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you…” She shrugs.
    “Pub?” I suggest. I think I’ve earned it.
    “Feck yes.” I think that’s the most vehemently Kayla has ever agreed with me.
    “That sounds lovely,” Clyde adds.
    Tabitha shoots Clyde a look. “Help? Waiting for your offer here.”
    Clyde shrugs uncomfortably five or six times. “Well, you see, the thing is—and I do apologize for this—but I sort of, rather had a question that I wanted to ask Arthur. And you know, if it was a multiple choice issue, just pick a, b, or c, then I’d just ask him here, get it all done with and—as I’m sure you can appreciate—be more than happy to go off with you and get really stuck in to some obscure texts. But this is more of a discussion question, show your working kind of deal, and actually a public house offers an excellent forum for the topic, and so, therefore, hitherto, whatever, I was sort of
carpe
-ing the
diem
. If that makes sense.”
    Tabitha grunts, though whether it’s acknowledgment or dismissal, I can’t really tell.
    “All right then,” Felicity says. She leans forward and pecks me on the cheek. “Try not to get in a fight with any robots this time,” she says, and turns to go before she has a chance to see me blanch.
LATER, WITH PINTS UPON THE TABLE
    The Turf is a bit of a trek from the station, and usually clogged with students, but it’s still got the best atmosphere anywhere in the city, and it’s not too hard to drag Clyde and Kayla over there. We order, grab a recently vacated table, and set our pints down.
    “So,” Clyde says, with a surprising lack of preamble, “as mentioned in my earlier discussion with Tabby—”
    I cut him off by picking my pint back up, pointing it to the ceiling’s wooden beams, and downing half its contents.
    “All feckin’ right,” says Kayla. “Felicity’s away and we can do this feckin’ properly.” Her pint vanishes down her throat.
    “Oh,” says Clyde, contemplating his glass. “I, erm…” This, it seems, is not his kind of party.
    I wave him to keep talking. “No, I say. I just needed… Near-death experience today and everything.”
    Kayla scoffs. “Feckin’ pussy.”
    Clyde seems unsure how to proceed after this particular piece of color commentary. I try to smile encouragingly. Around us the press of students negotiating the narrow aisles between tables adds a sort of anonymity to the discussion.
    “OK.” Clyde licks his lips, takes a small sip, and looks at us both. “So. Rather glad Tabby isn’t here actually. That was really the
diem
I was
carpe
-ing earlier actually. Bit of a white lie to her about that, but I don’t think any harm done. At least, well, only minor twangs of the conscience. Not that this is anything nefarious, or, you know, underhand. Quite the opposite really. Just seeking some advice from knowledgeable parties, really. And, well—”
    Kayla cuts him off. “Feck her.”
    Clyde blinks then fires off three quick shrugs. “I’m sorry?”
    Kayla rolls her eyes. “You’re going to ask if we think you should start dipping your wee magic wand in her bubbling cauldron again, or some feckin’ variant of the same, and I’m saying feckin’ go for it, and feck her.”
    I always knew dating advice from Kayla would be horrible, but I never realized it would be so vile as to contain the phrase, “bubbling cauldron.”
    “Oh God,” Clyde says, burying his face in his hands. “Is it that obvious?”
    “Well—” I start.
    “Yes,” says Kayla, for whom tact is more of a foreign concept.
    “Look,” I start again, “what seems obvious to an outsider can seem far from obvious to someone stuck in the middle of a situation.”
    Clyde peers up from his fingertips. “It’s just there’s so much… stuff. I mean, we weren’t together, then we got together, but I was really an alien. Then I was resurrected as a wooden mask, and we were together. Then she thought I died, but actually I’d turned into a super-villain. And then there were copies of