‘Sorry, Mike,’ she says, looking embarrassed, like she’s done the wrong thing and I’m calling her out on it.

‘No, you don’t have to be sorry. You care. You’re my friend and I know you want to ask me that and I know you want me to tell you I’m fine – you want me to be OK. But being OK makes me wonder if the hurt is getting less. And if the hurt is getting less does that mean that I’m forgetting? Am I dishonouring her somehow? I think my “fine” has forever been altered, all of ours has. We’re all just very good at plastering over the cracks and making ourselves presentable so that we don’t fall into a million pieces or self combust.’

‘I hear you,’ she exhales as we fall back into a silence.

‘Isn’t the view stunning,’ I say, breathing it in and wondering what Pia would’ve made of our choice of adventure.

I wish she were here with every inch of my heart.

Vicky leans over and gives my shoulder a tight squeeze. Then she stands and strolls towards her day bag, busying herself with repacking it, replenishing her ‘sweet pocket’ and getting more water.

‘Has she been mothering you?’ Zaza whispers, having returned from her loo trip with a relieved look on her face, attempting to stuff her toiletry bag back inside her day bag.

I shrug in response, needing to take a moment. ‘She’s just trying to do what she does best – care.’

‘All right, don’t make me feel bad,’ Zaza says, looking over to our friend.

I often wonder if we would’ve ended up as mates had we not gone into a flat-share together. Despite Zaza’s observations on Vicky mothering me, they both do it, though in very different ways. Yes, Vicky is in your face, always wanting to know you know she’s there whenever you might need her and fretting about ‘getting it right’, but Za has been just as present. Her relaxed approach does make her easier to be with sometimes. Where Vicky’s emotions are like a tap and ready to pour at any given moment, Za has always been more controlled with hers, unless she’s hungry, tired or hungover. I often wonder if her stoic attitude is just a piece of armour she’s scared to remove, but who am I to say anything about anyone doing what they have to in order to keep it together.

‘Well done for surviving your first Portaloo wee,’ I say, nudging her knee.