Misha looks over at me, his smile not entirely concealing the concern that’s been in his eyes for months. “As soon as we got out of the garage,” he says. “It appears that Taylor Swift actually has a somnolent effect on you, which has sent her a couple of points up in my estimation.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

He looks blank. “Why?”

I watch his long fingers on the steering wheel controlling the car with such ease. I jump when I realise that I’m spacing out. “Because I just left you to drive while I went to sleep. You haven’t had anyone to talk to.”

He shrugs and clicks the indicator to turn left. “Yes, but I had your super-duper happy playlist to keep me company.”

I stretch and yawn widely. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m so tired.”

He shoots me a look before focusing back on the road. “Maybe this weekend is a bad idea. It’s going to be wall-to-wall drinking and…”

I know what he was about to say. There’s only one thing that Misha hesitates over, and that’s giving me his opinion on my current boyfriend, Harry. After we had words over Harry and didn’t speak for a week, Misha’s been religious about remaining neutral. I think back to that period of silence and wince. It was horrible.

It’s not like me to cut anyone off, let alone my best friend. I was brought up in a household that stressed communication and I knew at the time that Misha was right. I just couldn’t bring myself to admit it.

Something about Misha’s flippancy at the time caught me on edge. He’d seemed so gloriously removed from it all. Happy in his single state with no cares or concerns to interfere. Just endless hook-ups with beautiful men. After I’d shouted at him, he’d been so nonplussed that he lost his temper too. The result was the two of us licking our wounds and not talking for a week, while Harry wandered around with a huge smile on his face. There is nobody that Harry dislikes more than Misha.

Misha and I had given in at the same time, and I’d been so frantic with relief to have him back that even Harry’s ensuing two-week sulk hadn’t impacted me. If there was one fallout from the row, it was Misha’s new reluctance to criticise. It’s almost as if he’s frightened to poke the sleeping bear.

“I know you were going to say something about Harry,” I say in a singsong voice.

“Oh no,” he says quickly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’d certainly dream of it. You just wouldn’t do it.”