see why she would mention me to you. You're her boss."

"We're friends."

"Funny," Ben said. "I don't recall the two of you hanging out much."

Sebastian stuck his hands in his coat pockets. His shoulders were relaxed, his smile pleasant. But Ben was a lawyer, and he'd learned to find signs that people were irritated. And there it was: a muscle in his jaw twitched. Ben matched his smile. Got you.

"I'm going to say hello to Louise." Sebastian picked up the wine. "Excuse me."

Ben raised his cider. "Enjoy the party."

Smug prick, he added.

He watched as Sebastian kissed Louise on both cheeks, proffering the bottle of red wine. She smiled as she took it, and Ben was irritated to see that it was a real smile. Jesus. Didn't Bentley see through his shit? The man was drooling all over her. That workplace, Ben thought darkly, must be an HR nightmare.

He took a long drink of cider. Then another.

"Ben?" a feminine voice asked.

He turned.

"Ophelia," he said in relief.

She was dressed in jean dungarees, her red hair sorted into messy plaits. A half-drunk glass of white wine rested in one hand. Out of everyone at this party, Ben thought, there were only about five people that he could stand; Ophelia was one of them.

She nodded at Sebastian. "Who was that?"

"Louise's boss." Ben took another sip. "Sebastian."

"Ah."

Ben watched as Sebastian placed a casual hand on Louise's back. A possessive hand. "He fancies her, doesn't he?"

Ophelia took a sip of her wine. "You're not surprised, are you? Everyone's half in love with Louise; she just has that effect on people." She looked up at him. "I wouldn't worry about it, though. She never shows any interest for long."

Ben swirled his cider. But all he said was, "Why would I worry about it?"

Ophelia frowned. She opened her mouth to speak just as another set of footsteps approached.

"Langford!" a voice called.

Andrew stalked across the yard towards them. He was dressed in a grey hoodie today, his blond hair glinting in the late autumn sunshine. Red paint crusted his fingernails. At least, Ben hoped it was paint; the alternative was that Andrew had recently clawed someone to death. Which, you know. Always a possibility when it came to Andrew.

"I believe," Andrew said, "this belongs to you."

He held out a squirming Vienna, who was covered in cake and what Ben hoped was melted chocolate. He accepted the toddler.

"Was she terrorizing you?" he asked.

"Just a bit." Andrew patted the toddler's head fondly. "This one's got spirit. She'll make an excellent bull rider one day."

Ben looked up from picking cake out of Vienna's hair. He'd almost forgotten about Andrew's brief stint as a professional bull rider; his friend had gone through so many transformations over the years that he could hardly keep up. Ophelia pulled a face.

"You're not putting Vee on a bull," she said.

Andrew rubbed at the back of his neck. "Why not?"

"She's a child."

"Well, she won't be a child forever."

"Andrew." Ophelia's eyes narrowed. "Tell me you're joking."

"Of course I am," Andrew said, with a look that said he was being entirely serious about putting Vienna on a bull, and probably before the age of five. "I'm not a monster."

Ophelia blew out a breath. "Andrew, I swear—"

"Uncle Ben!"

Hugh shot towards them. Ben stumbled as Hugh collided with his midsection, bumping the table and spilling face paint all over the lawn. Hugh's face was frantic.

"What's wrong?" Ben asked.

Hugh clung to his leg. "Wally d-d-doesn't like the d-d-dog."

Ben sighed. Wally was Hugh's latest imaginary friend; he was conveniently frightened of green vegetables, bath time and babysitters. And now, apparently, Wally didn't like the Pomeranian that Nancy Simmons had brought along.

Of course he didn't.

"Hugh," Ben said, gently prying him off. "It's just a small dog."

"It's s-s-scary."

Ben ruffled his hair. "Let's go say hi to the dog together, alright?"

"No!"

Hugh jerked sideways, colliding with Ben's waist. Cold cider splashed across his chest, soaking through his wool jumper. Ben closed his eyes. I will not shout, he told himself. I will not shout, I will not—

"Napkin?" Ophelia asked.

Ben accepted the tissue. "Thanks."

He shifted Vienna to his hip, sponging off the material. Hugh looked appropriately abashed, kicking at the lawn with his shoe.

"S-s-sorry."

Ben softened. "It's alright, Hugh."

Andrew cleared his throat. "You may want to... Er." He gestured at Ben's chest, where a dark stain was blooming. "Merino wool costs a bloody fortune."

Ben examined the damage. He didn't bother to ask Andrew how he'd been able to identify the type of fabric. It was Andrew; if he was ever arrested and put in jail, he'd insist on having his jumpsuit made from cashmere.

"Here." Ophelia held out her arms. "Let me take her."

"Thanks," Ben muttered.

He passed Vienna to her. Hugh had slunk away to the other face paint station, so Ben turned and slipped into the kitchen. He'd intended to go upstairs when the airing cupboard caught his eye. Hang on. Had he put a green jumper in there?

He opened the cupboard.

Success.

Ben held up the jumper, glancing outside. Everyone was about to open presents. Surely they wouldn't notice if he quickly changed, right?

He hesitated.

Nah.

Screw it.

Ben shrugged off his jumper. After all, he thought, nobody was about to walk into the kitchen right now.

He'd be grand.