But then, he had also helped James. He’d gently nudged him on to the weight-loss course which led to him meeting Michaela. Yes, they were one of those male friendships you heard about: not spoken about much, enjoyed in a quiet sort of way, acknowledged in the occasional arch text and sneaky compliment. Eventually celebrated when James and Michaela did get married. Karl would knock the shit out of that Best Man’s Speech. He sat and watched as James ran his fingers down Michaela’s cheek. It was touching, how much he loved her. Karl hadn’t yet met anyone he could share everything with, like that. He didn’t really want to, even. He just wanted this: the warmth of connection. He shut his eyes, a broad smile on his face, and listened to the rattle of the disappearing world outside.

It wasn’t so long ago. It was hardly any time ago. Five years, just over. Karl rubbed his palms together. It felt cold. He trawled his finger down the screen to bring up James; pressed the green button, heard the dead-end message again. ‘Fuck my life,’ he muttered, and then, ‘Fuck my actual life,’ as if that would make it more definitive. His thumb flexed fast, almost unconsciously, on the screen, tumbling through his contacts, down to the name of the other person on that train: someone he thought he had moved on from, the way you had to move on from most people, in the end.

*

The marimba ringtone seemed loud and ominous in the geometric calm of the kitchen. Phillip, in his Italian dressing gown, paused at the tap where he was pouring a glass of water and gave her another ironic look of indulgence, as if she really should be over this little drama by now. This ‘little bit of unpleasantness’, her ex talking about killing himself. The marimbas continued their siren and Michaela felt herself clench.

‘Well, go to bed if you want to go to bed, Phillip.’

But Phillip, instead, went over to the recycling bin and began the long-winded process of removing the lid and then hefting it out into the corridor. As he came back into the kitchen, she could feel his eyes on her, his nostrils twitching discreetly.

‘Michaela, are you with him? With James?’

Karl’s voice was different, somehow, from how she remembered it. Maybe it was the fact he was the other side of the sea, and the one-second delay that caused; maybe it was just the passage of time, the fibres of a person which the years loosened and altered.

‘No. I mean – of course not. Are you?’

‘No, mate. Driving.’