There are no parking spaces outside Atticus’s house and Dan’s watch reads 8.08 p.m. when he finally rings the buzzer. Atticus answers at once, his deep voice distorted by the intercom. ‘You’re late.’

‘Sorry, I couldn’t find anywhere to park.’

‘Humph, come on up.’

Atticus is waiting in the open door, meaning Dan doesn’t have time for one final sweaty hand rub on his jeans and Atticus catches him counting the treads on the staircase. He is barefoot, in dark-blue jeans and a long-sleeved black woollen top that looks expensive enough not to be itchy. There is a spicy smell coming from the flat and music throbs in the background.

‘Welcome.’ Atticus holds the door open but doesn’t move out of the way so Dan is forced to duck his head under Atticus’s arm. ‘You smell delicious,’ Atticus says quietly, into his ear, as Dan squeezes past.

Dan doesn’t answer. He is too busy looking around Atticus’s apartment in wonder. It’s all peeling wallpaper and crumbling art deco curves and huge crystal chandeliers. Of course it is, Dan realizes. How else would it be? An overstuffed velvet sofa sits under the window, piles of books scattered on the floor next to it: Kurt Vonnegut, Graham Greene. There’s no TV, Dan notices, but a record player has pride of place next to the fireside. He hears the soft hiss of the needle as he approaches and sees a Rufus Wainwright album cover.

In time, Dan will listen to the same record on the same player and know every single word, but for now he just walks past it and carries on looking around.

Eventually, when he’s had enough of the faded seaside glamour of it all, has counted the hearth tiles (a pleasing twelve in all) and sniffed the curtains around the bay window, which are covered with peacocks and palm trees, he turns around and hands Atticus the Turkish Delight he’s been clutching. He bought it on Sunday afternoon, after traipsing round Brighton for three hours. The box is pink, and the lid is a red fez with a tassel on it. Dan told himself that it was a pointless purchase as he wouldn’t even be going to the dinner, but the other Dan had squealed in delight when he stumbled across it. ‘It reminded me of your shoes.’ Dan is blushing now, but that’s okay: it’s reasonably dark here.

Atticus laughs and flips the tassel. ‘I love it, thank you.’