‘No. As a matter of fact, it’s Lukas.’

For a moment the name doesn’t register.

‘Don’t stand there looking like a fucking mong. Lukas.’ He shouts. ‘Lukas!’

Of course – the olive-and-brown twink who came second in Star Search. Jonathan is still obsessed, because he can’t resist an underdog, and he’s been muttering darkly about how he was prevented from winning by some homophobic conspiracy. Obviously we have no proof of this, we don’t even know that Lukas is gay, but we know he’s aggressively courting the gay audience, which is always a sign of a career in trouble.

‘Lukas,’ I say. ‘So that’s my birthday treat, is it?’

‘Well I’m going.’

‘Enjoy yourself.’ I’m angry, not because Jonathan is being selfish – he’s never anything else – but because I could have done something else to celebrate my birthday, like going to my parents’ for dinner, for instance, and seeing my sister, whom I’ve not seen for a year, but I told them I was being ‘taken out’. Now I see what a mistake that was.

Jonathan’s already forgotten it’s my birthday, and is talking to someone he seems to know on the door, presumably so he can get in without paying.

‘See you, Nathan,’ I shout, trying to sound as sarcastic as possible, but he either doesn’t hear me or does a very good job of pretending not to. I get the bus home. I’m not particularly upset. In the six years I’ve known Jonathan (or Nathan as he’s obviously about to become, Jonny and Jon-Jon as he has been in the past) this is not the first time an evening has ended this way.

Why do I bother with Jonathan? How many times have I asked myself that question? How often have I decided that enough is enough, he’s just a user, our friendship has run its course, it’s time for me to move on? And then I remind myself that a) he was the first gay person I met when I went to college, b) he helped me to come out (in fact he told me I was gay before I told him) and c) my social life isn’t so full of exciting alternatives that I can afford to cut him out. Jonathan is my best friend, my ‘sister’, more like family than family, and although he’s a constant source of irritation I could never really chuck him. I like to think that we’d do anything for each other, that we’d be ‘there for you’ as they say on Friends, although if this was actually put to the test I wouldn’t put money on the outcome. Jonathan. A fact of life, like housework, or taxes. Neither of which he ‘does’.

It’s only ten-thirty when I get home, and there’s a lot of old men coming down the stairs from the second-floor flat, the one where someone died. They seem to be quite drunk, which means they’ve been having a better time than I have, which is a bit galling as they’re at least three times my age. I can’t help noticing that a few of them give me the once-over, even though my tits and arms are now covered by the argyle sweater.