“People eat in fields,” I pointed out. “Like, places where cows shit. No cows have shit in my flat.”

“Are you familiar, sweet pea, with the term ‘damning with faint praise’?”

“Did you come here to help or take the piss?”

He shrugged. “I thought I’d try a bit of both.”

A rumble outside heralded the arrival of Priya, her girlfriend, and her pickup truck. I mean, the rumbling was the truck. Her girlfriend was scary in other ways, what with being a legit grown-up and everything. By the time all five of us were crammed into my front room, surrounded by the detritus of the last five years, I was feeling pretty epically low.

“Welp.” I made a helpless gesture. “This is my life. And I wish I hadn’t invited you to come and look at it.”

“You know,” said Priya. “I’d normally say something mean. But you’re so pathetic right now, it wouldn’t be satisfying.”

Her girlfriend, whose name was Theresa, but who I had a hard time thinking of as anything but Professor Lang, elbowed her in the ribs. “That’s still mean, dear.”

“You like me when I’m mean.”

James Royce-Royce shooed at them gently. “I’d tell you to get a room, but as we can see, there isn’t one.”

“It’s not that bad.” Professor Lang picked up a sofa cushion and then put it down again very quickly. “I lived in worse in my student days.”

“Luc’s twenty-eight.” Ah, I could always count on Priya to boost me up when I was down.

“Well”—to my surprise, Professor Lang shot me a mischievous smile—“considering that when I was twenty-eight, I was lying to my husband, denying my sexuality, and pretending work would solve all my problems, I don’t feel in any position to judge.”

I stared at them both. “I have no idea how Priya wound up with someone so much less of an arsehole than her.”

“I’m a tortured artist,” Priya shot back. “And I’m fucking incredible in bed. Now how do we tackle the pile of unadulterated skank you call your home?”

There was a humiliatingly long silence.

Then James Royce-Royce spoke up unexpectedly. “We prioritise things that need to be thrown away. Recycling over there”—he pointed to a moderately empty corner—“refuse over there”—another point, another corner—“waste, electronic and electrical on that table. Then Priya, Luc, and Theresa will go to the dump, while James and I start on the dishes. By the time you get back, there’ll be enough space to be going through the laundry. Clean”—it was pointing time again—“dirty whites, dirty colours. From there we’ll regroup and start on the surfaces.”

We all took a moment to remind ourselves that there were some jobs James Royce-Royce was scarily good at.

“You see,” said James Royce-Royce, kissing his husband’s cheek extravagantly, “isn’t he fabulous?”

We got to work and, holy shit, was it work. Having a system helped a lot, but it turned out I’d dropped a lot of things over the years, metaphorically and literally, and picking them all up and figuring out how best to dispose of them was surprisingly draining. It didn’t help that Priya kept sarcastically double-checking whether I was sure I wanted to get rid of something with such obvious sentimental value as the empty Twiglets tube from last Christmas or a lone Mr. Grumpy sock with a hole in the toe. Then we piled the pickup shamefully full of crap and drove it down to the tip.

I nearly sent Oliver a picture of our neatly sorted recycling piles so I could show off how sensible and mature I was being, but then I realised how much I wanted to surprise him with how sensible and mature I was being. He’d made it painfully clear sex was very much off the table, but maybe if I managed to get at least some of my shit together, he might like me enough to kiss me.

Not that I really had any right to expect that or ask for that or imagine how it might feel. Except now I’d had the thought, I didn’t entirely want to let it go. Which was an epic red flag. I’d built my whole life around not wanting things I couldn’t have and, yes, that had left me alone and bitter in a messy flat, but I was still worried the alternative was worse.

By the time we’d got back from the dump, the washing machine was thrashing through the first of what would likely be approximately twenty-seven thousand loads, and James Royce-Royce had spread a red-and-white-checked picnic blanket across my newly visible living room floor. It was laden with goodies, and there were even clean plates to eat them off. Been a while since I’d seen those.

We all flopped down and waited semipatiently for James Royce-Royce to introduce the food. I’d never quite figured out if it was a chef thing or a him thing, but he got borderline huffy if you tried to eat something he’d made for you before he’d told you all about it.

“So,” he announced, “this is a traditional pork pie with hot-water crust pastry. Sorry, not suitable for Priya, but it’s a picnic. You can’t have a picnic without a pork pie.”

Priya gave him a look. “Yes. That is absolutely true. I have all these magical childhood memories of how every summer I’d go out into the park with my family and my mum would make roti and samosas and a raita and a pie none of us could eat. Then when we got home, we’d lend it to the Jewish family next door so they could take it out on their next picnic.”

“I’m sorry, darling. That was culturally insensitive of me. But I did make you a lovely quiche.”

“Ooh.” She perked up. “Is it the broccoli and goat cheese one?”

“Caramelised red onion, cream, and Stilton.”

“Okay, I’m sold. You can keep your pie, infidels.”

“There’s also,” went on James Royce-Royce, with typical ceremony, “a kale Waldorf salad with buttermilk dressing, a selection of handmade dips, including the hummus you were so fond of last time, Theresa, some of my home-made bread, naturally, and a range of local cheeses. Then, to finish, we have individual raspberry fools in mason jars. And, don’t worry Luc, I brought my own spoons.”

Priya dragged a cooler out from behind my sofa. “Well, I brought beer.” She struck a Royce-Royceian pose. “It’s a sumptuous hops-based beverage served in a bottle.”

“I’m seeing what you’re doing there, Priya.” He mock-glowered at her over the top of his black-rimmed hipster frames. “And since I’ve already blotted my cultural copybook, I’ve always wondered why you’re okay with alcohol but not with pigs.”

“You want the long answer or the short answer?”

“What’s the short answer?”