We grabbed our ridiculous props – fairy wands and top hats – and at her insistence, we pulled a variety of stupid faces as the flash bounced off us: rictus grins and zombie grimaces and – for the last picture – air-kissing selfie pouts. I closed my eyes for that one, I remember that, and as I felt the flash echo through my eyelids, I realised I wasn’t air-kissing any more. Alice’s lips were pressed up against mine. I pulled away, obviously. But not as quickly as I could have done.

When I opened my eyes, she was shrugging and laughing like it was no big deal. Just a joke.

So that’s what I’ve been telling myself it was. But jokes don’t keep you awake at night, prickling with guilt.

When I got home the next day, I didn’t even tell Daphne I’d seen her. Daff’s always had a weird thing about Alice. I guess because Alice and I were so close during that first term at uni. Even now, she’ll still make the occasional semi-joke about how Alice used to fancy me. Those jokes always leave me prickling with guilt too. So I didn’t tell her when Alice messaged a few days later, and I didn’t tell her when I messaged back. Daff and I were going through a particularly grim patch where we were barely even speaking; she was constantly busy with work, whereas I was fretting about how badly paid, boring and sporadic my employment situation was.

I’m a writer, I suppose, technically speaking. But that makes what I do sound much grander than it actually is. I always imagined I would follow in my dad’s footsteps and write some great play or TV series or novel, but I could never quite sharpen those dreams down to anything specific. I used to think I lacked drive or self-confidence, but the truth is, I just don’t have it in me. I never did. Paris proved that, among other things.

So at some point I downgraded my ambitions and worked as a staff writer for a pretty tawdry lads’ mag. Then, when the dwindling print industry blocked off that career path, I started doing what I’m still doing today – penning press releases and travel brochures for any company that will pay me.

It’s nothing to complain about, I know – I’m lucky to be working, full stop – but it’s nothing to shout about either.

I remember Daff went through a period a while back of trying to light a fire under me. She’d introduce me to editors or other writers; encourage me to try and keep writing stuff I enjoyed, even if I never showed it to anyone. But I’d already given up on myself by then, so I couldn’t really blame her for eventually doing so too.