The taxi dropped them near the Lock, where the air was thick with the scent of street food, damp pavement, and the distant thrum of a bassline. Camden was a sensory riot compared to the hushed luxury they’d left behind, but as they walked toward a low-lit pub tucked down a side street, Hugo didn't miss a beat. He navigated the cracked paving stones with the same effortless poise he’d shown on the marble floors of Mayfair.
The pub was called The Hawley Arms. It was loud, the walls were plastered with old gig posters, and the floor had that familiar, comforting tackiness of a proper London local.
"Now this," Jim said, feeling the tension finally drain from his shoulders as he headed toward the bar, "is more like it. No invoices for laughing here."
He turned back to Hugo, who was looking around with an expression of genuine interest, his expensive suit looking surprisingly at home amidst the eclectic crowd. "Right, my turn. Least I can do after you saved me from a night of staring at my phone. Gin and tonic for you, yeah?"
Hugo shook his head, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Actually, if I’m in your world now, I think I’ll pass on the botanicals. I’d rather have a pint, please. You can choose the ale—I don't mind. I trust your palate."
Jim grinned, leaning his elbows on the sticky bar top. "A pint? Proper London boy after all, then? Alright, keep your eyes on that table in the corner before someone else nabs it."
A few minutes later, Jim navigated the crowd carrying two dimpled glass mugs. He set them down on the scratched wooden table, the dark, amber liquid sloshing slightly.
"London Glory," Jim announced, sliding one toward Hugo. "Best bitter they’ve got. Tastes like actual hops, not perfume."
Hugo took a generous draught, closing his eyes for a second as he savoured it. "Excellent choice. Robust, honest, and remarkably cold. Light years ahead of that Sazerac." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, the sleeves of his charcoal suit jacket pushed back just an inch. "So, tell me, Jim. When you're not rescuing 'consultants' from their own pretension, what’s the most ridiculous thing someone has ever asked you to tattoo on them?"
Jim chuckled, the sound easily competing with the jukebox. "Oh, mate, where do I start? I had a bloke last week who wanted a full-colour portrait of a Greggs sausage roll on his calf. Swore it was a tribute to his late grandad. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was dead set."
Hugo laughed, a deep, resonant sound that felt remarkably intimate in the crowded room. "A pastry tribute. There’s a certain tragic beauty to that, I suppose. Did you do it?"
"Course I did. Professionalism, innit? Though I did draw the line at putting a 'Best Before' date on it." Jim watched Hugo, fascinated by the way the man seemed to bridge the gap between his world and this one. "You’re an odd one, Hugo. You look like you should be drinking vintage port in a library, but you handle a pint of bitter like you’ve been doing it your whole life."
"Perhaps I have," Hugo said softly, his gaze steady on Jim’s. "One learns very quickly in my line of work that if you spend too much time in the library, you forget what the rest of the world sounds like. I’ve always preferred the noise."
Hugo took another pull of his ale, looking thoughtfully at Jim over the rim of the glass. "I must ask," he said, his tone carefully neutral to avoid any hint of judgement, "and please, take no offence—but how does a man from Limehouse end up in the orbit of a man like Julian De Mountford? He isn't exactly known for frequenting the local haunts of the East End."
Jim snorted, tracing a pattern in the condensation on his glass. "Grindr, mate. Plain and simple. The great equaliser, innit?"
Hugo’s eyebrows climbed a fraction of an inch, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Ah. The digital marketplace. I should have guessed."
"Yeah, well," Jim sighed, "we’d met up a few times over the last couple of months. Always at his place in Westminster or some nondescript wine bar where the lighting was dim enough to hide a murder. He was always a bit cagey, you know? Keeping his cards close to his chest. I just figured he was posh and private."
He shifted in his seat, the leather of his jacket creaking.
"When he suggested Mayfair tonight—said he wanted to 'treat me in his world'—I actually thought I was getting somewhere. Thought maybe he was finally ready to be seen with a bloke who’s got a bit of ink and a bit of an accent. I felt like a right mug standing there looking at forty-quid cocktails while he was probably already toastin’ his engagement with a Lady."
Hugo’s expression softened, a flash of genuine steel appearing in his dark eyes when he thought of his colleague's behaviour. "Julian has spent his entire life curated by a committee, Jim. He invited you to Mayfair because he wanted to feel 'daring' before retreating into the safety of a strategic marriage. It was a coward's farewell."
He reached out, his hand resting briefly near Jim’s on the table. "You weren't getting 'somewhere' because Julian doesn't have a 'somewhere' to go. He has a career path, not a life. You, on the other hand, have both."
Jim looked at Hugo, really looked at him. The man was a mystery—clearly powerful, definitely wealthy, yet sitting in a sticky-floored Camden pub drinking bitter like it was nectar.
"You're a bit too good at reading people, Hugo," Jim said, his voice dropping. "Makes me wonder what you're really doin' in that 'old building' of yours. You spend all day analysin' blokes like Julian?"
Hugo retracted his hand slowly, his smile turning enigmatic. "Let's just say I'm very familiar with the species. But I much prefer the company of someone who doesn't require a manifesto to have a conversation."
Hugo glanced down at his watch, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his handsome features. "I must apologise, Jim, but I really should be heading off. I have a rather unforgivingly early start tomorrow."
Jim felt a brief, familiar pang of disappointment—the 'here we go again' reflex—but it was quickly quelled by the way Hugo was looking at him. It wasn't the shifty, exit-strategy gaze of Julian De Mountford; it was focused and sincere. Hugo wasn't mentioning the car waiting to whisk him to a BBC studio for a live breakfast interview on the terrace at Westminster; he just looked like a man who genuinely hated to end the night.
"Early start, eh? Back to the 'old building' to argue about the minutiae?" Jim teased, though he couldn't quite hide the hope in his voice.
"Precisely," Hugo smiled. He pulled an elegant fountain pen from his breast pocket and reached for a stray napkin, then hesitated. "Actually, give me your phone."
As he tapped his digits in, he handed it back with a steady gaze. "There. Let's do this again sometime. And Jim? I assure you, unlike Julian, I don’t have a secret fiancée stashed away in the country. I am very much single, and I am very much interested in getting to know you better."
Jim felt a heat that had nothing to do with the London Glory. "Yeah? I’d like that. Really."
They walked out of The Hawley Arms together, the cool night air of Camden hitting them. The walk to the tube station was easy, the silence between them comfortable rather than awkward. Hugo’s stride was long, but he kept pace with Jim, his shoulder occasionally brushing against Jim’s leather jacket.
At the entrance to Camden Town station, they paused under the glowing roundel. The crowd of late-night revellers surged around them, but for a moment, it felt like they were back in that quiet pocket of the Mayfair bar.
"I’m southbound on the Northern Line," Hugo said. "Back to the world of starch and suits."
"And I’m heading east," Jim replied, gesturing toward the platforms. "Back to the needles and the ink."
Hugo reached out, squeezing Jim’s forearm—just over the spot where the tattoos began. "Goodnight, Jim. I’ll be in touch."
"Goodnight, Hugo. Don't let the arguments get too boring tomorrow."
Jim watched him go, the tall, striking figure of the Lord disappearing into the Northbound crowd with a final, elegant wave. As Jim hopped onto his own train, heading back toward Limehouse, he looked at the new contact in his phone. He didn't know about the peerage, the televised interviews, or the seat in the House of Lords. All he knew was that for the first time in a long time, he was actually looking forward to a second date.
