“Shouldn’t isn’t the same as won’t.”

“You’re right. Neither of us can be certain we aren’t going to look back in five years’ time and think this was the worst idea we ever had. But that’s a risk I’m willing to live with.”

I scraped pointlessly at the grouting between the floor tiles. “That’s because when you regret something, you do it on your own in a house with a cup of tea and a bottle of gin. When I regret something, I do it on page eight of the Daily Mirror.”

“I’m aware this is a concern for you, Lucien, but—”

“This is more than a fucking concern. It’s my life.” My nail snagged and tore awkwardly, a half-moon of blood gathering on my fingertip. “You don’t understand what it’s like. Every stupid thing I’ve done. Every time I’ve been dumped. Every time I’ve been used. Every time I’ve been even a little bit vulnerable. That’s forever. For anyone. It’s not even a proper story. It’s the article you read over someone’s shoulder on the Tube. It’s the half headline you catch as you walk past a newspaper you’re not buying. It’s something you scroll through when you’re having a shit.”

There was a long, long silence. “What’s happened?”

“You’ve happened,” I snapped. “You’ve fucked me up and made me think things could be different and they can never be different.”

Another, even longer silence. “I’m sorry you feel that way. But whatever is going on right now is clearly about more than just me.”

“Maybe, but you’re the bit I can deal with right now.”

“And you’re dealing with me by having an argument through a bathroom door?”

“I’m dealing with you by telling you this isn’t working. Apparently even a fake relationship is beyond me.”

“If you’re going to dump me, Lucien”—Oliver had become very, very cold—“will you at least do it to my face instead of through two inches of plywood?”

Hiding my face against my knees, I definitely wasn’t crying. “Sorry. This is what you get. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You did, but I hoped you’d think I deserved better.”

“No, I’m that much of an arsehole. Now get out of my flat.”

The faintest of sounds, like maybe Oliver had been about to try the handle and then thought better of it. “Lucien, I… Please don’t.”

“Oh fuck off, Oliver.”

He didn’t reply. From my white ceramic cell, I listened to him dressing, heard his footsteps walking away, heard the front door closing behind him.

For a while I was too fucked up to do anything. Then I was too fucked up to do anything except ring Bridget. So I rang Bridget.

She picked up straight away. “What’s wrong?”

“Me,” I said. “I’m what’s wrong.”

“What’s going on?” Bridge’s phone was just sensitive enough to pick up Tom’s sleepy voice.

“It’s an emergency,” she told him.

He groaned. “They’re books, Bridge. What problems can they possibly have at half one in the morning?”

“It’s not a publishing emergency. It’s a friend emergency.”

“In which case, I love you. And you’re the best and loyalest person I know. But I’m going to sleep in the spare room.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be quick.”

“No you won’t. And I don’t want you to.”

Down the slightly shitty connection I caught the rustle of bedclothes and a kiss goodbye. And then Bridge was back on the line. “Okay, I’m here. Tell me what’s up.”

I opened my mouth and then realised I had no idea what to say. “Oliver’s gone.”

A slight pause. “I don’t know how to say this without it sounding bad but…what did you do now?”

“Thanks.” I let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’re my rock.”

“I am your rock. Which is why I know you make really bad decisions.”

“It wasn’t a decision,” I wailed. “It just sort of happened.”

“What just sort of happened?”

“I told him he’d fucked me up and to fuck off.”

“Um.” Bridge gave me the audible equivalent of her confused face. “Why?”

The more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t sure. “I’m in the Guardian, Bridge. The fucking Guardian.”

“I thought the whole point of dating Oliver was to get better press? After all, it’s a broadsheet. They’d probably only run a celebrity sex story if it was about an MP or a Royal.”

“It was worse than a sex story. It was a thought-provoking opinion piece about what a broken victim of celebrity culture I am written by that guy I failed to pull at Malcom’s T Party.”

“Should I look?”

“Why the hell not?” I huddled further into a corner of the bathroom. “Everyone else will.”

“I meant, would reading it help me support you better.”

I mumbled something along the lines of urnuhnuh.

“Okay I’m going in.”

A pause, while she switched apps and read the article, during which I shivered and sweated and felt sick.

“Wow,” she said. “What an utter wanker.”

That was less consoling than I’d hoped it would be. “He’s right, though, isn’t he? I’m this half-person wreckage of someone else’s fame, who’ll never have a normal life or a normal relationship or—”

“Luc, stop it. I work in publishing, I can spot articulate guff a mile away.”

“It’s how I feel, though. And he must have seen it, and now the whole world can too.” I pressed my cheek against the wall, hoping the chill would help somehow. “It’s not just a picture of me getting off or throwing up. It’s…Miles all over again.”

“It’s not at all like Miles. This is someone who met you for five seconds and decided to use your name to sell a completely generic article about nothing in particular. Besides, you only need that many classical allusions if you have a very tiny penis.”

I gave a weird hiccoughy laugh. “Thanks for that. Here, I thought I was having a crisis, but it turned out all I was looking for was an opportunity to insult a stranger’s dick.”