The apartment is a confusing place these days. Being in his early twenties, I would expect Charlie to like Chase and Status, Stormzy, Billie Eilish, Charli xcx, or Taylor Swift because everyone insists that we MUST like her. It’s not that Charlie doesn’t like them, but he says that they are “too generic.” The French boy wants to be different and has declared his love for opera.

Charlie goes to operas on his own and comes back gushing. “It is the sound of the vocalists,” he says. “They have the ability to tell a story, evoke emotion, and provide sensory overload.” 

I’ve never understood the appeal of opera and remain convinced that it is a cultural art form for the elderly. Charlie tells me about the people he meets, and I decide that they must be old because young people don’t go to the opera. “I like being the youngest person in the audience and command respect.”

He told me a story about a wealthy Latvian woman who dressed in expensive furs and went to the opera on her own because it was something she did with her late husband. “Tears filled her eyes, and she insisted that I hold her hand throughout the performance.” I didn’t tell him that she was hoping for a shag.

I told Charlie that I once went to see ‘La traviata’ and because it was in Italian, I didn’t understand it, found it incredibly boring, and had stayed clear of opera since.

“That is a classic opera,” Charlie cried. “‘The fallen woman’ by Giuseppe Verdi, but did you know that it was based on a French novel,  La Dame aux Camélias, by Alexandre Dumas fils. Strangely enough, I didn’t. “However, French operas are much better than Italian ones.”

I challenged him to name French operas and expected him to flounder. “There are many,” he replied, “and the list of composers is impressive – Rameau, Berlioz, Gounod, Bizet, Massenet, Debussy, Ravel, Poulenc, and Messiaen.”

Last week, Charlie invited me to go to the opera with him, and after enduring days of pestering, I agreed. “Ot is Un ballo in maschera,” he said, “’A Masked Ball’ for the ignorant English, and it is also by Giuseppe Verdi, but this will be sung in your own language.”

The opera was taking place in an old factory unit, and I couldn’t understand why Charlie had dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, and then spent ages styling his thick black hair. “It pays to look smart. I want you to take photos of me while we are there, and I can post the best of them on Instagram.” I wanted to say, “But I thought the best photos involved you being naked.” But I daren’t say it, because, if you remember, I’m not supposed to see Charlie’s Insta account.

Charlie insisted on buying glasses of wine beforehand and was disturbed to find them served in disposable cups. We were seated on the front row, and I couldn’t resist saying that I’d never seen so many walking sticks. At this, he punched me hard on the thigh which I found quite exciting. I browsed through the programme and read the synopsis so that I had a chance of understanding what was about to happen.

The opera wasn’t what I expected. The singing was incredibly powerful, and I understood every word, realising that it had been adapted for modern times. I had to admit that I liked it enormously. Charlie frowned when I told him this, and he confessed that although he too had found it entertaining, he’d struggled to follow the story. 

Back at the apartment, we told Levi about our night at the opera, and he looked at us as though we were both mad. “What have you been up to?” Charlie asked him. The Polish boy with the broad Yorkshire accent looked pleased with himself. “I watched Emmerdale, Coronation Street and then spent ages browsing Pornhub!”