‘Not bad, mate. Yeah. Busy. On the road a lot. Did the Fringe over the summer and it’s been non-stop since then, so yeah. Not bad. It’s been worse, yeah. You?’

‘I’m inclined to agree. Not bad. Been worse.’

Ross sips his pint and nods. Then, as if he’s suddenly found something that he’d lost, he lets out an ‘Oh,’ and asks me if I’d like a drink. I shrug, take off my cream beret.

‘Go on then.’

‘Who you with?’ he asks, tapping his card to pay for my next JD and Coke.

‘No one,’ I say, defensive, as if he’s accused me of bringing a new lover. Ross is dripping with sweat and he grabs a napkin from the bar. He’s pulling an odd expression and I can’t be sure whether that’s because he’s dabbing his face or if he’s weirded out by me being here, flying solo. ‘I had to come and see what I missed. What Jack missed.’

Ross rolls the napkin into his fist and stuffs it into his jeans pocket.

‘You’re amongst friends here,’ he says.

‘That’s kind, but not really. I don’t know anyone.’

‘Mmm. Yeah. Suppose you weren’t given the chance, were you?’

‘Nope. I appreciate you acknowledging that, Ross. It’s shit, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, mate. Totally shit. Then again, we’re a bunch of absolute tossers so maybe you made a lucky escape.’ Ross pushes his hair out the way again. ‘We’re not worth getting to know.’

The bar is quiet and most people are inside watching the next act. The blue lights make the basement mellow.

‘Boss. I’ll get a taxi now, shall I?’

‘Drink up first, mate. Cost me nearly a tenner, that.’

We cheers. I want to say, ‘To Jack!’ but it doesn’t feel organic. It was kind of Ross to buy me a drink, but he’s distracted. He’s clearly looking for company elsewhere. His agent, maybe. I swig and Ross lifts a single wave at somebody behind me. I turn to acknowledge whoever it is, too, but they’ve disappeared towards the loos. Ross continues to sweat.

‘Gah,’ he grimaces, flapping his Metallica t-shirt to create a breeze.

‘I’m guessing that’s “The Gang”, then?’ I ask, before he makes a getaway, referring to the table inside.

‘The Gang?’

‘Jack’s gang. His crew, or whatever.’

‘Ah, right. Yeah. The London lot. We’re the ones who migrated here and – for our sins – stayed. I met Jack at uni—’

‘Yeah! You shared a house in the third year and you used to cut your toenails at the kitchen table.’

‘Hey. At least I cut them, rather than rip ’em off or let them grow into hooves.’

‘You don’t deny it then?’

Ross hangs his head low. His damp curls mask his pink cheeks.