I look instinctively over at my best friend who is watching the television happily and listening to something that Jesse is saying. His eyes look very blue tonight, and his hair is pulled back in a topknot that shows off the clean lines of his face. He looks up suddenly, and for a second, we stare at each other. Bewilderment crosses his face, and, fearing what he might be seeing, I swallow hard and look determinedly at the television.

I watch the programme for a few minutes. “What is the point of this?” I wonder out loud. “If I wanted to see people making bread, I’d go to Greggs.” Everyone happily ignores me, and I go back to munching on my cake.

I’ll eat this and then I can meet my bloke for the night. A good shag and I’ll feel like myself again. I settle further into the sofa. Jesus, this is comfortable. My limbs melt into it like I’m butter and it’s toast.

Ten minutes later, I sit forward. “Hang on. Prue’s being very picky. That poppyseed bread looks perfect,” I say through a mouthful of another piece of cake.

“Say it, don’t spray it,” Felix says disapprovingly.

Later on, everyone leaves, including, to my surprise, Harry. I can’t say I’m sorry. I’m not sure I like the idea of hearing them fucking while I lie in bed in the next room.

Charlie and I are just locking up when I realise with a start that I’ve missed out on the chance of a shag. Somewhere in a pub nearby is a very pissed-off bloke. I listen to Charlie chattering happily as he loads the dishwasher with the plates I bring to him, and I smile. I still wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else but here tonight. With my best friend.

Chapter Three

Charlie

On Monday night, I watch Misha as he parks the car in a small space outside his mum’s house. He’s so competent at everything that he puts his mind to. I would have gone back and forth a few hundred times, cranked the wheel until I had muscles like Popeye, and then moved on to a different spot. Misha just pulls up, reverses, and with one smooth turn of the wheel he’s in. Everything he does is charged with the certainty that he’s going to succeed. It’s an air that he’s always carried with him and totally explains why he’s a hedge fund manager at a relatively young age.

When we’ve parked to his satisfaction, we get out of the car, and I lift my face to the breeze, feeling the sting of rain. I look around the street on which I grew up.