She grabs her coat off the banister, and sighs. ‘Look, don’t worry, honestly,’ she says. ‘You know what these things are like. It’ll just be boring work chat. If I go now, I can be back by ten.’

‘OK, fine,’ I say, and the look of relief that flashes across her face confirms something I’ve suspected for a while: that I’ve become a weight on her at these events. Or worse than a weight: an embarrassment.

Daff is a literary agent. She works for a big, important company and her clients are all big, important authors and screenwriters. Attending one of her work dos is like lowering yourself into a boiling cauldron of success – you’re never more than six feet from a BAFTA winner or a Booker Prize judge. So I suppose I can’t blame her for cringing slightly when I’m mumbling to these people about how I knock out the odd press release for a living. It doesn’t make me feel great either. The truth is, I’ve spent a lot of time lately wondering what Daphne is still doing with me, and at this thing tonight, I know everyone else will be wondering it too.

‘Is you-know-who going to be there?’ I ask, as she shrugs her coat on. ‘The Big Man?’

I’m hoping this might make her laugh, just to prove I can still do that, at least. Even a sarcastic hollow chuckle would suit me fine. But instead she just rolls her eyes.

‘Yes, Rich will be there. Is that honestly why you don’t want to come?’

‘No, of course not. I was only—’

‘Because you don’t have to talk to him, you know. You could try and talk to some new people.’

‘No, I know. Well, he pretty much ignores me anyway, so …’

‘Maybe if you actually tried to be friendly, instead of sulking like a little kid?’

And yep. Back we go. Like I say: all roads lead to a fight.

Which is crazy, really, because Rich used to be one of our most reliable private jokes. A dependable classic we could always fall back on.

He joined the agency around the same time Daphne did, and since he looks like he’s been laboratory-designed to worry insecure husbands, the idea of her copping off with him quickly became a running gag between us. If I burned the toast or something, she might sigh dramatically and murmur, ‘I bet Rich is a great cook …’ Or if I went out for the night, leaving Daff home alone, I’d bid her goodbye with ‘Tell Rich I said hi,’ and she’d mime oh-shit-I’ve-been-busted as I walked away laughing.