‘I’m just …’ I breathe out heavily and rub my eyes with the heel of my hand. ‘I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here, to be honest.’

‘I thought you said the job was going all right?’

Had I said that? Probably. It’s not like Harv and I were having any particularly deep or honest conversations at this point. I answer his question by outlining the basic premise of Frankenstein’s WAG.

He snorts down the phone. ‘Yeah. OK. Well, you’re unlikely to win a Pulitzer for that. How detailed is this feature, though? Are we talking internal organs as well? Like, Victoria Beckham’s small intestine?’

I laugh. ‘Coleen Rooney’s gall bladder.’

‘Good name for a punk band.’ I hear him shuffling about on the sofa. ‘Look, honestly, man, don’t worry about it. Obviously they’re not your kind of people, but you’re not gonna be there forever, are you? And we’re twenty-four years old, for fuck’s sake. We’re not supposed to be sorted yet. Who’s sorted at twenty-four?’

This strikes me as a pretty good point; one I wish I could’ve grasped properly at the time. But it stings a little when I remember that I will be even less sorted at thirty-four.

Still, though, this is the deepest conversation I’ve had with Harv in a long, long time. And it definitely didn’t happen on this day originally. I feel a sudden rush of affection for him – my best mate, my future best man – and I wonder if I can actually change what’s about to happen to him.

‘Hey, so, Harv,’ I say. ‘You know Liv?’

‘I’m aware of her work.’

‘Well, I just … I dunno. This sounds a bit weird, but I wanted to say that I think you two should, sort of … take things a bit slowly.’

There’s a long pause, and then the phone is flooded with laughter. ‘Mate, what are you on about?’

‘No, nothing, I just … She might not be as perfect as you think she is, that’s all.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Yes, obviously she’s very hot. But I’m just saying, maybe …’

I kick at the carpet in frustration. I can’t think of any way to do this without telling him the truth, which would obviously make me sound like an utter lunatic. I’m about to try another tack when he grunts and says, ‘Look, I’ve got to go anyway, man. My toast’s burning. But have fun tonight.’

The phone line rustles, and before he hangs up, he adds, ‘Say hi to the naked ladies for me.’

Chapter Twenty

If there is a more depressing sight than a Christmas tree in a strip club, then I’ve yet to see it.