‘Well, God forbid I embarrass you with my bad manners …’ Omar stopped in his tracks as a vision stepped out of the bathroom, smoothing down her hair.

‘Oh, you must be Omar. I’m sorry we’re late, traffic was murder. I’m delighted to meet you, Sharif’s told me so much about you.’ She smiled sincerely, and held out her hand.

‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry,’ said Omar regretfully, taking her hand. ‘I’m afraid I have to dash off. Make yourself at home upstairs. Hopefully we can meet properly in the morning. Come and have breakfast with us, in the King’s Arms.’

Walking down, he paused and looked back up the winding staircase, where Sharif was talking in a low voice to Candida, his arm placed protectively around her shoulders as they climbed the steps together. Surely Sharif must have seen how much like their Amma she looked? A younger, arguably slimmer version, with skin that was creamy-ivory rather than rose-gold, but the resemblance was incontrovertible. They might have been sisters. Omar shook his head in shock; it was a Freudian minefield. He would have loved to talk to Jim about it, but there’d be too many people about tonight, and Jim would get drunk too fast. Remembering himself, he jumped down the last few stairs and raced across the quad to Hall; he hoped that the lovebirds had saved him a seat.

When Omar arrived at the Hall, they had already started serving up. He looked vainly for Jim and Karen at the front of Hall, where they’d promised they’d be, and couldn’t see them anywhere. He felt bereft; I’ve already become a spare wheel, he thought miserably to himself. Jim and Karen had each other now, and Sharif had just hooked up with an angel; no one needed him. Perhaps they never did. Perhaps he was just a way of treading water, buying time.

He was ludicrously relieved when a voice shouted, ‘Hey, Omar, spare seat here!’ He recognized the voice. It was Dieter, his occasional tutorial partner in philosophy, an unashamed geek who wore jumpers knitted by his mum, unnecessarily thick glasses, and who frequently forgot to remove his cycle clips. He was sitting with his own usual group, a couple of other PPE-ists, and a mixed bag of mathematicians, biologists and chemists. Like Dieter, they were all deeply uncool. Jim would have refused to sit within a foot of them, and usually only tolerated Dieter because Omar was obliged to share lessons and notes with him.