Phil snorts loudly. ‘Fuck off. You’re shagging the boss’s daughter! You could take a dump in the boardroom and probably still be in line for a promotion.’ He reaches across me to top up his glass. ‘You know, I’ve got mates who’d kill to work at Wyndham’s. You should see their faces when I tell them you just breezed in there with sod-all experience.’ He clinks my glass with his. ‘Jammy bastard.’

I nod. ‘Yeah. I suppose I am.’

‘I’ve heard they’re a pretty mad bunch over there. Big sessions at lunchtime and all that. Is it a laugh? I bet it’s a fucking good laugh.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I say. ‘It’s a really great laugh.’

I can feel myself starting to sweat with anxiety now, because what am I going to do if he keeps probing? I have no idea what I even do at this Wyndham’s place, much less the names of my apparently mad and hilarious co-workers. If I can’t provide answers to the most basic questions about my job, it’s going to look more than a little odd. I’m going to have to feign some sort of recent head injury or something.

I feel an overpowering urge to get out of this room, but before I can think of an excuse, the doorbell sounds again and Alice jumps to her feet.

‘Ooh, that’ll be Marek and Dipal!’

Chapter Forty-Three

‘Marek?’ I say.

Alice frowns down at me. ‘Yes, Marek. What is wrong with you today?’

‘No, nothing. Sorry.’

She goes out to answer the door, and Phil thumps me on the back. ‘Wedding’s not for four months, and they’re already bickering like a married couple!’

‘Are you OK, Ben?’ Becky asks, leaning forward from her sofa. ‘You do look a little peaky.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just … tired.’

‘Merry Christmas, fuckos!’

‘Marek!’ Becky squeals, and suddenly, the director, writer and star of The Carol Revisited is standing right in front of me, pumping my hand. His hair is still as wild as it was at his wedding three and a half years ago, but it’s now almost entirely grey to match his neatly trimmed goatee beard. He’s wearing a thick black polo neck and clear-framed glasses, looking like a bizarre mash-up of David Brent, Richard Ayoade and Steve Jobs.

His wife Dipal – Dee – pecks me hurriedly on both cheeks before shrieking and running across to manhandle Becky’s bump.

Marek accepts a glass of Cava from Alice. ‘So. How are you then, Benjamin?’ he asks me.

‘Good, thanks,’ I lie. ‘You?’

He nods, swallowing a large gulp of wine. ‘Yup. Tons of directing gigs at the mo, so it’s busy, busy, busy. But that’s how we like it.’

In 2023, Marek is apparently exploring previously uncharted levels of pretentiousness by referring to himself in the majestic plural.