‘Yeah, I think so,’ I reply. ‘Shouldn’t have had so much to drink before the food. Feeling it now.’

‘You only had a couple, didn’t you?’

‘Three,’ I say. ‘Must have been the emotions and stuff, too. Big day.’ Three vodkas and Cokes wouldn’t normally hit me that hard. ‘Oh. Plus the Prosecco and wine from the table.’

‘You’ll be alright. Wait for your food to get down, and you’ll get a second wind for the evening bit.’

An hour later, I’ve had another three drinks. They seem to just keep appearing. Tom’s doing his usual social bit, circling the room and talking to everyone, introducing me to a new person every fifteen minutes, having gone via the bar to get them a round of drinks and — of course — one for me too.

I politely try to join in the conversations with random work colleagues of Ben’s who I’ve never seen before and never intend to see again, occasionally checking my watch to see when the buffet food’s coming out. I need to soak up some of this alcohol.

By the time the DJ turns up and starts to play some party music, I’m feeling much brighter. I’ve gone past the stage of feeling tipsy and am now in full-blown party mode. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does I love it.

I’ve just finished boogieing away to Shakira when I come over to the side of the room and hold my hands out to Tom.

‘Come and dance!’ I shout, over the sound of the speaker just a few feet away from us.

‘I’ll be alright,’ he says. ‘I’ll sit here for a bit.’

‘Come on! Don’t be such a spoilsport. Everyone else is dancing. Apart from the old fogeys. Are you an old fogey?’ As I say the words, a part of my brain tells me I’m being an idiot, but I quickly hush it up.

‘I’ll join you a bit later,’ he says, standing up and talking into my ear. ‘I think you’ve probably had a bit too much to drink.’

‘You’re only saying that because you’re being all sober and boring.’

‘Someone’s got to drive us back. Plus I’m up first thing tomorrow for my flight. Let me get you a soft drink or something, yeah? You don’t want to make a fool of yourself.’

I shrug, then turn and go back to the dance floor as Tom goes to the bar.

A couple of minutes later, he’s signalling to me with a glass of Coke. I decide to cut my losses and head over to him.

‘Get this down you,’ he says. ‘Might give you a fighting chance. The caffeine content will help too.’

I pick the glass up, take the straw out and down the entire drink in one. The bubbles burn my nose as I try to adjust, and a few seconds later I feel a strange kick. If I didn’t know Tom better, I’d have thought that was another alcoholic drink. And not a weak one, either.