This is how we have these times together. We drink and we riff in our own little echo chamber. We’ve even started calling it ‘The Prosecco Chamber’. Gross, right? But here we are. I know that Nicolette has had as sheltered a life as me, devoid of any real hardship, which is depressing, although it does make the whole thing easier to work with.

I drink more wine and gag.

‘So, how are you?’ Nicolette says. ‘I keep seeing his stupid photos everywhere.’

‘You don’t have to say that.’

‘No, I mean it. They’re everywhere.’

‘I meant the stupid bit.’

‘Oh.’

‘You’re a pal.’

‘So, how are you?’

‘Pretty awful. I got fired, had a fight with my oldest friend because she objected to me leaving her grown-up child in the street, and, worst of all, Art’s seeing a woman I’m obsessed with online.’

Nicolette makes a sound like a human balloon withering and I am just so elated and relieved that someone finally gets the enormity of this. I put my hand on her arm. ‘Thank you, Nicolette, for making that awful sound.’ She makes it again. I thank her again. ‘So in answer to your question, all I can say with any surety is that I am … continuing.’

‘Well, that’s something,’ says Nicolette. ‘I’m going round in circles. Or maybe it’s a vortex, spiralling slowly inwards to its inevitable own obliteration. On my way here I walked past a place called Highcroft Mews and I had a flash of my future: gated suburban blocks of identical houses, clipped bushes, jet-washed brick. I thought to myself, Someday I’m going to have an affair with someone who lives in a place like this. We’ll share average bottles of wine and only fuck drunk. And the worst thing is, it’ll feel like a break from the old routine.’

‘You’re not even married.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve always known that a dire, depressing affair is my ultimate fate. Much more than the marriage part.’