It flooded my veins the next morning as I lay frozen in Alice’s bed listening to her snore softly beside me. The sunlight was peeking in through the curtains, and the gravity of what I had done was fifty times more crushing than my hangover. At that moment – miserable, sweating, in the vice-like grip of regret – I don’t think I’ve ever missed Daphne more.

I missed everything about her: the feel of her, her touch, her smell. The way we lay together afterwards, our bodies curled like speech marks. The way we seemed to fit so perfectly.

I feel hot suddenly, and as I shrug off my jacket, the snow globe spills out of the pocket. I stuff it back in, and take a deep breath to try and settle my roiling stomach. I pull out my phone to check the time, but the battery’s dead.

Alice walks back in from the kitchen holding two very large glasses of red wine. She passes me one, and settles down on the sofa next to me.

‘So,’ she raises her glass, ‘Joyeux Noël. Santé.’

‘Santé.’

We clink glasses and drink.

‘Thanks for today,’ I say. ‘It was great. The best day I’ve had since I’ve been here.’

‘No worries. I had fun too.’

I take another sip. The wine scorches my throat as it goes down. ‘Do you know what time it is?’ I ask.

Alice frowns. ‘My phone’s in the kitchen. Why – were you thinking of heading back?’

‘No, I just—’

‘Good. I was kind of hoping this wouldn’t be the end of the night.’

There’s a little pause during which we both look at each other, not saying anything, and my heartbeat starts behaving very irregularly indeed. Because, God, she looks incredible.

She leans forward and puts her glass down on the coffee table. When she leans back again, she’s very slightly closer to me. She lays her hand on my thigh and, almost automatically, I lay mine on hers. I close my eyes, and feel the touch of her lips on mine. And despite certain parts of my body screaming YES!, my head is suddenly full of Daphne. I instinctively pull away.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly.

Alice looks at me blankly. She doesn’t seem particularly embarrassed or pissed off. She just seems like she’s waiting for an explanation. The best I can do, though, is stammer the word ‘sorry’ a few more times.

‘Is it Daphne?’ she says finally.

I nod. ‘Yeah. I guess.’

She picks her glass back up and takes a sip. ‘I thought it was over between you?’

‘I don’t know if it is or not, to be honest.’

‘But you’re not together right now, you said?’

‘We’re … on a break.’