The Little Wedding Island. Jaimie Admans

he shouts. ‘You sound like a pig hunting for truffles on a whoopee cushion. Two out of ten, and one was for inventiveness!’

      I roll my eyes and thunk my head back again. He’s quiet for so long that I’m sure he’s given up this time. I’m just thinking it might be time to lie down and actually try to sleep when he speaks again.

      ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for posting the screencaps. I deleted the tweet the next day but loads of people had already RT-ed it by then. I went to DM you to apologise but you’d already blocked me. I am sorry, Bonnie, really.’

      ‘That’s not the point, is it?’

      ‘Ah-ha! So you are awake!’

      Oops. I didn’t think that one through. ‘No, I’m talking in my sleep. I’m having nightmares about you.’

      ‘Aw, don’t be like that. Can’t we start over?’

      ‘No, Rohan, we can’t because you still don’t get it. I don’t care that you posted screencaps of me calling you every name under the sun – that’s my own fault. I should’ve known better than to try to reason with a troll on Twitter. I don’t care about the argument earlier. The main issue is still the same. What you do is horrible. Other people’s weddings have nothing to do with you. You can’t publicly ridicule them just because you have a sharp tongue and a way with words.’

      ‘Firstly, if pictures are posted on the internet then they’re in the public domain, and secondly, this was a one-off. I don’t usually ridicule random weddings. Sometimes I do investigations into what divorce lawyers earn or in-depth explorations into celebrity break-ups, and my last column was about how men can win at the gift registry.’

      ‘How romantic. Most of my job is covering real weddings. It’s our most popular section of the magazine. I get to go to all these amazing weddings and interview the couples and do little write-ups about them and the venue and the dress and the flowers, and—’

      ‘And you haven’t died of boredom yet?’

      ‘It’s not boring, it’s amazing. I have the loveliest, most privileged job in the world. People let me in to their special, private days and share their love with me and our readers. And if I’m not doing that then I’m writing about bargain dresses or the best eyebrow shapes to compliment an up-do or how to DIY your own place setting cards.’

      ‘Cor. I bet paint watches you dry.’

      I shouldn’t laugh, I should be insulted, but I let out a guffaw so loud that I’ve probably woken people back on the mainland. I have to get a hold of myself. Twitter was bad enough but actually validating him when he thinks he’s being funny is much worse. ‘I spend my days trying to make people’s weddings better. You spend yours trying to destroy them. We’re complete opposites, and one of us is going to lose our job this summer, and no matter how complacent you are, it isn’t going to be me.’

      He goes quiet again and I think I’ve finally got my point across and he’s going to leave me alone now. We have nothing in common and I want nothing to do with him or his alter ego. I really don’t.

      ‘Do you like Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em?’ he says after a blissful silence.

      ‘What?’ I ask in confusion.

      ‘It’s an old show from the Seventies.’

      ‘I know what it is.’

      ‘If you put your TV on channel nine, it’s on all night. I love it. It’s an absolute classic, and this is a great episode.’

      I’m not going to. I’m going to ignore him. I know the show well enough, I don’t need to put it on now just because he likes it. Even as I’m telling myself that, my hand sneaks out towards the remote control on the nightstand.

      I settle back and get comfortable against the headboard, leaning my head on the wall, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s doing the same. It’s probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done with a guy – sat and watched a TV show together, back to back, in different rooms – but I can’t bring myself to care as I laugh at Frank Spencer getting into his usual pickles, listening to Rohan’s laughter through the wall.

      ‘We laugh at the same things,’ he calls out when the adverts come on. ‘I don’t think we’re that opposite after all.’

      ‘Oh, we are,’ I say, but from the lifeless pile where they’ve landed like rocks in my stomach, one butterfly wing twitches.