Quin unzipped his power hoodie, then pulled it off to reveal a close-fitting T-shirt, which hugged his defined arms and pecs. Fair play, I thought. Nice countermove from the Quinster: I see your leather-clad thighs and I raise you quietly impressive biceps.

I slid him a sideways glance and signalled, Nice one.

With the tiniest smirk, he replied, Got your back, babes.

‘Drinks?’ The waiter who had removed the glasses was back.

‘Fizzy water for me,’ I said.

‘That’s right,’ he deadpanned, ‘I believe you cannot have any alcohol.’

He expected me to smile but I’d have felt bad—Kallie meant well.

‘Water for me too,’ Kallie said and Luke gave her a startled look. ‘No wine, Kal?’

‘No.’ She flashed some urgent message with her eyes, then I understood.

‘Kallie, don’t let me stop you. I don’t even notice. And Quin will be drinking, so go for it.’

‘You’re sure? I don’t want to be inappropriate.’

‘You’re not.’

‘But don’t you worry?’ She was asking Quin. ‘That Rachel will relapse?’

‘Rachel is the strongest person I know.’ His voice had a slight edge. ‘Besides, I don’t own her.’

‘So you guys aren’t serious?’

‘We’re serious,’ I jumped in, then rattled off, ‘Together almost two years. Moving in with each other soon.’ And I shouldn’t have said that. ‘How about you two?’

‘Sixteen months.’ She twinkled at me. ‘Separate living spaces at this time. Luke is so independent. But hey, you know that.’

Well, I knew now. I just wished I’d known before we got married.

‘It’s our actual anniversary in a week,’ Quin said. ‘The following weekend I’m taking Rachel to Barcelona—’

‘That’s Spain, right?’ Kallie asked.

‘Nah, Barcelona, Texas.’ There was Quin being a teeny bit of a dick again. Not that I minded. Not entirely. ‘Sorry, joking—yes, it’s Spain. I’ve hired out the entire Sagrada Familia—you know, Gaudí’s church? I’m gonna propose to Rachel there—’

‘Whu-ut? Congratulat—’

‘No. No. It’s a joke!’ Quin was flustered. Embarrassed. ‘Rachel and I—’ Desperately he signalled to me across the table. ‘We joke about—’

‘— marriage proposals in “obvious” places,’ I explained.

At Kallie’s blank face, Quin said, ‘Top of the Eiffel Tower? Flying over the Grand Canyon in a helicopter…’

A pall of mortification lay on us all, then in a plummy, newscaster voice, Quin announced, ‘And that is why private jokes should remain private. Sorry, Kallie.’

‘Hey, that’s okay.’ Her smile was genuine.

For a short while, the discussion of the menu generated the pretence of a free-flowing conversation. But as soon as we’d ordered—and we were all keen to skip the starter, clearly no one wanted this night to be prolonged—it hit a wall. Kallie and Quin had to do most of the heavy lifting.