“Bullshit, James.” Priya had, of course, chosen to ignore me. But she did seem to be broadly on my side. “People don’t believe stuff just because you tell it to them directly. If they did, visual art would be completely worthless. Otherwise I’d go around writing things like ‘Capitalism has significant problems’ and ‘I fancy girls’ on walls.”

“Stop getting sidetracked.” That was Bridge. No surprise. “Point is, we need a new plan.”

I closed my eyes. “No. More. Plans.”

“But, Luc, you’ve been so much better since you’ve been with Oliver. And I don’t want you getting all sad and in the tabloids again.”

In her defence, it wasn’t an unreasonable concern. After all, that was exactly what had happened the last time I’d broken up with someone I cared about. I mean, apart from the minor detail that Oliver hadn’t sold me out to a third-rate gossip rag for an insultingly small sum of money. “Thanks for looking out for me, Bridge. But at the risk of sounding like a chick-lit heroine from the ’90s, I don’t need a man to complete me.”

“You complete me, darling,” said James Royce-Royce to James Royce-Royce.

I glared at the backs of their heads. “Way to undercut my point, guys.”

“Sorry, I got caught up in the moment.”

“The moment of my relationship falling apart?”

James Royce-Royce’s shoulders hunched in a wincey way. “Oh dear, that does make me sound rather selfish, doesn’t it?”

“Look,” I said, “being with Oliver has been so good for me. It’s helped me sort through a lot. And I’m sure, in the future, I’ll be able to have a healthy, functional relationship with someone nice. But, for now, I’m still really upset. So for fuck’s sake stop being happy at me.”

The message seemed to get through, and everyone remained sympathetically miserable until we got back to my flat. Where I announced my intention to spend the next couple of hours drinking and feeling sorry for myself. “You can join me if you like, but I’ve been stuck with you all day so I, honestly, don’t care if you’d rather just go home.”

Priya shrugged. “I’m in. It’ll be like the good old days.”

“Sorry, darling.” James Royce-Royce was already calling an Uber. “My husband and I have to go and be happy somewhere.”

“And I’ve got an early flight,” added Tom, “to somewhere I can’t talk about to do something I can’t talk about.”

“I’ll stay. It means I’ll be late for work tomorrow, but I’ve got flexi and I’m sure they can survive without me for—” She checked her phone. “Oh shit, I’ve been fired.”

For a moment, I was genuinely not thinking about my own problems. “Fuck. Bridge. I’m so sorry. Was it—”

“False alarm. There’s been a fire. And half the first print run of I’m Out of Office at the Moment. Please Forward Any Translation Work to My Personal Email Address has gone up in smoke. I have to go and deal with this right now.”

We all parted ways, except for Priya who followed me up to my flat, made an appropriately rude comment about how surprised she was that I’d managed to keep it clean, and then immediately started raiding the kitchen for booze. I can’t say I was good company but it was nice having her there—and she let me cry into my drink without looking awkward or trying to comfort me, which was exactly what I needed right then.

We crawled into bed at three in the morning, because she was in no position to drive and I was in no position to be on my own. Which meant we were both woken up when the buzzer went a couple of hours later.

“Who the fuck is that?” groaned Priya.

The buzzing went on.

“Well”—I rolled over blearily—“I’d normally say you, but you’re here. Or Bridge, but she’s probably still dealing with a warehouse full of burning books.”

The buzzing went on.

She stole my pillow and pressed it over her head. “It’s fucking Oliver, isn’t it?”

There was no one else it could be. But I couldn’t quite work out how to feel about it. This was supposed to make me happy, right? But it was also making me feel crap-the-bed nervous and giving me a headache.

The buzzing went on.

“You have eight seconds to deal with that,” Priya told me, “before I put a fucking drill through it.”

“I haven’t got a drill.”

“Then I’ll find something heavy and pointy and do the best I can.”

“Yeah, I think that would knacker my security deposit.”

“Then,” she growled, “you better answer the fucking door.”

I staggered out of bed and into the living room. “Hello,” I said, picking up the handset like I was afraid it might bite me.

“It’s me.” Oliver’s voice was slightly hoarse, though probably less wrecked than mine.

“And?”

“And I…came to see you. Can I come up?”

“Um, there’s a tiny, angry lesbian in my bed. So it’s not really a good time.”

There was a pause. “I’m not sure I want to have this conversation over an intercom.”

“Oliver.” Tears, alcohol, a ten-hour road trip, and a chronic lack of sleep had turned my brain to cauliflower cheese. “I’m not sure I want to have a conversation at all. Given, y’know, everything.”

“I understand that. But”—an anxious, needy little pause—“please?”

Oh fuck. “Fine. I’ll come down.”

I went down. Oliver was on my doorstep, dressed for work, with dark circles under his eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “What?”

He gazed at me for a long moment. “Are you aware that you’re wearing nothing but a pair of hedgehog-themed boxer shorts?”

Well, I was now. “I’ve had a rough night.”

“That makes two of us.” He took off his big, cashmere lawyer coat and wrapped it round me.

Obviously, pride demanded that I not let him, but—having finally restored my reputation—the last thing I needed was either getting photographed in my underpants or brought up on public indecency charges. Knowing my luck, I’d get stuck with Justice Mayhew.

Oliver drew in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry to wake you. But I…I wanted to tell you I was wrong.”

It would have a good time to say something encouraging and emotionally generous, but I’d just been buzzed out of bed after two hours sleep. “Which bit?”