He’d tried celibacy. The only problem was the lack of sex. After a couple of months you’d settle for anything and find yourself being sucked off behind a large shrub at the top of the heath, which was fine until you came, and the fairy dust evaporated and you realized Prince Charming had a lisp and a weird mole on his ear. And there were Sunday evenings when reading a book was like pulling teeth, so you ate a tin of sweetened condensed milk with a spoon in front of French and Saunders and something toxic seeped under the sash windows and you began to wonder what in God’s name the point of it all was.

He didn’t want much. Companionship. Shared interests. A bit of space.

The problem was that no one else knew what they wanted.

He’d managed three half-decent relationships since Daniel. But something always changed after six months, after a year. They wanted more. Or less. Nicholas thought they should spice up their love life by sleeping with other people. Steven thought he should move in. With his cats. And Olly slid into a deep depression after his father died so that Jamie turned from a partner into some kind of social worker.

Fast-forward six years and he and Shona were in the pub after work when she said that she was going to try and fix him up with a cute builder who was decorating the Prince’s Avenue flats. But she was drunk and Jamie couldn’t imagine how Shona, of all people, had correctly ascertained the sexual orientation of a working-class person. So he forgot about the conversation completely until they were over in Muswell Hill, and Jamie was doing a walk-through, zapping the interior measurements and having a vague sexual fantasy about the guy painting the kitchen when Shona came in and said, “Tony, this is Jamie. Jamie, this is Tony,” and Tony turned round and smiled and Jamie realized that Shona was, in truth, a wiser old bird than he’d given her credit for.

She slipped away and he and Tony talked about property development and cycling and Tunisia, with a glancing reference to the ponds on the heath to make absolutely sure they were singing from the same hymn sheet and Tony pulled a printed business card from his back pocket and said, “If you ever need anything…” which Jamie did, very much.

He waited a couple of nights so as not to seem desperate, then met him for a drink in Highgate. Tony told a story about bathing naked with friends off Studland and how they had to empty wastebins and turn the black bags into rudimentary kilts to hitch back to Poole after their clothes were nicked. And Jamie explained how he reread The Lord of the Rings every year. But it felt right. The difference. Like two interlocking pieces of jigsaw.

After an Indian meal they went back to Jamie’s flat and Tony did at least two things to him on the sofa that no one had ever done to him before then came back and did them again the following evening, and suddenly life became very good indeed.

It made him uncomfortable, being dragged along to Chelsea matches. It made him uncomfortable, ringing in sick so they could fly to Edinburgh for a long weekend. But Jamie needed someone who made him uncomfortable. Because getting too comfortable was the thin end of a wedge whose thick end involved him turning into his father.

And, of course, if a banister broke or the kitchen needed a new coat of paint, well, that made up for the Clash at high volume and work boots in the sink.

They had arguments. You couldn’t spend a day in Tony’s company without an argument. But Tony thought they were all part of the fun of human relationships. Tony also liked sex as a way of making up afterward. In fact, Jamie sometimes wondered whether Tony only started arguments so they could make up afterward. But the sex was too good to complain.

And now they were at one another’s throats over a wedding. A wedding that had bugger all to do with Tony and, to be honest, not a lot to do with Jamie.

There was a crick in his neck.

He lifted his head and realized that he’d been leaning his forehead on the steering wheel for the last five minutes.

He got out of the car. Tony was right. He couldn’t make Katie change her mind. It was guilt, really. Not having been there to listen.

There was no use worrying about that now. He had to make amends. Then he could stop feeling guilty.

Fuck. He should have bought cake.

It didn’t matter. Cake wasn’t really the point.

Half past two. They’d have the rest of the afternoon before Ray got home. Tea. Chat. Piggybacks and airplanes for Jacob. If they were lucky he’d take a nap and they could have a decent talk.

He walked up the path and rang the bell.

The door opened and he found the hallway blocked by Ray wearing paint-spattered overalls and holding some kind of electric drill.

“So, that’s two of us taking the day off,” said Ray. “Gas leak at the office.” He held up the drill and pressed the button so that it whizzed a bit. “You heard the news, then.”

“I did.” Jamie nodded. “Congratulations.”

Congratulations?

Ray extended a beefy paw and Jamie found his own hand sucked into its gravitational field.

“That’s a relief,” said Ray. “Thought you might’ve come to punch my lights out.”

Jamie managed a laugh. “It wouldn’t be much of a fight, would it.”

“No.” Ray’s laughter was louder and more relaxed. “You coming in?”

“Sure. Is Katie around?”

“Sainsbury’s. With Jacob. I’m fixing stuff. Should be back in half an hour.”

Before Jamie could think of an appointment he might have been en route to Ray closed the door behind him. “Have a cup of coffee while I stick the door back on this cupboard.”

“I’d prefer tea, if that’s OK,” said Jamie. The word tea did not sound manly.

“I reckon we can do tea.”

Jamie sat himself down at the kitchen table feeling not unlike he had felt in the back of that Cessna before the ill-fated parachute jump.

“Glad you came.” Ray put the drill down and washed his hands. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

A horrifying image came to mind of Ray patiently soaking up the hate waves over the past eight months, waiting for the moment when he and Jamie were finally alone together.

He put the kettle on, leant against the sink, pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets and stared at the floor. “Do you reckon I should marry Katie?”

Jamie wasn’t sure he’d heard this correctly. And there were certain questions you just didn’t answer in case you’d got the wrong end of a very big stick (Neil Turley in the showers after football that summer, for example).

“You know her better than me.” Ray had the look on his face that Katie had at eight when she was trying to bend spoons with mind power. “Do you…? I mean, this is going to sound bloody stupid, but do you think she actually loves me?”

This question Jamie heard with horrible clarity. He was now sitting at the door of the Cessna with four thousand feet of nothing between his feet and Hertfordshire. In five seconds he’d be dropping like a stone, passing out and filling his helmet with sick.

Ray looked up. There was a silence in the kitchen like the silence in an isolated barn in a horror film.

Deep breath. Tell the truth. Be polite. Take Ray’s feelings into consideration. Deal with the shit. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Katie and I haven’t talked that much over the last year. I’ve been busy, she’s been spending time with you…” He trailed off.

Ray seemed to have shrunk to the size of an entirely normal human being. “She gets so bloody angry.”

Jamie badly wanted the tea, if only for something to hold.

“I mean, I get angry,” said Ray. He put tea bags into two mugs and poured the water. “Tell me about it. But Katie…”

“I know,” said Jamie.

Was Ray listening? It was hard to tell. Perhaps he just needed someone to aim the words at.

“It’s like this black cloud,” said Ray.