‘So what are you going to do, my friend?’

‘I, my friend –’ Damian put his hand on Lars’s shoulder – ‘am going to take a little holiday. She’s not the only one with prospects out West, you know. SKOL!’ He raised his whiskey at his enormous friend.

‘Skol.’

Lars had never said the word so quietly. Partly because he was so worried about Damian, but partly as his hangover was threatening to kill him. He had pains all around his back (liver and kidneys, he assumed) and would have gladly gone home to lick his wounds had his friend not needed him so badly.

Damian got up to go to the bar again.

‘Same again?’

Lars nodded, resigned to his alcoholic fate. His phone rang, and as he picked it up, he saw that it was Poppy. Glancing over at Damian, who was ineptly trying to chat up the barmaid, he walked outside, gesturing that he was going to have a fag.

‘Yes?’

‘Lars? Are you with Damian? I can’t get hold of him, and I think he thinks I’ve done something awful, but I haven’t … I haven’t …’ She sounded as if she was crying, and Lars, ever the gentleman, felt his loyalties dividing again.

‘He’s not happy about the photos, Poppy. Why did you go with that dickhead you broke his heart with last year? Whatever happened, you cannot deny the photos …’

‘Oh, fuck, I know. Oh, Lars, I can’t explain. I thought Ben had saved me from being killed, then I realized it was only a fucking crucifix, and then I won the award, and it was all so exciting, and Marty told me I had to go to the party, and then Ben told me he was in love with a mutual friend of ours, and I-I suppose I just didn’t think …’ Her voice trailed off miserably. ‘But I love my husband so much. Pleeeease tell him? I didn’t do anything wrong, I promise …’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Lars marched back into the bar, full of goodwill, holding his phone up to Damian. ‘It’s your wife, and she needs to talk to you.’

Damian – maddened by anger, hurt, jealousy, booze, the idea of being cuckolded, yet again, and pretty much everything else that a man can be maddened by – grabbed Lars’s phone and shouted into it.

‘Just fuck off, you whore. I never want to see you again.’ Then he smashed the phone onto the bar, smashing and smashing the device to smithereens.

‘That was my phone, asshole.’

‘Oh, fuck, Lars, mate. Oh, I’m so sorry.’ And Damian started weeping copiously once more, sobbing and sobbing against the bar. People around were looking on with some interest, but not as much as one might imagine – after all the recent job losses, scenes like this had become pretty commonplace in these parts.

‘Luckily for you, I have a back-up phone, and insurance,’ said Lars, steering Damian back towards their table. ‘I think we need another drink, yes? For tomorrow is another day, my friend.’