‘Well, you can’t rely on a pissed-up Santa delivering one to you every Christmas,’ I said as I massaged my cheeks. My face actually hurt from laughing so hard. ‘Does that mean you were on the nice list or the naughty list? I can’t decide.’

‘Oh, the nice list, definitely,’ he nodded confidently. ‘Never been on the naughty list in my life.’

‘Never?’

‘Not in a long time, anyway,’ he replied with a guilty grin.

‘See, you really would make a brilliant podcast,’ I said with a sigh.

‘So would you,’ John countered, waving at someone as they called out their goodbye. According to the massive clock on the wall, it was almost eleven. We’d been talking for three hours. Talking and drinking. ‘You could do an entire series on moving to another country.’

I swallowed hard, coughing as my wine went down the wrong way.

‘You don’t talk about it much,’ he said, narrowing his eyes so slightly. ‘Your time in America, I mean.’

‘Not much to tell,’ I said, switching my wine for water and taking a cautious sip. ‘I was there and now I’m back.’

‘My mum always used to say you have to take a step back to make a running jump. Which I am certain is very wise or something.’

‘Your mum should start a hashtag inspo Instagram account,’ I agreed. ‘She’s clearly a very clever woman.’

‘Was,’ John corrected lightly. ‘She died last year.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,’ I babbled, thrown off course. I never knew what to say in moments like this. My mum’s parents and Dad’s dad had all died when I was a baby and, monster that she was, Nan was going to outlive all of us. Other people’s grief always scared me a little.

‘It’s OK,’ he said with a softer smile. ‘You didn’t know. Now you do, no big deal.’

We sat for a moment, John sipping his wine, me picking at chips, neither of us breaking the semi-companionable silence. Until he did.

‘What happened in Washington?’ he asked bluntly.

‘What happened?’ I repeated. ‘What do you mean, what happened?’

‘You never bring it up, you change the subject when anyone else does, and right now you look like you’d rather throw yourself out a window than carry on with this conversation,’ John said. ‘You can talk to me, you know.’

Picking up my wine, I tilted the glass back and forth, watching the liquid coat the inside and then run back down into the bowl.

‘Bartender’s privilege?’ I replied. ‘You know, you really are like a priest.’

‘My cross to bear,’ he said with another fleeting, downturned smile. ‘But I really would like to hear about it if you want someone to talk to.’