‘Chloe. You’ve come here to have a go at me, so just get on with it.’

He takes another biscuit and eats it whole. A large crumb sits on his pale pink upper lip. Come to think of it, Fergus Douglas has never looked so dishevelled.

‘I’m just waiting for Beth,’ I tell him. ‘I’m here to crash.’

‘Crash?’

‘Yeah, you know Beth’s always said the guest room’s mine whenever I need it.’

‘But Beth doesn’t live here anymore.’

I pull such a series of faces that I must look like a clown. Surely he’s having me on? Although he’d need a personality transplant to attempt that.

‘Don’t tell me she hasn’t even told you?’ he yells. The table gets the brunt of it, again.

‘Told me what?’

‘We’re getting divorced.’

‘What the—’

‘Yeah. Fuck. Been on the cards for a while but she finally moved out a few weeks ago.’

‘Fergus, come on, hun. Stop playing with me head.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Dunno. But correct me if I’m wrong, our Kit’s wedding was only last weekend. You two were like, so loved up. Gareth told youse to get a room at one point!’

He pulls a chair from beneath the table, scraping it along the tiles like nails on a chalkboard. Plonking himself down, he rubs his eyes and his neck, as if allergies have come to attack him.

‘Wasn’t real,’ he says.

‘Oh, please. You can’t fake that shit,’ I say and pull out a chair, more carefully than Fergus. I lean in, my elbows on my knees. ‘And why would you bother?’

‘Okay, look, it was real.’ His voice is robotic. ‘But it wasn’t our real, real life. At the wedding, we were nostalgic. We hadn’t seen each other for a fortnight. We agreed to show up and have a nice time. And we used it to say a final goodbye.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘Why not? Surely you’ve noticed how toxic we’ve been. For years, Chloe. Years!’

‘Yeah, maybe. But I thought that was what made you both, I dunno, tick?’

‘Nobody wants to live like that.’

‘’Course not, but Beth’s never said anything to me about—’

‘Beth’s been trying to talk to you for months. Longer.’

‘No she hasn’t.’

Fergus stands up to get another biscuit.

‘Okay,’ he says, lightly, ‘she hasn’t.’

I don’t like how his tone has changed.

Nor do I like how I never saw this coming, when it was so obvious. Oh God!

‘Where’s Beth living, then?’ I ask.

‘Staying with a friend from work, but she wants her own place.’

Ah, West Hampstead. She was telling the truth.

‘Wait,’ I stand up. ‘You thought I was here to have a go at you. To hit you. Oh, Fergus. You didn’t …’