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"What is in your pocket?"
It's a silly but clever question, and Richard gives the reporter credit for being the first to ask it. He wonders if the others came up with anything interesting during their interviews. It's more than likely they'll all have similar responses, as most of their belongings are in their rooms or with the studio's PR reps tasked with watching the clock as reporters stream in and out on this monotonous publicity tour.
He starts to rummage through his pockets, idly trying to think of something funny he could add to whatever his answer turns out to be when his fingers scrape across the teeth of the newly-made key Ian had given him last night, the grooves a perfect match to the front door lock of his London home. Of their London home, Richard corrected himself, his mind filling with the soft light in Ian's eyes, the warmth in his smile as he slid the key into Richard's hand. He can still feel the imprint of the metal squeezed in his fist as he wrapped Ian in a strong embrace, words failing him.
In the next moment a random sound snapped him back to the interview, his brain seizing to a halt. He had to say something, needed to answer the question. His mind fumbled through different responses, willing something coherent into his head before the pause became unnatural. He patted his pockets once more, finally stumbling through what might have been the truth only 24 hours ago.
"My room, the room, the key to my room."
And then the hint of a smile, slowly growing as the image of that key stayed firmly in his mind's eye. Richard forced himself to focus on the next question, silently calculating how much time remained for this round of interviews before he could make his escape and use said key in his new front door.