My flat is clean these days, I protested.

An incredulous digital silence followed. Then a message popped up from Priya: Only because you don’t live there.

That was depressingly close to the truth. Keeping the flat clean by the cunning strategy of staying full-time at Oliver’s had worked remarkably well, but I’d been back for four days now and it was four days in which I had done approximately zero washing up.

HES SAD YOU ALWAYS LET THINGS SLIDE WHEN YOUR SAD

Luc must have been sad a lot.

Well, I’m sad now, I typed. Come and comfort me.

Fine. Should I bring chocolate or bleach?

I winced. Maybe both?

I’M ON MY WAY RIGH TNOW. DON’T START WITHOUT ME.

Don’t start what? I asked.

ANYTHING!!!

I made the executive decision that “anything” in this context didn’t include putting on my trousers. So I did and made a desultory start on the washing up. Except washing up reminded me of Oliver, which probably said all kinds of weird things about my habits, both in the relationship and outside of it. I just missed him. And his three different types of sponges for washing specific types of things. And the way I’d hug him from behind instead of doing the drying, and we’d both pretend it was a hundred percent affection, instead of eighty percent affection and twenty percent laziness.

Definitely not crying, I threw away my takeaway container and realised I’d thrown the fork away with it. In retrospect, that might have explained why I had so few forks.

What if I was never going to wash up with Oliver again? What if he dumped me because every time he looked at me, he saw his dead dad? And then what if every time I looked at a bottle of Fairy Liquid I saw the guy who’d dumped me for yelling at him for caring too much about what his parents thought at the exact moment one of those parents was dying of a heart attack.

The buzzer went—and, somewhat predictably, Priya stomped in.

“Where’s Bridge?” she asked.

I shrugged. “She said she was on her way right now, which means she’ll be here in about an hour.”

Slipping her army kit bag from her shoulder, Priya pulled out a bar of Dairy Milk and a bottle of Dettol antibacterial spray. “So.” She flopped down on the end of the sofa. “How fucked is your relationship?”

“Wow, I really missed your sunny, supportive disposition.”

“Fuck off, Luc. I brought beer.”

“What’s that saying? Beer, then wine, feeling fine. Beer, then antibacterial spray will ruin your day.”

She laughed and rummaged again in her bag, finally producing a four pack of whatever craft IPA she was into this week. “Seriously, though.” Flicking open the bottle opener attachment of her Swiss Army knife, she beered us both. “How fucked is it?”