‘I do,’ he replied. ‘You want to eat. Your stomach’s screaming as though it thinks your throat’s been cut. What’ll it be?’

‘Oh, God, food,’ I pressed my hand against my white T-shirt and blew out a heavy breath. ‘Yes, please. What do you recommend?’

‘Well, nothing too pretentious, of course,’ John said. He stood up and tossed his apron over his arm. ‘And we’ll give the overpriced pizzas a miss. Burger?’

‘Burger sounds amazing,’ I agreed, the flush spreading up to my cheeks as I recalled our second conversation. It burned even harder when I remembered our first.

‘OK if I eat with you?’ he suggested, looking around the bustling bar.

‘They won’t miss you?’ I asked, surprised at how much I hoped his answer would be no.

Happily, he shook his head. ‘They’re more annoyed when I’m lurking. No one wants the boss watching your every move.’

‘Why do you work behind the bar?’ I asked. ‘If you own the place, isn’t that a bit weird?’

‘Because I love it,’ he said simply and I could tell that he meant it. John pointed at my half-empty glass of white. ‘I’m going to put our order in. You up for more wine?’

There was still at least one full glass left in the bottle on the table but I was his guest and I didn’t want to be rude. Sending him off with a thumbs up, I picked up what was left in my glass and got to work.

One burger, two hours, and an untold number of chips later, the bar was emptying out but John was only just getting going.

‘No, I’m serious,’ he said, almost knocking over the table between us as he gesticulated wildly, arms and legs flying everywhere. ‘He comes in with a ten-foot Christmas tree on his back, needles going all over the place – in people’s food, in their drinks – and I can tell he’s wasted—’

‘And he’s dressed like Father Christmas?’ I spluttered, splashing wine into his empty glass.

‘Oh yeah, red suit, white beard, full gear, and he comes in and shouts “Merry Christmas, you bastards!” before collapsing in front of the bar, flat on his back and singing the dirty version of “Good King Wenceslas”. Me and Cammy had to pick him up and carry him out, kicking and screaming like a toddler.’

‘What did you do with the tree?’

John took a hasty sip of his drink.

‘What were we supposed to do?’ he replied, arms thrown out wide. ‘I went down to Superdrug, bought some lights, job lot of tinsel and decorated it. Only problem is now I’m going to have to buy a tree this year and do it all over again.’