Priya nodded gravely. “Yeah, he and Oliver are getting into raw, hard-core table lamping.”

“Shut up,” I responded very maturely.

“They’re at it,” she went on, “nearly every weekend. In every room. On every table.”

“It was one table.” I waved my hands despairingly. “One time.”

Peering archly over his martini glass, James Royce-Royce raised an eyebrow. “That’s how it starts. But before you know it, you’ll be getting into the really kinky stuff like uplighters.”

“No uplighters!” I yelled. Though Oliver had suggested that one would do wonders for the living area in my flat.

“I do hope,” said Peter, “that you’re at least using surge protection.”

I stood in a way that I hoped was decisive, not huffy. “I hate you all. Does anyone want another drink?”

Thankfully, most tails were already cocked, but a couple of Bridge’s work friends called for a round of cosmos. Cosmoi? On the way to the bar, I checked my phone to see if my amazing barrister boyfriend was actually going to show up.

I’m so sorry, he’d texted. Snowed under at work. I’ll be with you as soon as possible.

I’m so sorry, he’d texted again. I can’t get away quite yet.

I’m so sorry, he’d texted again again. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes.

And then: Please don’t worry. Everything is fine and I’m definitely going to be on my way soon.

Then: I’m sure you’ve thrown a wonderful party.

Then: I realise this is substandard boyfriending. I’ll make it up to you and to Bridget somehow.

Then: Leaving now. With you in twenty minutes.

Then: Traffic worse than expected. Sorry.

This was so typically Oliver. I was mildly annoyed that he wasn’t here. But his panicked texting was also weirdly endearing and I was in love with him. So fuck.

I was just in the middle of composing a playfully frustrated yet reassuring reply when I walked straight into the back of a solid wall of couple.

“Shit.” My thumb slipped, and I accidentally sent Oliver a string of nonsense. “Sorry. I wasn’t—”

And then my fucking ex turned round. The worst part about it was that for a tiny fraction of a second, before my head started to spin and my throat started to fill with imaginary frogs, I was almost pleased to see him. Because we’d been together for five years, and the bit of my brain that had got used to being in love with him hadn’t quite caught up with the whole he’s-a-traitorous-fuckface angle.

“Oh my God,” said the man who I’d once thought ruined my life. “Luc.”

“Miles,” I yelped. “It’s been ages.” Ages since you sold the intimate details of our relationship to a tabloid for fifty grand. But I smiled anyway because he didn’t deserve my emotional authenticity.