Muz also told me that O uses cutting-edge biofeedback systems to fight the cancer that has spread to her bones, in addition to the more usual immunotherapies. That’s why now, when O stretches and yawns and says, ‘I have outdone myself. Sorry about the mess,’ I wave my hand theatrically and say, ‘Oh, pfft. I’ll have the butler tell the housekeeper to tell the maid to polish all the door handles tout de suite.’

Then she says, ‘Antonio called.’

I try to keep my tone casual. ‘Yeah, he left me a message.’

‘He said he was calling to book an appointment. He wanted to Spacetime you but I played guard dog.’

‘You disapprove. I get it.’

I’m sure she’s right, though. Antonio unexpectedly popping up in my augmented reality would probably have proven a little too . . . augmented for my own good right now.

‘I don’t know this person, Charlie. I only know what you tell me.’

‘Oh, you mean his schlong.’

‘I wasn’t necessarily referring to anatomical details.’

‘Details? A tool like that is not a mere detail, trust me. It’s too big for condoms.’

‘Indeed.’ She is so dry.

‘I bought some XXXL ones online, I think they were made for porn stars. But Antonio broke two of those just trying to put them on, and when we finally managed to fit one he said it acted like a cock ring at the base and he’d never be able to get his erection down. Then he complained about loss of sensation and said, I am physical, everything I do has to be the best or it’s not worth doing! He was such a diva about it.’

‘At which point you walked away, obviously.’

I make a face at her. ‘You know I didn’t. I was an idiot. I got the implant, gained the better part of a stone and started crying over dog-food adverts. Then he dumped me for not being the same fun person I was when we met. All because he’s so “physical”.’

I realise that I’m becoming sexually aroused just thinking about him. O clears her throat.

‘And . . . ?’ Clearly she’s waiting for me to recall the moral of the story.

‘Oh. And I learned an important lesson about my boundaries and how not to be a doormat.’

‘Good. That is all, then.’

O throws off the afghan and begins the slow process of getting into her wheelchair. I check my messages, trying to be discreet and not watch as she positions her legs and rearranges her robe. She’s been working too hard, that’s for sure. But if I say anything—

‘Don’t say anything, darling,’ she gasps as she begins to wheel herself to her room.

‘Not. Saying. Anything. Up to you if you want to blow yourself out. Your funeral, et cetera’

‘Start writing my eulogy now so I can check your syntax before I pop off.’

I wait until her light’s out, then open the windows to let in fresh air, plump the sofa pillows, put the room more or less to rights before I go, at last, to my own bed in the little second bedroom. My old schoolmates have proper jobs in sensible towns that aren’t London. They are getting engaged and going to Cambodia on holiday, and I live with an old lady whose other best friends are pigeons. Most of my current friends are anxious people I met on the Internet because my ASMR helps them go to sleep. And nowadays you may as well call me a sex worker for all I try and pretend otherwise.