The problem with Jimmy is that he’s too comfortable and it’s made him a coward. His parents are nice, his family life was stable, loving and safe. He grew up knowing smart people, influential people who made him feel like he would be able to do anything he wanted in the world. He had amazing holidays, speaks fluent German and plays two instruments. All of this equipped him to go out and be king of whatever world he wanted. But it also made him scared to go anywhere else, because where else in the world could he be as confident and established? All of those advantages, all of that privilege and all Jimmy wants to do is live two roads away from his mum and dad and live exactly as they did. And yet, I am tied to him. His familiarity, his smell, his arms which have just enough strength to make me feel safe. It’s ridiculous and clichéd and I hate that I feel it. But I do. I’ve not known anyone as long as I’ve known Jim. I’ve not tolerated anyone else like I’ve tolerated him. And because he’s patient and kind, I let myself rely on him, let him know me （most of me）， and draw on that old bond which has remained constant. I’ve never told him about who my father really is, preferring to keep the sides of my life completely separate. But apart from that, he knows me in a way that nobody else ever has nor ever will. And if he doesn’t want to be some kind of king of the world, then I’ll surge forward myself and learn to be content just to let him be by my side as I go. He used to stroke my arm as I fell asleep, knowing I would get anxious when the day came to an end. He’d lie by my side and trace the freckles on my arm. ‘You’re so smooth, Gray. Smoooo-oothe!’ he’d sing, to the tune of a song we loved. Then I’d be able to sleep.
Simone has her own gallery now. She married a well-known playwright and they have a Doberman, which feels like the height of arrogance when living in a city that really can only accommodate Chihuahuas. I know this because when Jimmy gets drunk he loads up her Instagram and thrusts his phone in my face, trying to show that he’s happy for her while also asking me whether the V-neck T-shirt her husband is wearing makes him look like a twat.
Six months after Simone left for New York and Jimmy moved around the corner from his parents, he met someone else. I’d like to say that he shook off some of his cowardice after the breakup and met her whilst on a three-day bender in some ungentrified corner of South London, but he didn’t, because he rarely leaves North London at all now except for the odd book launch. He met her at a supper party at his godfather’s house in Notting Hill. Horace is some kind of hotshot QC （he put me on to Thorpe, so I guess I’m just as guilty as Jimmy when it comes to celebrating the middle-class connections that his parents gave us） and holds monthly dinners where he invites ‘interesting young people’ to come and talk about world events. I have never been invited to one of these hideous sounding salons. I have squared this in my mind by reminding myself that Horace is a stuffy old snob and also by taking ￡50 out of his wallet the last time I saw him at the Latimers.
I didn’t see Jimmy for a few weeks after the dinner, because I had bigger things on my mind at that point. I’d just sent Bryony packing – more on this later – and was veering between exaltation at my progress and frustration at failing to come up with a workable way to get to Simon. The whole process had meant I’d not had much time for Jimmy. It was too hard to talk to my closest friend while I was in the middle of it all without being able to talk about even the smallest aspect of my activities. I should have known something was up though, because his texts had petered off until there had been radio silence for eight days. And then he turned up at my flat one Saturday morning unannounced with coffee and croissants. There is nothing that screams ‘I have news’ quite like ringing someone’s doorbell without texting first. It’s so self-absorbed that the only excuses would be to inform you of a terrible accident or to bang on about a new love affair. Since I knew from his face that his mother hadn’t died in a hideous jet-ski accident, the only real alternative was some new woman. As a result, I tortured him slightly by not asking anything and instead talking endlessly about plans I had for renovating my kitchen. I had no plans to renovate my kitchen. I lived in this flat precisely because it was completely serviceable, and thank God, because people who talk about remodelling plans are insufferable.
Eventually, just as I got going with a particularly monotonous soliloquy about drawer handles, he’d cracked and told me all about Caro. Caro Morton was a young barrister, working at Horace’s chambers. They’d been sat next to each other at the grim ideas dinner and Jimmy was, he insisted, set on her within minutes. They’d been on several dates in the weeks since, and discussed moving in together already. Caro, it emerged, was not a woman who played it cool and pretended that she wasn’t looking for commitment.