Alice adopts a cartoonish expression of guilt. ‘Actually … I just found it in one of his boxes when we moved into the flat.’ She grimaces. ‘He came into the room and found me laughing my head off reading it.’ A beat, and then: ‘It wasn’t a comedy.’

Laughter rings around the table, and I do my best to add mine to it.

‘Good thing you found your niche in the end, Ben,’ Marek chuckles. ‘I’d say management consultants earn a few bob more than wannabe novelists.’

Alice nods. ‘Mmm. And press-release writers, thank God.’

There’s more laughter at this – though mostly from Alice and Marek. It’s strange: I’m only starting to remember it now, but during the first term at uni, the two of them used to do this a lot. Team up to take casual swipes at me after a few drinks in the student bar. We were a tight little trio, and I was usually the butt of our jokes. It was another reason I felt so much more comfortable with Daphne and Harv from the second term onwards.

Pretty soon, our plates are taken away and heaps of steaming Christmas pudding are set down in their place. As the meal comes to an end, I lapse into silence, nodding at whatever’s being said while getting steadily drunker and drunker. I can see Alice’s glare sharpening every time I refill my glass, and I remember her comment earlier about how we should take it easy on the alcohol. But I can’t bring myself to stop. The thought that this might be it – that this might be my life from now on – sits like a lead weight on my shoulders. I can almost feel myself sinking into the ground as I contemplate it.

There must be another way. There must be a way back.

By the time we stagger out of the pub, the white sun is beginning to sink into the horizon.

Decked out in thick scarves and woolly hats, we meander slowly through Queen’s Park, trying to work off the goose and gravy. Phil leads the way, stumbling slightly from his excessive wine intake while outlining his New Year’s resolution to buy a sailboat. Becky looks distinctly unimpressed – by either his nautical ambitions or his drunkenness, or both.

My head is fuzzy from too much booze, and I realise with a lurch that this route through the park is one Daff and I used to take occasionally on weekends, just after we’d bought our flat in Kensal Rise. We’d wander hand in hand through the trees and read our books on the grass, or sit and people-watch on the bandstand.