He kisses me. On the cheek.

I’m sure I feel relieved. My shoulders sink back down, and I smile up to him. I should have realized that he wouldn’t want to kisskiss me either.

‘Happy New Year, Peter.’

‘Happy New Year, Bea.’

After a while, once all of the bizarre, overly enthusiastic and totally undeserved congratulations are over, Peter turns to me once more. The music has kicked back in. ‘Now that’s finished with, can I treat you to a dance?’ Peter has many skills, but dancing isn’t one of them. His limbs are too long for his body, and he’s incapable of moving them in a consistent, predictable manner. My feet are killing me and I know he’ll step on them, but I don’t want his smile to fade so I nod.

The night continues as expected. There is some mild scandal, excessive eating of fairly bland wedding cake, more terrible dancing, and some questionable confessions of love. We score full wedding bingo when one of the bridesmaids starts crying.

I say one of the bridesmaids – it’s me.

I have a weep on poor Peter’s shoulder.

I blame it on the fact I drank too much, an activity I typically avoid as neither my finances nor my hangxieties can handle it. Unluckily, the open bar made the former issue irrelevant and the latter was quite forgotten.

‘See, the thing is, I want to be genuinely happy. I have all the reasons in the world to be genuinely happy, but I’m not.’ Good lord, have I ever sounded so pathetic? ‘Everyone here is happy. I want to be happy too.’

Peter puts an arm around me as I really scrutinize the room. Everyone looks happy. Everyone looks content.

Everyone looks paired off.

I squint a little, trying to see the root of my problem. ‘Huh.’ I look again to make sure. Every single person who is attached to another person is smiling. ‘Look!’ At this moment I hit Peter on the knee, a touch harder than intended, and point to the couples glued together, drunkenly swaying on the dance floor, propping each other up. ‘Look at them all. They all look so happy. Like nothing is missing, not even rhythm. Maybe it’s because they’re loved by someone who’s not genetically predisposed to love them.’ I breathe again, finding it hard to keep my thoughts on track. ‘Maybe I need that too?’

I haven’t been interested in having a boyfriend for a while, so my own dating history is exactly that – history.

Nevertheless, I take a breather so my thoughts can make their way through the whisky haze. ‘Is it silly to wish to be happy?’ I shift slightly so I am almost facing Peter.

‘Not at all. I think happiness is a great aim.’

I slouch a little less and use his body to anchor myself. ‘OK! I’ve decided! I’m going to start dating again!’ I wipe the last of the tears from my eyes and decide to stop feeling sorry for myself. ‘I think I need to see if I would be happier if someone out there who isn’t genetically predisposed to love me, loves me. Know what I mean?’ I turn to face Peter and smile. He smiles back.