“I’m sorry about Reggie. He has to deal with a lot of shit for me.”

That made two of us. “It’s fine. I…”

“I’m glad you reached out to me. I know this is difficult for you.”

No shit. “Yeah, but I probably shouldn’t have told you to fuck off and literally die.”

“You’re right to be angry. Besides”—he gave a ‘I have lived and experienced and discovered where my joy is’ laugh—“it’s what your mother would have done when she was your age. It’s what I would have done too.”

“Stop that right now. You don’t get to look for any of you in me.”

A moment of silence. And I honestly wasn’t sure I was hoping he’d push it or not. That he’d fight for me.

“If that’s the way you want it to be,” he said.

“It’s the way I want it to be.” I took a deep breath. “So what happens now?”

“Like I said at your mother’s, I want to get to know you. How that happens, if that happens, is up to you.”

“Sorry. Since I never intended to meet the father who walked out on me when I was three, I didn’t have this planned out in advance.”

“Well, how about this. We’re filming at the farmhouse in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you come down on the Sunday? We should be done by then, and we’ll have time to talk.”

I was vaguely aware my dad had an absurd rock-star farmhouse-slash-studio-slash-creative-retreat somewhere in Lancashire, near where he grew up. “Fine. Send me the details. And,” I added, quite aggressively, “I’ll be bringing my boyfriend. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. If he’s important to you, I’d like to meet him.”

That kind of took the wind out of my sails. I wasn’t exactly hoping my dad would turn out to be a homophobe, but I’d got really comfortable believing bad things about him. “Oh. Okay.”

“It was good to talk to you, Luc. I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up. It was the only power move I had left, but I was going to use it. Unfortunately, using it left me so exhausted, especially after my utter failure to make a meaningful difference to my existence, that I just pulled the duvet over my head and passed out in my clothes.

The next time I looked at my phone, it was a hell of a lot later, and I’d slept through twelve texts from Oliver and my alarm. The texts said:

I miss you.

Sorry. Was that too much?

I know it’s only been a few days.

Maybe this is why people don’t want to go out with me.

Not that you’re really going out with me anyway.

I hope I didn’t sound presumptuous.

I’m probably sounding really weird now.

I’m assuming you’re not texting back because you’re still asleep. Not because you think I’m disgustingly clingy.

If you’re awake and think I’m disgusting clingy, could you at least tell me?

Right. You’re probably asleep.

And now you’re going to wake up and read all this and I’m going to die of embarrassment.

Sorry.

And the alarm said “You’re going to be late for work, cockface.” But I still paused long enough to reply to Oliver.

I was missing you too but then you sent me a million texts and it was like you were in the room

Also. Still no dick pic?

Also we’re meeting my dad Sunday after next. Hope that’s okay

Somehow, despite my flat still looking like a bomb had thought about going off but got too depressed and just sat in the corner eating Pringles and crying, I was in an oddly good mood. I think maybe I just liked waking up to Oliver.

As usual, showing up late at the office didn’t exactly mean much except I was conscious of the smallest pricklings of guilt, and I missed my telling-a-joke-to-Alex window, which was sort of a disappointment and a relief at the same time. Throwing myself into what I laughably called my work, I was…cautiously pleased to discover an email from a pair of donors who had previously withdrawn their support from the Beetle Drive.

Dear Luc,

Thanks so much for your email. Adam just heard today that our Johrei retreat has fallen through so we might be able to make the Beetle Drive after all. We’d love to take up your invitation for lunch and catch up.

Namaste

Tamara

Oh God. I didn’t really have favourite or least favourite donors because, and I’m aware I say this as someone who’s lived his whole life on the royalties from an album his mum wrote in the ’80s, rich people are pricks. Adam and Tamara Clarke’s particular flavour of prickishness was that they had got richer than any human being had a right to get while constantly banging on about how fucking ethical they were and glossing over the fact that they got their start-up capital because he was an investment banker in about 2008. They ran this chain of vegan-lifestyle whole-food eateries called Gaia. Because of course they were called Gaia.

And, now I thought about it, it also meant I had to work out somewhere to take them that not only would Barbara Clench release the funds to pay for, but that didn’t serve animal products, wasn’t owned by the client, and wouldn’t look like a pointed attempt to support their competition.

I heaved a despairing sigh. “Well, fuck me sideways with a baked aubergine.”

“Something I can help you with, Luc?” Rhys Jones Bowen, who had been passing on the way to either the coffee machine or the burns unit, stuck his head round the door. “I mean, not with that. Not that I’m judging.”

“It was a rhetorical aubergine, Rhys.”

“I’m not sure that makes it any better. Now what’s the issue?”

“Just”—I waved a dismissive hand—“donor stuff.”

He came in uninvited and plonked himself in the spare chair. “Well, let me hear it. A problem shared is a problem two people have.”

“I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to do much good here. Not unless you happen to know a cheap but not insultingly cheap, ideally slightly trendy and indie, but not threateningly trendy and indie, specifically vegan café-slash-restaurant that I can take Adam and Tamara Clarke to.”

“Oh, that’s easy. Just take them to Bronwyn’s.”

My mouth sagged for a moment. “Who’s Bronwyn?”

“Friend of mine from way back. She’s a vegan, and she’s doing a pop-up.”