‘I did nothing wrong! There was a contract dispute between BigSky and the orchestra over sponsorship terms. It was going on for months. The police think BigSky paid me to be with Mel. They think the Russian patron is me and that I slipped up and used my own money for the higher suite, that all the time I was trying to undermine her career and the orchestra. They think that I was involved in her death but none of that is true. None of it, Charlie.’

‘How would that even work?’ If I focus on the facts, I won’t get upset, right?

He shrugs elaborately.

‘The police think BigSky are harassing Mel in her dreams, trying to send a message to the orchestra by intimidation. The Pilates studio where I met Mel is owned by somebody who is connected to BigSky, so the police think this means I work for them.’

‘Harassing her in her sleep – so this really is a thing? There are other dreamhackers, not just me, and people know about it?’

‘Again, I do not know, Charlie. But it’s BigSky. They work in these technologies, they do business with everybody. You must draw your own conclusions. All I know is, I have never taken anything from BigSky. I am not a materialistic person, I cannot be bought. For the love of god, everything I own is in this bag!’

He’s getting agitated, waving his arms around, showing me the discount-brand sports bag that holds all his worldly possessions minus four condoms, but I’m still thinking.

‘But so . . . are they saying you whispered in her ear at night, made her doubt herself, made her anxious . . . how?’

‘They are painting me to be the villain. And I brought you in, that was my big mistake – no offence, Charlie – but it looks like I was using you to hurt her. But I would never harm Mel. Or any person I was with. It’s not how I was brought up. It’s not the code of how I live—’

‘Wait, Antonio. They really think I’m involved? On purpose? But they didn’t arrest me.’

‘They don’t have to. They will watch you. They are watching us now. Charlie, I am sorry.’

We stand there silently, both of us staring at the ground. In my peripheral vision I check for CCTV cameras. Stupid. It’s an airport; they are everywhere. Antonio has just implicated me in his getaway, and I’m standing here as if that’s fine with me because he’s cute and sexually satisfying. I am a dick.

‘Happy yoga, then,’ I say weakly.

Antonio throws his arms around me, bites my neck, ruffles my hair, kisses both cheeks. I’m trembling and my armpits are damp, and I yawn out of pure stress.

‘I’m so grateful for your friendship,’ he says. ‘I wish I were not such a coward.’