‘Yes . . . yes, exactly.’ She looked at me in a way I recognized. A look that said I wasn’t good enough. That I looked cheap. That I didn’t belong there. That I was a feral parakeet.

A waitress offered up more champagne. I downed the remains of my glass and swapped it for a new one. Fiona looked at me with even more smiling disgust.

‘Oh no . . . I really shouldn’t,’ she said to the waitress.

And I couldn’t help myself. ‘Oh, but you must. They now say it’s fine to have one or two glasses when you’re expecting.’

‘I’m not expe—’

‘Oh no . . . Oh my God, I am so sorry.’ I touched her arm and glanced at her tummy. ‘I don’t even know why I . . . I’m always putting my foot in it . . . I’m so sorry.’

She put down her plate and reached for a glass from the waitress’s tray. We stood in silence for a minute until she said, ‘I’ve . . . got to . . . I should . . . I’ve just seen a friend,’ and left both me and the room.

I too wanted to flee but couldn’t bring myself to leave you. You were in the corner surrounded by a gaggle of toffs. Holding court. They laughed at your jokes. You were relaxed, your shirt untucked. Not thinking of me, wanting to find me. I should have left and stopped the torture. But I couldn’t do it.

It was nine o’clock, and for half an hour I’d been forced to talk to Linda and her husband, Racist Graham, about topics such as why they were convinced I’d soon die if I didn’t eat some meat, their new hot tub and how Nigel Farage was the only one ‘telling it like it is’. I perched on the edge of a claret velvet chaise, nodding politely, my feelings about Linda vindicated. Any grains of guilt I had for hating her evaporated into the air, along with Graham’s spit, which sprayed out with each offensive utterance.

Across the room, I saw you in deep discussion with Dr Harris. I tried to lip-read while enduring Graham’s story about the supposedly unfriendly Muslim man on their street. I couldn’t decipher your words, but I was scared you were being talked into a permanent return to Harley Street.

In contrast, you didn’t look over my way. Not once. Didn’t feel my presence. Want to save me.

At nine thirty I could bear it no longer. Your conversation with Harris had ended some time ago and you’d now disappeared. I had to find you. Talk to you.