“Where the shit were you on Saturday?” She hopped onto the table and glared at me. “We were supposed to be sitting in a corner judging people.”

I gave one of those I’m-pretending-not-to-be-mortified shrugs. “Showed up, bought a cocktail, got the knock-back from a pretty hipster, left in disgrace.”

“Huh.” Priya’s mouth quirked into a crooked grin. “So fairly normal evening for you.”

“I want you to know that while I do have a comeback, that’s actually completely fair.”

“Which is why I said it. Anyway, what’s this great calamity?”

“Bridget,” said James Royce-Royce, “has not yet graced us with her presence.”

Priya rolled her eyes. “That’s not a calamity. That’s business as usual.”

Since waiting for Bridge could last anything between twenty minutes and never, I spilled my guts. About the pictures, the donors, and how I was totally fucked job-wise if I didn’t get a respectable boyfriend stat.

James Royce-Royce was the first to react. “That,” he declared, “is the most outrageous transgression against all forms of decency. You’re a fundraiser for an environmental charity, not a contestant on Love Island.”

“I agree.” Gorgeous Not-Dating-Me Tom took a sip of his drink, throat working as he swallowed. “This isn’t okay on any level. It’s not my area, but you’ve got a case for an employment tribunal here.”

I gave a sad little shrug. “Maybe, but if I tank our fundraising by being too gay, then I won’t have an employer to tribune.”

“Seems like”—Priya paused to retie the rainbow lace on her Docs—“you’ve got two options. Get fired or get grafting.”

This earned her an over-the-glasses look from James Royce-Royce. “Priya, my darling, we’re trying to be emotionally supportive.”

“You’re trying to be emotionally supportive,” she said. “I’m trying to be useful.”

“Emotional support is useful, you Technicolour reprobate.”

Tom, who didn’t have the same fond memories of their bickering, sighed. “I’m sure we can be both. But I’m not sure we should be encouraging Luc to go along with this.”

“Look,” I told him, “that’s super right-on and very kind of you, but I don’t think I have a choice. So I need you all to get on board and find me a man.”

There was a worryingly long silence.

Finally Tom broke it. “Okay. If that’s what you want. But you’re going to have to narrow the field a little. What are you looking for?”

“Didn’t you hear me? A man. Any man. As long as he can wear a suit, make small talk, and not embarrass me at a fundraiser.”

“Luc, I…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I really am trying to help. But that’s a terrible attitude. I mean, what are you expecting me to do? Call up my ex and be like, Hey, Nish, great news. I’ve got a friend with incredibly low standards who wants to go out with you?”

“Well, the last time I had high standards, the guy dumped me for my best friend.”

James Royce-Royce sucked in an audible breath. And, suddenly, everyone was studiously looking in different directions.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I… Sorry. I’m a bit upset right now, and I use being a prick as a defence mechanism.”

“Not a problem.” Tom went back to his beer.

It took me a second or two to realise I wasn’t sure if he meant “not a problem because I’m not offended and don’t consider you prickish” or “not a problem you’re a prick because we’re not actually friends.” Fucking spies. And it’s not like he was wrong. I was asking a lot here.

“The thing is”—I started picking the label off the nearest bottle—“I’ve not been able to do the relationship thing for…for a while. And probably you’re all going to spend the next thirty years arguing with your partners over who gets stuck with me for Christmas. But I can’t—”

“Oh, Luc,” cried James Royce-Royce, “you’ll always be welcome at Casa de Royce-Royce.”

“Not entirely the point, but good to know.”

“Wait a minute.” Priya looked up from her boots and snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. Hire someone. I can think of at least thirty people who’d jump on the gig.”

“I can’t tell if I’m more disturbed that you’re recommending I solicit a prostitute or that you apparently already know thirty prostitutes.”

She gave me a confused look. “I was mostly thinking of out-of-work actors or performing artists, but whatever works. Though now you mention it, I think Kevin did a bit of escorting in the late 2000s, and Sven still does pro-domming on the side.”

“Wow.” I put up the world’s most sarcastic double-thumbs. “He sounds perfect. Which part of ‘trying to keep out of the tabloids’ do you not understand?”

“Oh, come on. He’s lovely. He’s a poet. They won’t find out.”

“They always find out.”

“Okay so”—Priya seemed a tad frustrated with me—“when you said a man, any man, you actually meant any man who fits into a very narrow, middle-class, and slightly heteronormative definition of acceptability.”

“Yes. I work for an obscure ecological charity. Narrow, middle-class, and slightly heteronormative is our target demographic.”

There was another lengthy silence.

“Please,” I legit begged, “you must have some friends who are neither sex workers nor too good for me.”

Then James Royce-Royce leaned in and whispered something to James Royce-Royce.

James Royce-Royce’s face lit up. “That’s a splendid idea, sugarplum. He’d be perfect. Except I think he married a chartered accountant from Neasden last July.”

James Royce-Royce looked crestfallen.

I yanked the label fully off the beer bottle and crumpled it up. “Right. My options thus far: someone who’s probably already married, thirty prostitutes, and a bloke called Nish who used to date Tom and will, therefore, see me as a bit of a comedown.”

“I didn’t mean,” said Tom slowly, “to make you think that I thought that Nish would think he was too good for you. I’d be happy to introduce you. It’s just, from his Instagram, I’m pretty sure he’s seeing someone.”

“Well, I’m fired.” I thonked my head onto the table, somewhat harder than I intended.