All these years, I’ve assumed it was predestined: my dad was a cheat, so I would end up cheating too. It almost became an excuse for what happened in Paris. I’d tell myself it wasn’t my fault; it was written into my genetic code. But that’s bullshit. I chose to sleep with Alice. And if I meet up with her for that drink in 2020, that’ll be my choice too. I can’t keep blaming all my mistakes and fears and failings on a father I don’t even know. I didn’t want to get married because I was afraid I’d turn into him. I wanted to have kids so that I could prove I wouldn’t. He’s coloured all my big life decisions, in one way or another. When really he’s a total stranger.

It makes me flinch with shame that I thought I needed him to look up to, when I had Mum all along: a thousand times kinder, funnier, better.

He takes a final drag on his cigarette and flicks the butt out of the window.

‘Where’s the wake?’ he asks.

‘Simon’s house. Come along, if you want.’

He glances at me. ‘Do you want me to?’

‘I don’t mind either way.’ And, honestly, I don’t. I just want to get out of this car and back to Daphne.

He lays one hand on the steering wheel and nods. ‘Well, I don’t think it’d do anyone any good if I came.’ Once again, I can hear the self-pity dripping from this statement, and it makes my skin crawl. I’m prone to self-pity too, and I hate myself for it. I must have got it from him, because I definitely didn’t get it from Mum.

He sniffs and straightens his back against the seat. ‘So, Ben, listen. If you need anything, or you want to meet up, or—’

‘Well, you’ll be in New York,’ I interrupt.

‘No … Well, yes, I will be. For the next few weeks. But I mean, you can call me if you like. I can give you my direct line.’

‘Your direct line?’ The phrase is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh out loud. It’s always been like this: me calling him, trying desperately to forge some kind of relationship. ‘So, now Mum’s gone, you’re … stepping up, is that it?’ I ask him. ‘You’re finally ready to be my dad?’

‘No, I just …’ He exhales heavily and starts chewing the nail on his little finger. It’s the exact same thing I do when I’m anxious. Daff is constantly moaning at me about it, batting my hand away from my mouth.