‘I wish you’d told me,’ I say in the end.

‘Oh dear,’ says Michael. ‘There’s been so much to do. And, you know, you haven’t really been around much. And when you are … well, I don’t like to interrupt when you’re entertaining.’

‘You should have said something.’ I realise how stupid this sounds as I’m saying it.

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ says Michael. ‘Now, these boxes.’

I stand up, suddenly feeling that I’m going to cry. ‘I’ll come down for them later,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to unpack first.’

‘And I’ve got to pack,’ he says, seeing me out. ‘Funny old world, isn’t it?’

I need distraction, because what Michael has just told me is making me feel very anxious indeed, and so I phone Jonathan and propose lunch. We used to have great long boozy weekend lunches, then teeter around the West End doing a bit of shopping, usually ending up in a bar or two or three. It’s exactly what I need right now. I need to tell him about Stuart and the holiday, and about Michael. Jonathan is supposed to be my best friend, and whatever his shortcomings, I need a best friend at the moment.

We meet up in Old Compton Street, the usual launch pad for these space shots, and at first I don’t recognise Jonathan, he’s leaning against a wall with his hood up, thinner than I’ve ever seen him, his legs in tight black trousers like spent matchsticks, his head nodding to music in his earphones. He’s grown a scrappy little beard and he’s wearing shades. He looks exactly like the other drug dealers that haunt the street.

I have to go right up to him and peer into his hood before he recognises me. But instead of smiling and taking out the earphones and pulling down the hood and removing the shades, he grabs me by the arm and marches me down the street towards Soho Square. He doesn’t stop till we’re in the park. Then, finally, he unmasks a little.

‘Have you got any money, Robbie?’

‘What? Lovely to see you too.’

‘I need money.’

I’ve got some money, because I’ve just been to the cash point, but I’m not sure how much he has in mind.

‘Are you in trouble, Jonathan?’

‘No …’ He’s looking around nervously, as if enemies might be hiding behind the trees.

‘What do you need this money for?’

‘I just owe someone a few quid, that’s all,’ he says, bad tempered.

‘Well you owe me a few quid if it comes to that,’ I say, ‘but you’ve never seemed quite this eager to pay me back.’

He sticks his hands into his trouser pockets, which isn’t easy, they’re so tight, and looks around the square.

‘How much is it, Jonathan?’

‘It’s not that bad … God, I mean it’s not like you’re my mother.’

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred.’ He mumbles.

‘Five hundred? Fuck. What happened? Did Selfridges change their returns policy?’

‘It’s not funny, Robbie. I’m in trouble.’