Minty has crawled onto Jesse’s lap and is purring away. Minty doesn’t normally like men, she once perched on Tristan’s lap, and we all exclaimed and thought she was finally accepting him, and he leaned his face down near her, and she took the opportunity to bite his nose so hard it bled. He always stood a good metre away from her after that, and if she leaped up on the couch, he would stand up and pretend he needed to get a drink of water or go to the bathroom. But, now, seeing Minty happily kneading her claws into Jesse’s leg and curling up in a ball pushes me over the edge.

‘Fine,’ I say, and I click the file open and slide the laptop towards him. I feel sick immediately. Letting him read my story—my bad story, my rejected pile-of-shit story—is somehow more emotionally exposing than kissing him.

I go into the kitchen, and then quickly run back.

‘It’s just a messy first draft.’

‘I know,’ he nods.

‘I want complete honesty,’ I say, pointing at him aggressively.

‘I will give you complete honesty,’ he says.

I walk out of the room, and then straight back in again.

‘But don’t be mean though. Nothing too critical. I’m too creatively fragile.’

‘Total honesty, but nothing critical. Got it,’ he says, smiling. Is this a joke to him? He has to walk a line so fine that the slightest misstep could ruin my entire future career and deprive a whole generation of my brilliant novels, if I ever write one.

‘This is a bad idea,’ I say, gripping the top of the laptop and thinking about pulling it away from him.

‘It’s not,’ he says, putting his hand over mine, and looking up at me. ‘Go and make some cups of tea or something.’

I swallow, and slip my hand out from under his.

I fuss in the kitchen, looking for Nanna’s stash of biscuits. She always has the old-school Arnotts family assorted pack, and I open it and lay a selection of biscuits on a plate. This is kind of a psychological challenge. Whichever biscuit he chooses will reveal something about him.

I carry in cups of tea and the plate of biscuits.

‘Well?’ I say, looking at his face.

He’s frowning slightly. Maybe in concentration. Maybe in horror at the awfulness of my writing.

‘I haven’t finished yet,’ he says, reaching for the teddy-bear biscuit. An acceptable choice. Teddy-bear biscuit eaters are usually laid-back outdoorsy types. I pick up a Scotch finger, and dunk it in my tea, still watching him, waiting for the slightest micro change in expression.

‘Okay,’ he says, sitting back. ‘I’m done.’

‘Well?’ I say.

‘You’re a really good writer.’ He smiles at me. ‘Really, really good. Professional good. A natural. But you already knew I thought that.’