Adam is not at all sure what to make of Hamish, even though Hamish just bought him a scotch and last week he paid him a compliment about his taste in shoes. Why the suspicion? Is it because Hamish is tall and muscular with a chest like a bar fridge? Is it because – not in looks but in some other hard to grasp way – Hamish reminds him of Morrisey who reminds him of Sebastian Flyte who reminds him of his uncle’s old, sad wolf hound called Tristan? For Adam, Hamish is always giddily receding down a hall of mirrors, a glass of Glenmorangie in one hand, and the other deep in the pocket of his linen trousers. Thing is, trust him or not, Hamish has a laugh that makes him very hard to resist.


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