‘Well, it’s still all Hudson Media, I think.’ I wish I had a story to shut him up with. Sam likes to position himself as the fount of all media gossip. It’s very, very irritating. I yawn, stretch and wiggle, relishing the soft, warm cotton beneath me, the mattress stretching above and below me, endless, a happy horizon of memory foam. The one at home can’t accommodate my head and heels at the same time. Sam Strong looks at me with some alarm. ‘I’ve got to go out, this artisanal gin awards thing. You’re welcome to stay the night…’

‘Great, thanks. Will do!’

I have designs on his power shower, the Aesop soap, the drinks trolley, any edible delights his cupboards might yield. Netflix on his big TV, not my crappy old laptop. Sleep.

‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back…if I’ll be back. My sister is in town, so…’

Ah, the sister, a sexual Bunbury, a suspected invention, a mythical woman evoked to ensure that Sam Strong never has to be entirely honest about the whereabouts of his penis.

‘Cool, cool. Well, I can let myself out in the morning.’ Hurry up and go already.

Sam Strong takes his time, waffling away about the celebrities he expects to encounter (maybe Sienna, possibly Cate, definitely the woman from Love Island who became famous for coining the expression ‘nipple o’clock’.) He makes me pick a shirt for him, and I eschew an ink dark, velvety navy in favour of a pale, sickly green that makes him look like he’s off to his job at the prison morgue. Eventually he leaves, and I spend thirty seconds nursing an existential crisis, wondering why I’m here, and why I keep coming back. Then I look at the fridge again, crack open a beer and remember. My options are limited. I could be at Sam’s, or sitting at home in my room, where the energy-saving bulb acts as a light-sucking black hole, and I can’t see my hand in front of my face, all the better to tolerate the squalor. There’s sitting at home in front of the TV, where Gemma will provide an unsolicited audio description of everything including the adverts, and shout at me for making too much noise if I cough or cross my legs. There’s the vagaries of Tinder, et cetera, and buying bad wine I can’t really afford, while someone I don’t fancy tells me about their obsessive passion for bukkake, or sky-diving. Sam Strong is awful, but at least he is dependably awful. He doesn’t treat me any more terribly than anyone else I know. Apart from Jen, who has been a neglectful friend today. But Jen doesn’t have an apartment like this.

I call her again, ruminating my way through the rings, rehearsing a passive aggressive voicemail, and I’m taken aback when she picks up.