The buzzer went—and, somewhat predictably, Priya stomped in.
“Where’s Bridge?” she asked.
I shrugged. “She said she was on her way right now, which means she’ll be here in about an hour.”
Slipping her army kit bag from her shoulder, Priya pulled out a bar of Dairy Milk and a bottle of Dettol antibacterial spray. “So.” She flopped down on the end of the sofa. “How fucked is your relationship?”
“Wow, I really missed your sunny, supportive disposition.”
“Fuck off, Luc. I brought beer.”
“What’s that saying? Beer, then wine, feeling fine. Beer, then antibacterial spray will ruin your day.”
She laughed and rummaged again in her bag, finally producing a four pack of whatever craft IPA she was into this week. “Seriously, though.” Flicking open the bottle opener attachment of her Swiss Army knife, she beered us both. “How fucked is it?”
I sighed. “Honestly, I can’t tell. Oliver’s never been like this with me. But then, his dad’s never died so…who knows?”
“In other words,” Priya said, “everything’s fine and you’re just getting in your head like a wanker.”
Sitting down next to Priya, I cast her a you-have-failed-to-comfort-me look. “How have you got two girlfriends? Or, indeed, any nonzero number of girlfriends.”
“Because they like that I’m creative, low bullshit, and get them off. In my experience, that’s what women are after.”
“Good to know. Although not super relevant to me right now.”
She took a long draught of a beer with a weird name. “And—just to cover the basics—you’ve tried, like, talking to him and shit.”
“I’ve tried. But he’s not really talking to me.”
“I’ll admit that would normally be a sign because you’re in one of those annoying, mature relationships where you have to make plans and share your feelings instead of just screaming and fucking. But”— and here Priya, who was being more serious than I was used to, fortified herself with some more beer—“grief’s its own thing. He’s probably feeling a lot of mixed stuff right now, especially because, from what you’ve said, his dad was a prick.”
“You’d think,” I said, “that would make it easier. I mean, not to blow my own trumpet, but I’m kind of an expert on dads who are pricks, and when Jon Fleming finally gets prostate cancer for real, I will give zero shits.”
Priya clicked her tongue stud against her teeth. “Speaking as an artist, I don’t think anyone gets to be an expert on emotions. Your thing with your dad is your thing with your dad. Oliver’s thing with his dad is his thing with his dad, and they aren’t going to work the same.”
“Oh my God.” I stared at her in horror. “When did you start getting nuance?”
“When I stopped being twenty-one. Pay attention.” She smirked.
“Besides, I’ll have you know that the Guardian says I have a profound insight into the human condition.”
“Doesn’t the Guardian say that about everybody vaguely left-wing and artsy?” I pointed out.
To which her profound insight into the human condition enabled her to craft the eloquent rebuttal of “Fuck off.”
It was about then that the buzzer buzzed again and Bridge staggered up in a flurry of bags and apologies. “I’m really, really sorry,” she told us, unloading a bottle of ￡12.99 wine, another bar of Dairy Milk—there was a sort of unspoken code that comfort chocolate wasn’t allowed to have any distracting flavours in it—a bunch of wilted supermarket flowers, and a box of Tesco Rocket Lollies. “Also, I panic shopped. And I would have been here sooner but I was in such a hurry to get here that I jumped on a train without checking which branch it was going down and didn’t realise until I hit Bayswater.” She tore open the box of rocket lollies, fished one out, and thrust it in my face. “These are great. Try one.”
Knowing better than to spurn a rocket lolly offered in the spirit of friendship, I obediently peeled open the slightly sticky plastic wrap and began nibbling. The tip was strawberry flavoured, or rather it was that generic red flavour that coded as strawberry by default.
There was something so childish about it—brightly coloured, mildly flavoured frozen water served from a slightly soggy box—that it was, in fact, weirdly comforting. It was very hard to have a serious crisis of relationship confidence while you were sucking on a rocket lolly.