In any case, Oliver was in Milton Keynes, and I was backsliding with alarming rapidity. Which meant I was actually that guy: the one who could only keep it together if he had someone to keep it together for. And, at some point, Oliver was going to come home and find me unconscious in a pile of old socks and pizza boxes, and then be all, “Not only did you destroy my relationship with my family and question the authenticity of my identity over a rainbow balloon arch but you are also a human refuse pile with less self-respect than one of those fish that spends its whole life attached to a larger fish feeding on its leftovers.” Except he’d just say a remora and assume I knew what it was. And then I’d have to say, “What’s a remora?” and he’d say, “It’s a fish, Lucien, that spends its whole life attached to a larger fish feeding on its leftovers.”

Probably I needed to stop watching The Blue Planet while angsty.

Tipping what was left of my rice into what was left of my kung po sauce, I made a glum and futile pact with myself to stop being so shit. Because nobody who had recently celebrated his thirtieth birthday—and by celebrated I mean panicked about—should be going to pieces after less than a week of having to make his own French toast. Not that I made my own French toast. Even if I’d been able to make it as well as Oliver, it wouldn’t have tasted the same without him.

Fuck, I had to do something. So I pulled out my phone and messaged the WhatsApp group—currently called Stand by Your Pan.

Help, I typed. Oliver has gone away for, like, five seconds and I am eating takeaway in my pants.

Bridge responded immediately: HOW IS OLIVER??? I EHARD ABOUT HIS DAD :(:(

Trying to talk about someone’s dead parents in all caps created tonal issues that even I was sensitive to. I think he’s okay. He’s not really talking to me.

Why, asked Priya, is there takeaway in your pants?

I’m in my pants. The takeaway is in my mouth.

If I come round to be supportive and shit, will you at least put trousers on?

HES SAD HE DOESN’T HAVE TO WAER TORUSERS IF HE’S SAD

Sorry—that was James Royce-Royce—James can’t make it because he’s at the restaurant and I can’t make it because I have to look after Baby J.

BRING JBABY J IT’LL BE CUTE. LUC CAN’T BE SAD IF THERE’S A BABY1!!!!

For someone who knew me better than anyone, sometimes Bridge didn’t know me at all.

Nobody is taking my baby boy to Luc’s flat—that was James Royce-Royce somehow texting from a professional kitchen—he’ll crawl into a pile of laundry and die.