‘Yes. They’re excellent at research.’

‘I only really write about my life.’

‘But that takes the most research. In your mind. I really loved your piece about co-habiting with women. Ignore the haters, that’s all I can say. I thought it was great.’

‘What haters?’

‘The comments.’

I swallow. ‘Below-the-line is my cardio,’ I say, weakly.

I look around the bar. On the chalkboard menu is a dish that makes me sad whenever I see it: Squid cooked in its own ink. It strikes me as callous to serve up an animal in its own defence mechanism. I take a picture and post it, with the caption:

Talk about kicking a cephalopod when it’s down #THESQUIDSARENTALLRIGHT

I’ve barely posted it when Mia motions me towards her. ‘Where is he?’ she says. ‘Art?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Does it matter all that much?’

‘Yes it does, actually,’ Mia says. ‘I want to offer him a job, if he isn’t too busy.’

‘A job?’

‘We need another house photographer.’

‘I thought it was company policy to only employ women.’

‘We also need to think about our profile. Feminism will understand. Besides, we’d be fools not to capitalise on our unique access. And if there’s one thing feminism hates more than the patriarchy, it’s fools.’

She looks at me. I drink some more of my drink and take a breath.

‘Art might not make it,’ I say, ‘because even though we do still hang out together a lot of evenings we are not super officially together-together any more if you know what I mean.’

Mia looks at me. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘We are together in every way apart from the technical way.’

‘Technical way?’

‘It’s an intense modern friendship.’

‘What?’

‘We broke up.’

‘Oh dear god! Why?’

‘It was very amicable. Zero animosity. No one did anything bad to anyone. That’s why we’re still able to be close.’

Mia stares at me. She doesn’t believe me, that much is evident.

She says, ‘You must be devastated.’

‘No really, I’m not.’

‘It was seven years!’

‘But I look on it as the perfect length, really. Relationships should not be judged by their continuation but by their quality. Also, why do things have to last forever in order to be deemed a “success”? Things can come to an end and not have failed. My relationship with Art was a complete success. But it had a sell-by date. And now it’s over.’

‘Good lord! You’re a gibbering mess!’

Someone comes over to talk to Mia and I stand there, useless, tensely curled, like a prawn, as my mother would say. I get out my phone and check my likes. One hundred and counting. I should get back to doing the animal ones more often. I could borrow a cat for a day.

Mia is talking about me to the person she is with. ‘Devastated,’ she is saying. ‘Dev-a-stated.’