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“It’s a funny coincidence,” Charles said, as they stepped out of the Milky Pig and into the noisy street. “Your brother has the exact name of one of my favourite zoologists.”
“Charlie.” Monty looked sidelong at him. “Darling boy.”
Charles loftily decided that as much as Monty obviously meant that to be some condescending sign that he’d said something silly, it’d serve him right if Charles took the moral high ground and chose to believe it was affectionate and nice, actually. “What?”
“Firstly, of course you have a ranked list of zoologists; secondly, how many Ivor Montagus do you think there can possibly be in the country? Or in the world, even? That is my brother, worst luck. Don't tell him I said that.”
The man who’d walked into Charles’ back as he stopped dead on the pavement swore at him, getting him a glare from Monty. Charles didn’t notice. “Your brother is the Ivor Montagu? Of the Spalax expedition?”
Monty made a face. “Sort of hideous mole-rat things from Hungary? That’s Ivor, all right. Long ago, of course, he had to chuck it in in the end, Father wouldn’t have him being a scien…” he cleared his throat. “Father thought that filmmakers were at least a sort of artist, and that was more, y’know. Appropriate.”
Charles was too caught up in celebrity excitement to care much about what Monty’s family thought about the social prospects of scientists. “Can we go back to my place? We’re not far.”
Monty started to say something, and then stopped himself. Twice. The third time was the charm, and he said, in an oddly strained voice, “Just joining some conversational dots I think you might have skipped over, Charles – do you want to collect something from your flat?”
“Yes, my Proceedings of the Zoological Society…”
“Right. Okay. Yes. Obviously that’s what you meant. No, sorry, no time for any of that.”
“Oh.” Charles deflated. “You’re right, of course. People probably ask him to sign his papers all the time.”
“You have a truly original mind, Charles.”
Charles looked hesitantly at him.
“What?”
“I can’t always tell when you’re making fun of me.” The darling stuff was easy enough, but it was harder to tell if he was being condescended to when Monty’s tone was soft and amused like that.
“I’m not.” Monty tapped his knuckles against the back of Charles’ hand; for a second Charles thought he was going to link fingers with him, as he sometimes did casually when he was in a mood to be nice, but they were on a public street. “If you can’t tell, Charlie, I’m not.”