Old lies don’t count. I’ve considered telling Kerry about Zoë but it’s all in the past. I want to believe what happened was for the best, though sometimes I wonder. A baby was the last thing Zoë needed. Wasn’t it?

‘Why have you stopped?’ she asks. ‘Can you kiss me again, please?’

‘You’ve got to catch me first.’

I start to run, and Kerry runs with me, grabbing hold of the ridiculous garland I’ve wrapped around my waist. We head for the seafront, as Brighton kids always do. On the beach, a group of swimmers gather at the shoreline, ready for the annual Christmas dip.

‘Fancy it?’ I ask her.

Kerry shakes her head. ‘No way. But . . .’ She looks towards Palace Pier and nods.

‘It’s closed on Christmas Day.’

‘Even better.’ She runs past the shuttered hot dog stands and candy floss kiosks, towards the barricades. As I watch, she darts to the right-hand side. And now she’s gone.

I walk towards the gates.

‘Come on, you can sneak in through here . . .’ She puts out her hand and helps me clamber over the roof of a stall. I’ve never seen the pier completely empty before and she starts to dance up and down the boards. I chase her, lasso her with Mum’s berry garland, and throw my arms around her. I kiss her with the sea smooth and green-grey between the planks under our feet. In the distance, the capped heads of the mad swimmers bob like balls.

I pour champagne into plastic flutes. We drink it looking out towards Shoreham, and beyond that to the edge of the world. We are young, we can do anything, go anywhere. We’ve made mistakes. No, I’ve made mistakes, but I don’t have to be punished for those forever.

‘Kiss me again, please,’ she asks.

I turn her face towards me and this time it’s a Hollywood kiss, tender and slow, one that justifies the changes it’s going to set in motion.

‘I should go,’ she says.

‘Tomorrow, we start again.’

She flinches, as though she’s already playing out the scene in her mind. ‘It’ll be messy to pull apart, after all this time. I’ve been with Tim for . . . three quarters of my life, if you count how long we’ve been friends . . .’

‘It’ll be messier the longer you leave it.’

‘You’re right.’ She takes my hand and we walk back to the pier turnstiles. She clambers back over the roof of the stall, and holds out her hand to help me through the gap. We’re going back to real life, but only for another twenty-four hours.

We kiss one last time, leaning against the turquoise railings, then I watch her walk away.

Our happy ever after is in sight.

My phone rings as Mum is trying to force-feed me a second helping of brandy-free Christmas pudding. It’s revolting.