The word DIVORCE stamps itself onto my brain, making me physically flinch. Is that what she wants? Could it even secretly be what I want? The thought of it makes my stomach lurch, but I don’t know if it’s the idea of losing Daphne, or the shame of being divorced at thirty-four.

Another failure to add to my already ridiculously long list.

But I can’t think about this stuff right now. Daphne’s parents, sister, brother-in-law and their kids are all arriving at midday tomorrow, and there’s still a hell of a lot to be done before then. I should really head straight up to the attic to get the decorations, then sort the tree out and crack on with wrapping the presents.

That’s what I should do.

Instead, though, I decide to go and get drunk.

Chapter Two

Christmas Eve is pretty much the only time you can guarantee that Harv will be available at short notice for a pint. On Christmas Eve, there are no swanky club nights to attend or Tough Mudders to endure, and presumably the dating apps are pretty quiet, too.

We meet in The Raven, a grotty little pub in Crouch Hill whose grottiness is trumped by its exact equidistance between my place in Harlesden and Harv’s in Stoke Newington. It’s already heaving when I arrive: packed to bursting point with rowdy office workers, all draped in tinsel from their Christmas lunches. I squeeze past an old bloke with a scraggly beard who is trying to flog an extremely unconvincing Rolex to a pair of drunken businessmen.

Harv is already at the bar, wearing a parka so large it resembles an unzipped sleeping bag. He waves me over with a tenner.

‘You all right? What d’you want?’

‘Just a beer. Whatever you’re having.’

He wrinkles his forehead. ‘I’m not having a beer, mate. D’you know there’s two hundred calories in a pint of beer? You might as well have a Zinger Burger.’ He taps his stomach, which looks impressively washboardy even through his T-shirt. ‘I’m seeing this girl at the moment who’s a fitness instructor,’ he says. ‘She’s full of these facts and figures. We were talking last night about how drinking Guinness is literally like drinking a pint of lard.’

‘Sounds like a very erotic relationship.’

‘Yeah, the conversation can get quite boring,’ he admits. ‘But the sex is pretty great.’

I look again at Harv’s perfectly flat stomach. I still can’t get my head around how all blokes nowadays are suddenly insanely ripped. It seemed to happen pretty much overnight, about eight years ago, and I was apparently the only male on the planet who wasn’t forewarned. When I met Harv at university, he was fifteen stone and subsisted entirely on Carling Black Label and chicken nuggets. Now he looks like Ryan Gosling’s stunt double.