‘It’s not, I promise. Something much nicer,’ she giggled. She caught the barman’s eye instantly. ‘A spritzer please. And one for yourself.’ He was practically salivating as she slid the envelope towards me through all the sopping beer rings. ‘Go on.’

I peered inside nervously. A couple of baby photos gazed up at me, a solemn blue-eyed child with a mass of black ringlets, and a younger one, six months or thereabouts, with one tiny tooth. Then a child of about six in a Holly Hobbie-type hat, gazing adoringly at the camera, great violet eyes shining. A shiver went down my spine.

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘I could hazard a guess,’ I muttered, closing the envelope. ‘So –’

‘So, I just wanted you to see how alike we were as babies.’ She smiled happily.

I frowned. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because you had some photos at your dad’s. I saw them, remember?’

‘Fay,’ I stared down at the envelope, ‘I’m sorry, but this is really a bit weird –’

‘Why?’ She stared at me like it was me that was insane.

‘Because,’ I took a deep breath, ‘because we’re not even friends.’

‘There’s no need to be rude, Maggie.’ I’d never seen her pretty little face sullen before. ‘I just want us to become friends, that’s the point.’

‘Well, I don’t, to be really honest.’ It had to be said. ‘I’ve got plenty of friends already, thanks. And I’m sure you have too.’ Beating about the bush had got me precisely nowhere so far.

‘Fine.’ Her bottom lip quivered like a small child’s.

‘Fine.’ I steeled my stony heart and pushed the envelope back into her hand. ‘See you around.’ Then I relented a little. ‘Take care.’

Fay turned and flounced out of the pub.

In the end I didn’t ring Seb. Fortified by half a bottle of wine, and pushing thoughts of Fay out of my mind, I felt suddenly excited by the unknown. I could be single and spontaneous, I told myself, hurrying through fur-coated Christmas shoppers on Piccadilly, past the moss-green grandeur of Fortnum and Mason’s, fat chocolates stacked in mouth-watering mounds that glistened behind star-dusted windows. Being spontaneous was something positive, something to celebrate about losing Alex, I told myself, as the great flags of the Royal Academy shivered in the wind. If Seb looked pleased when he saw me, I’d stay. If not, I’d pretend I was just passing. I was just drunk enough to believe that I could be convincing.

But outside the BAFTA cinema I lost my nerve. As I watched the elite arrive, I realised with a sinking heart that I was horribly under-dressed, and suddenly my courage faded. I lingered under a shop canopy in the chilly wind and lit a cigarette, debating what to do, so cold my teeth were almost chattering, the wine that had warmed my core ebbing away.