‘No, she was fine; once I picked the mint leaves off. Even better, she asked me where I got my dress and I gave her one of your cards. I could get used to that kind of lifestyle, you know,’ Lucy says, all reflective. ‘Free drinks all night. Didn’t get invited to the after-party, though. My date gave me the slip.’

‘If you get a part in a film, they’ll be begging you to go to the after-party.’

‘I know! I expect it’ll be compulsory!’

The doorbell rings. Lucy goes to answer it and comes back wide-eyed and hopping around on the spot with excitement. ‘It’s him! The chopping-board king! At the door!’

‘What? How?’

‘Who cares how?’ she asks, pulling me off the sofa. ‘Go and talk to him!’

I put down my glass of wine and it’s true, David’s at the door looking uncharacteristically crumpled in a stripy short-sleeved shirt and frayed jeans.

‘Fern?’ he says, peering at me in the dark. He’s slightly drunk.

Argh! I can’t believe he’s caught me in my tracksuit bottoms. ‘How did you find me? I don’t even live here – I actually live in the flat downstairs.’

David’s rummaging in his pockets for something. He takes out a piece of newspaper and unfolds it laboriously, with great care. It’s the picture from the Camden New Journal of Lucy and me after the fire. ‘See this picture of you, Fern?’ he says. ‘See the door? It’s got your house number on it.’ He looks pleased with himself.

I’m surprised and deeply touched he’s kept it. ‘Well done, Sherlock,’ I say. ‘Come on, let’s go down to mine.’

Lucy’s hovering in the background, giving me the thumbs-up and then doing the ‘call me’ hand signal with her thumb and little finger.

Back in my flat, I put David on the sofa and dash to the bedroom to do a quick change into a 1960s multicoloured Pucci maxidress. I go back into the kitchen, pour two glasses of wine and get out the Marmite thins.

By the time I’ve arranged them in a fan shape, he’s sitting on the sofa with his elbows on his knees. He takes the glass and knocks the wine back in one. He’s suffering the thirst of someone who’s aiming for oblivion.

I fetch the bottle and put the plate of biscuits between us, feeling absolutely surreal that he’s sitting on my sofa. I feel very protective of him, both touched that he kept the cutting from the paper and impressed that he used it to track me down. ‘How are you feeling?’