‘You know he’s invited her to go over there,’ Elise told me one day in her studio.

‘What? Is she going to?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think she knows.’ Elise took a sip of beer. We were sharing a Coopers longneck that she’d poured into glasses. She squinted at a painting that she had propped against the wall, and now, looking unhappy, she turned it the other way.

Sylvie hadn’t said yes to Charles but nor had she refused. He had argued his case, describing the scenic flights they would take together, particular routes he liked at certain times of day. Elise could picture the two of them going flying, both in old-timey goggles and hats with furry flaps. Sylvie would dress like Katharine Hepburn in the film Christopher Strong, except she wouldn’t have Hepburn’s height, and hopefully she wouldn’t fly to her death.

‘Does he want to get back with her?’ I asked.

‘Who even knows? I don’t care. She’s always at me. I’m sick of it.’

Something was up with Elise. She had started doing collage using old books and magazines, and when we flicked through the latter to read our horoscopes, she made it very clear she only wanted the good bits. She said, ‘Doom is for losers. Make it up if you have to.’ Eventually she confessed that her most recent fling had ended. The worst thing, she said, was that she kept running into her ex, who lived nearby.

‘I cry every day,’ she said, ‘but it’s getting better. I get it over with quicker. It doesn’t take me as long to stop, and then I’m like, tick, that’s done, what’s next?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘Well, how could you? Anyway, tell me how David is.’

‘Dave,’ I said.

‘Dave.’ She was sceptical. She still maintained she could pick my type. ‘Oh, is your name Dave?’ she asked with mock politeness. ‘Are you tall, intellectual and really pretentious?’

I could play that game as well. ‘Oh, are you a shaggy-haired artist or musician? Do you like to go out with girls who are way too hot for you, but also like to make them feel like they’re not good enough? Because you’d be perfect for my friend.’

Actually, I admitted then, things weren’t perfect with Dave. We had fought on the phone the night before. We’d been arguing a lot recently. He said I wasn’t any fun. That was probably true, but it was also true that he was drinking too much, staying out every night and getting recklessly messy while priding himself on his talent for hard living.

Elise said she spent most of her time alone, except when she worked at the cafe. Of an evening she was reading the novel Infinite Jest, which she acknowledged was maybe not ideal breakup reading. ‘I basically read fiction to learn about life,’ she said.

‘Okay, but was David Foster Wallace all that good at life?’