Still, I’m sure when Alice asked me this question first time round, I probably tried to style it out; made out that I was effortlessly bashing out page after page of sparkling prose. But now, for some reason, I don’t have the strength to pretend. ‘The writing is … not going very well, to be honest,’ I sigh. ‘I think the chances of me actually getting anything published are pretty slim.’

She shrugs. ‘Ah, well. Who cares about getting something published? You enjoy writing, that’s what counts.’

‘I don’t really enjoy it at all, actually,’ I say blankly.

Alice swallows a bite of crêpe as she considers this. ‘If you don’t enjoy it, then why are you doing it?’

I stare at the Dodo Manège spinning gently in front of us. Last time around, I was trying so hard to impress her, mentally triple-checking everything I was about to say before it came out of my mouth. I was dead set on appearing cool and successful, rather than lost and confused.

Right now, though, I feel an impulsive desire to tell her the truth: to just lay everything out and see what she says. It’s partly the unreality of the situation – the whole thing feels like a strangely vivid dream – but also partly because I know that, whatever I say here, she won’t remember it back in 2020.

‘I don’t know why I keep writing,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe because I think my life will suddenly magically get better if I succeed at it. Maybe because I want to … reconnect with my dad.’

As I say it out loud, I realise how ridiculous it sounds.

‘Sorry. That sounds stupid.’

Alice shakes her head and smiles. ‘No, not at all. I get it.’

Weirdly, it feels like she really does. I remember sensing this a lot during the first term – that Alice instinctively understood me. That we understood each other.

‘Anyway, I’m not sure my dad would care either way, to be honest,’ I say quietly. ‘He left when I was ten. I haven’t seen him in years.’

She balls up her napkin and drops it into the bin beside us. ‘I remember you saying. At uni.’

I look at her. ‘Did I? When?’

She laughs softly. ‘We were pretty close that first term, Ben. I guess you forgot. Remember the last day of freshers’ week? We stayed up all night in my room, talking and drinking that horrendous Swedish liqueur we found under the sink. You told me about your dad then. Not much: just how you weren’t really in touch at the moment, but you hoped some day you might be.’