I was tipping food into Crunchie’s bowl when Kate’s key rattled in the door.

‘In the kitchen,’ I called.

‘Hi!’ Her eyes were bright. Too bright.

‘Hi…are you okay?’

‘Rachel, can we talk? I need to tell you something.’

Instantly I was alarmed.

‘That funeral on Friday? Devin’s granny’s?’

Hold on a minute here—‘Devin’s granny’s’? Surely she meant Luke’s mum’s?

‘Devin and I…’

Ah no, you’re joking. You are fucking JOKING me! ‘Devin and you, what?’

‘We…ah, yeah, we’ve been talking—’

‘ “Talking”?’ Even I knew that that was a euphemism for an entirely different kind of communication. ‘How did he contact you? No, it wasn’t a real question. And?’

‘I like him. I think he likes me.’ More euphemisms. ‘I like him’ meant they’d probably spent the entire weekend in bed. ‘I think, maybe, we might be a thing.’

‘…You’ve known him two days?’

Colour flushed her cheekbones. ‘Nothing has actually, like, happened, he lives in his mum and dad’s and I didn’t want to bring him here until you and I had spoken…Look, it’s probably nothing, just a…nothing. But it didn’t feel right that you didn’t know.’

Guilt got me. Not only was she the sweetest person I knew, she was also an adult: she owed me no explanations.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Thank you for telling me. Sorry for being weird.’

But already my head was racing ahead, going the Full Catastrophe: Kate and Devin having noisy sex in the bedroom next to mine; Kate and Devin sprawled on the couch watching Netflix, me brooding on an armchair, third-wheeling with jealous tension.

Much as I loved Kate, we could no longer share a house, not if there was a chance of bumping into Luke’s nephew on the regular, seeing him emerging bare-chested from the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around those narrow Costello hips.

It might be uncomfortable. But it’s an opportunity.

An opportunity for what?

Personal growth.

Internally, I sighed. Wretched personal growth. Always so unpleasant.

‘So, ah, tell me about Devin,’ I said, making the effort. ‘What age is he?’

Kate’s face lit up. ‘Same as me! Twenty-three. Our birthdays are only seventeen days apart, we’re practically twins!’

Oh God.

Shyly, she admitted, ‘It’s the first time since Isaac that I’ve really liked someone. And he’s in a band so he gets who I am. Except’—she pre-empted my question—‘they haven’t made it yet. So he’s got no money. Another thing we have in common.’ Her laugh was nervous and I felt shitty.

‘I’m delighted you’ve met someone.’ I was able to at least half mean it. ‘It makes no difference whose nephew he is.’