"That's it. I'm officially not talking to neither of you," Michael said, looking down at his jumper. "I'll just sail away on my damned yacht'n leave you behind." Oh good. Always comforting to know he looked like a complete wanker who dined on champagne and snails or... whatever rich people ate.
He swatted Padma lightly on the head as he passed her to go into the kitchen. "Language, Patil," he admonished with a grin. "What kinda fucking filthy mouth've you been using since you left us, eh? Dunno about the manicure, but I'll see what I can do about the bloody pancakes." Other people might offer hugs and sympathetic words after Padma's ordeal. Michael considered pity parties to be something you threw in private, and his way of showing concern was just to carry on like normal. Brushing past Lavender, he leaned over her shoulder to look at the contents of her fridge. "Why're you asking me? Here, gimme the eggs. And milk. And your bacon if it's not imaginary."