Finally she spins round to look at me. ‘I want you to come if you’re going to actually talk to people and try to have a good time. I don’t want you to come if you’re going to stand in the corner like a grumpy arsehole. OK?’

She snatches up her bag and walks out into the hallway.

Daff is of the opinion that fights are A Good Thing in a relationship. A Healthy Thing. Or at least she used to be of that opinion, back when our fights weren’t really fights, but silly little flare-ups over nothing. I’d get sulky at her for taking too long to get ready, or she’d shout at me for farting or imperfectly folding a bedsheet. And then after a volley of yells, we’d break off, hugging and giggling at the idea that we’d caught ourselves bickering like a sad old couple.

But at some point during the last couple of years, something changed. That fun phoney-war play-fighting turned into this awful tight-lipped trench combat; each of us working doggedly to gain an inch of ground over the other, occasionally lobbing a passive-aggressive grenade into no man’s land.

How did we get here? I wonder. From calmly discussing our evening plans to bitter, seething resentment in – what was it – a minute and a half? That’s got to be some kind of spontaneous marital-spat world record. Because the truth is, everything seems to lead to a fight nowadays. Every nod or murmur or question feels loaded and potentially explosive, like it has to be patted down carefully for hidden meaning. I’m pretty sure this is my fault – in fact, I know it is. It’s all tangled up with everything that’s happened over the past couple of years, and my general sense of self-worth dribbling slowly down the plughole. I can see the problems clear as day, I just can’t figure out how to fix them. Maybe they can’t be fixed.

I follow Daff out into the hallway, where she’s now yanking her long, curly black hair into a bun and fastening it with one of those Venus flytrappy things. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I just always feel like such a spare part at these things. I can feel them all looking straight through me when I’m speaking.’

‘Ben, that’s not true,’ she snaps. ‘And if it is true’ – which means she knows it is – ‘then maybe it’s because you make literally no effort with anyone.’

‘I do make an effort,’ I protest, but we both know this is bollocks. I stopped making an effort a long time ago. Not just with small talk – with everything.