Within a day or two, the partners were past the awkwardness the weekend had engendered, and by Friday things were back to normal. It had been a slow week of annual performance reviews, and Lewis had made Hathaway write up most of the ones for the DCs. It left him free in the evenings, and he ended up having rather lengthy, soul-searching telephone conversations with Louise on Tuesday and Wednesday. Mainly, they talked about her, and her new-found trust of men; the subject of their simmering relationship was not raised. But Lewis felt a happy buzz when they rang off on Tuesday, and after he put the phone down on Wednesday, he felt not just happiness, but a more primal tingle that made him decide to press the issue with James the next day.

But he didn't need to broach the subject. Hathaway opened the conversation himself, allowing as how he'd decided he could live with the idea of Lewis and his mother having a physical relationship, as long as he didn't have to witness it firsthand.

"You know, Sir, she's on the board of that gallery in the West End that's having an opening on Saturday. She'll have to be there. Why don't you go and surprise her?"

Lewis snapped up the idea, and even went to London early on Saturday to buy himself a new tie for the occasion. During the train ride into the city, he practiced in his head what he would say to her until it sounded just right.

At last it was time for the event, and he found his way to the gallery with little trouble. He made his way in and took a flute of champagne while he got his bearings in the crowd. He felt as if he were floating. At last he spotted her and worked his way through the crowd.

She was talking to a tall, slender man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, and just as Lewis came up behind her, she took the man's arm and kissed him rather passionately. Half a second later, she saw Lewis standing there. She didn't seem to notice that he'd just gotten kicked in the guts.

"Oh, Robbie, what a surprise! This is Sir Oliver Jeffries, he serves on the board of this gallery with me. I was just telling him how much you helped me." She turned to the man. "This is Robert Lewis."

"Mister Lewis. My pleasure."

"Sir Oliver." Lewis felt as if he needed to hold on to something, but there was nothing, certainly not Louise's lovely, slender, bare arm.

She chatted at Lewis, happily. "You know, if you hadn't convinced me that there are men who can be trusted to behave honorably, men who are gentle and kind, I would have declined Sir Oliver's invitation to dinner last night, and look what I would have missed!" She kissed Sir Oliver's hand.

"That's wonderful, Louise, I'm so happy for you." That had to be someone else saying the words; Lewis was sure he couldn't speak.

"You're such dear, Robbie. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's someone I simply must make welcome." She bussed him gently on the cheek and, taking Sir Oliver by the hand, rushed off through the crowd.

He was halfway to the train station before he realized he still had the champagne flute in his hand, holding it by the bowl, rather than the stem. He stared at it and slowly squeezed it until it shattered.

On the train ride back, he managed to pull out his mobile one-handedly. Several miles went by before he resolved to call Hathaway.

"Hey, James, are you doing anything?"

"Uh, no, I'm not." Not at all true, but the choked quality of Lewis's voice made him instantly decide to call back his bandmates and cancel out of their plans to hit the new pub in Woodstock. "What's up?"

"My train gets in at 10:42 and I need a ride 'cos I kind of cut my hand." He had stanched the bleeding with paper towels from the train station loo but it had not completely stopped, and there were still numerous pieces of glass in his palm. It stung like hell.

Hathaway immediately picked up on all the signs of catastrophe. "I'll be there, Sir."

And he was. He took Lewis back to his place, peeled away the bloody paper towels, washed his hand, picked out as much glass as he could with tweezers, and administered a heavy dose of acetaminophen. He did not ask, and Lewis did not volunteer, anything about what happened. Deciding that stitches were not necessary, he gently dressed Lewis's hand with antibiotic cream and wrapped it with gauze.

Hathaway poured them each a generous whisky and they sat on his sofa, silent for a while.

At last, Lewis spoke.

"Hathaway, why is it you're the one who has the dream about knives but I'm the one who ends up getting cut?"

"I wouldn't put much stock in dreams, Sir."

Lewis smiled ruefully. "That is excellent advice, Sergeant. Here's to paying more attention to the advice you give me. Cheers." He clinked his glass against Hathaway's and they both earnestly drank to the toast.

* * * *