Angus was my flatmate. And if people thought I was weird, then Angus was a one-man what-the-fuck show. Maybe that was why we lived together so well. In three years, there’d never been one issue between us. He worked as a painter, and I think all those fumes had left some irreparable damage because he was dopey as fuck. But he paid his rent, his share of the utilities, bought his own food, didn’t eat mine, and he respected boundaries. He was also a shameless bisexual flirt but was so bad at it and so clueless about it that it was almost sad, in a Shakespearean Comedy of Errors kind of way. The easiest way to describe him was as Hugh Grant’s flatmate in Notting Hill, only Australian instead of Welsh, because everyone replied with “Oh” and a smile and a nod. And it was a true and fair comparison. They looked nothing alike but were still basically the same, and he would even sometimes parade the flat in his tighty-whities while he was waiting on something in the dryer. He’d once harboured great fondness for Merry, in a futile attempt at wooing her. She’d explained to him she was a lesbian, and he said that was perfect because he was bisexual, and she’d then had to explain that wasn’t how any of that worked at all. I’d almost needed to draw Angus a diagram to clarify that one, and in the end, I still don’t think he understood. So, and this was said with great affection, he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. But, he was polite and kind and had the biggest heart in the world, and he was possibly one of the greatest guys I’d ever met. I’d even probably call him one of my best friends. I didn’t have many, so that was quite a statement.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Should we see if he wants some pizza?” Merry asked.

“I think it’s safe to assume that’d be a yes.”

So, two wood-fired pizzas later, we went back to my flat and met a very enthusiastic and grateful Angus. He was bingeing Orange is the New Black on Netflix, so we joined him on the floor, ate pizza, drank a few beers, and I tried really hard to forget my night.

“You’ll never guess who was running the meeting,” Merry said, throwing me holus-bolus under the bus.

I groaned and Angus’ whole face brightened. “Joel Edgerton!”

“What?” Merry asked, somewhat startled. “No. It wasn’t Joel Edgerton.”

He tried again. “Clover Moore.”

Merry squinted at him, then obviously remembered how she phrased it. She’d asked him to guess. “No,” she said. “The Mayor of Sydney was busy. It was Jordan’s Headphones Guy. You know, the guy on the bus that he’s mooned over for six months?”

Angus slow-turned to me, with a comically surprised expression. “Nooooo.”