I look over at Alice, who doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the fact that I’ve zoned out of the conversation. She’s focusing all her attention on the cloud of grey smoke she’s just sent drifting into the air above us. I’m not sure why, but I feel the need to fill the silence, to vent the thoughts that are building up in my head. Thoughts I’ve never really vented before. I clear my throat, and say, ‘I guess when I was younger I liked the idea of having kids just because I wanted to prove that I wasn’t my dad, you know? That I had it in me to be a decent father. Or at least to make a better job of it than he did.’

Alice nods. I can feel my face getting red, and the words starting to thicken in my throat, but I keep going. ‘But the older I get, the more I think it’ll just be the same story over again. It really feels like I’ve inherited everything bad about him. He cheated on his wife and walked out. I’ll probably end up doing the same.’

I realise as soon as I say it how awful this sounds. But I genuinely believe it. Daphne and I weren’t technically together on this day originally, but still, I’ve never told her what happened. And back in reality – in 2020 – I have arranged to meet Alice for a drink behind Daff’s back. A drink that I know full well could turn into something more.

I am already following in my father’s footsteps.

Alice brings me back down to earth by asking: ‘Are you still with Daphne, then?’ She digs at the grass with her foot as she says it: a gesture that seems rehearsed in its attempt to convey nonchalance. As if asking this question is no big deal.

I try to swallow, but my throat suddenly feels very tight. ‘We’re … No. I guess not, at the moment. She’s in New York for her job.’

‘Oh. Right. OK.’ I can hear the forced breeziness in her voice. She stubs her cigarette out. ‘Well, at least we’re both in the same boat.’

‘What d’you mean?’

She shrugs. ‘I had a thing with a guy out here, but it ended a couple of months back.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘No, don’t be. I’m not sure about French men, in the end. Too short. I think I’d be better off with a British guy.’

She nudges my shoulder and smiles up at me. It’s a move that’s straight out of the first term at uni: flirty, but cushioned just enough that it could still be taken as a joke.