‘I was mortified,’ she deadpans. ‘No, of course not. It’s weird, actually: I don’t miss drinking at all. Yet, anyway. And it’s so funny being sober at these things; watching everyone else get progressively more pissed around you.’

I laugh. ‘So what do you remember from last night that I might’ve drunkenly forgotten?’

‘Well …’ She chews a mouthful of scrambled egg thoughtfully. ‘You and Rich doing karaoke together was an obvious highlight.’

‘Well I remember that, yeah.’

‘I don’t think anyone will ever forget it. Nads filmed the whole thing, by the way.’ She taps her phone on the table. ‘It’s already on the work WhatsApp.’

‘Glad to hear it. Who knew Rich knows all the words to “Gettin’ Jiggy wit It”? I swear he didn’t look at the screen once.’

Daff grins as she takes a sip of coffee. ‘Hey – did you talk to his new girlfriend? Miranda?’

‘Yeah, a little bit. She seems nice.’

‘So hot.’ She shakes her head in disbelief. ‘Even hotter than his last one.’

I load my fork up with bacon. ‘The first thing Rich said to me last night, before he even said hello, was that Miranda had once auditioned to be in a Corrs tribute band, but she’d been rejected for being – and this is a direct quote – “too good-looking”.’

Daff splutters into her orange juice. ‘Ah, Rich. His heart’s in the right place, but he really is a ridiculous man.’

A few months ago, a comment like that would probably have had me searching Daff’s expression carefully for any trace of hidden meaning. It would have sent my brain wheeling back to that day in the park at Christmas 2023 – the image of Rich’s arm slinking around her waist. Now, though, it doesn’t even make me flinch.

It doesn’t bother me when Daff and Rich work late together, or go out to plays or screenings, just the two of them. Because I know that I love her and she loves me. I believe in us completely.

I guess Harv was right in the end: all I needed was a little less self-pity and a little more self-belief.

We sit for a few seconds in contented silence, sipping our coffee, watching the sunlight filter in between the curtains.

‘When’s your Christmas thing with the teaching lot again?’ Daff asks.

‘The twenty-ninth,’ I tell her. ‘It’d be great if you wanted to come too.’

‘Yeah. I’m seeing the girls that night, but maybe we can come along for a drink later.’

‘Definitely – anyone’s welcome. I’ve invited Harv, too.’

She nudges me with her elbow. ‘You still trying to set him up with the Iron Woman?’

I laugh. ‘Can you please not call her that? It makes her sound like Margaret Thatcher.’

‘Sorry. I’m only joking – you know I love Isha.’