Daff is walking across the road now, doing a mock-overwhelmed are-those-for-me? mime as she spots the flowers, which get even more crumpled as I pull her into a hug.

‘Well done! Daff, this is so great.’

‘Thank you.’ She breaks out of the hug and smells the tulips. ‘And thanks for these.’

‘They’re already pretty much destroyed. Sorry about that.’

‘No, don’t worry. They’re beautiful.’

She’s smiling from ear to ear and her flushed cheeks suggest she’s already had one or two celebratory drinks. She looks amazing.

‘So, what happened, then?’ I ask. ‘I want the full details.’

‘Well, it was all pretty embarrassing, really. I had to get up and make a speech and everything.’

‘I hope you went full Gwyneth Paltrow?’

‘Oh yeah. I was weeping, dedicating it to my parents, thanking God … No, I just mumbled “Cheers for this” and then ran straight back to the wine.’

I take the award off her, feeling its weight. ‘Seriously, this is so brilliant, Daff. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’

She shrugs. ‘It’s not that big a deal. You know I’ve been out seeing tons of plays lately, and I mentioned a couple of the playwrights to Sarah, and she’s ended up taking them on as clients. So I guess they think I’m showing some promise, or whatever.’ I can almost hear the speech marks around ‘showing some promise’. Daff has always been so modest. Too modest.

I hand the award back. ‘You’re doing absolutely amazing.’

She frowns at me. ‘Are you sure you’re OK about that email? You’re being a bit weird about it. I thought you’d be a lot more upset, to be honest.’

‘So did I. But as it turns out … I’m not.’

She nods back towards her office. ‘You know, I could always give your book to the fiction team at work. They could take a look at it.’

‘No, honestly. I don’t want to talk or think about the book at all tonight. I just want us to do something fun’ – I tap the award – ‘to celebrate this.’

‘Something fun,’ she repeats. And then her eyes sparkle and her mouth twists up at the corner. ‘I can think of something fun.’

Half an hour later, we are sitting in the cheapest of cheap seats in the Leicester Square theatre, our view partially obscured by a concrete pillar, watching a man I vaguely recognise from EastEnders scamper across the stage dressed as Aladdin.

‘I cannot believe this is your first ever pantomime,’ Daff whispers, her mouth half full of Revels. ‘I should report your mum to social services.’

‘I can’t believe this isn’t your first pantomime,’ I say, as the EastEnders guy gets his cheeks tweaked by Widow Twankey, being played here by the orange bloke off Bargain Hunt.