Greg and Minnie were having breakfast in Greg’s Islington flat. After dinner with her parents, Minnie had gone back to Greg’s for the night. He’d been busy most of the weekend with a deadline for an article on offshore fishing titled, ‘Mussel-ing in on Salmon Else’s Water; This Whaley Needs to Stop’. Sometimes Minnie wondered whether Greg didn’t just think up titles first and then decide what news needed writing. She didn’t know if he was still sulking about New Year’s Eve, but when she’d turned up on his doorstep he’d given her a much-needed hug.

Greg asked her not to go into the details of why she was upset last night, he found it hard to sleep after ‘emotional downloads’ from other people. So they’d gone straight to bed and now, over breakfast, she was explaining the bleak situation the business was in.

‘Leila hasn’t done anything wrong,’ Minnie said. She was perched on the bar stool at Greg’s narrow kitchen counter brushing her wet hair after a shower. ‘We’ve probably only survived as long as we have because of her.’

‘I don’t agree. You were in charge of cooking – you delivered. She was in charge of funding and finance – she’s the one who failed.’ Greg reached out and took the brush from her hand. ‘Please don’t do that in the kitchen. I find your hair everywhere.’

Minnie shook her head. She felt a vertical line crease between her eyebrows.

‘You’re not being very helpful, Greg. It’s not Leila’s fault. We were doing fine, we’re just being suffocated by loan repayments.’

‘Not that well if you’re calling around to borrow cars at the last minute.’

‘And it’s so nice to know I can rely on you in an emergency.’

‘Everything’s an emergency, Min. Life’s an emergency. Do you know how many fish there are left in the sea? That’s a fucking emergency. We’re going to have to stop using the expression “plenty more fish in the sea”, because it’s factually inaccurate.’

Greg took his glasses off and pulled a lens wipe from the kitchen drawer. Minnie sat watching him. It had been comforting to see him last night, to cushion herself in his familiar bed, his familiar body and his familiar smell. This morning, nothing about Greg felt comforting or familiar; he felt alien and unknowable. As he cleaned his lenses she realised he’d hardly looked at her, barely made eye contact over breakfast, yet he was examining his lens with such fastidious attention. She stared straight at him, willing him to look up and really see her.

‘Anyway, all you need is a rich benefactor, or go back to working in restaurants like most chefs.’

He turned to his coffee machine and started sifting through the different-coloured capsules in the metal basket next to it.