He feels the old, familiar urge to protect her. He rolls back onto his side and strokes her hip reassuringly.

‘I think I’ve always known I’d end up going back. I’m actually quite looking forward to it.’

* * *

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I think that after that excellent character reference from the groom I need no introduction myself, except to say that being best man today is an absolute honour. You’ll be pleased to hear I’ve taken my duties very seriously indeed. I did my best to get the groom legless at his stag do – though, as you can see, I was only half successful. (Sorry, had to be done, sorry.) So, I’ve known this young man quite a long time now – we were buddies here at Sandhurst, and many of you here today will know that the friends you make in that year are friends for life. We’ve helped each other through some pretty rough times, and I’m not just talking about hangovers. Without wanting to get too soppy on you all, I should mention that this legend helped me through the toughest break-up of my life, and if he hadn’t kept me from going nuts it’s seriously possible that I might never have persuaded my girlfriend – now, by some unholy stroke of luck, my fiancée – to take me back. I am one lucky bugger, but he’s one lucky bugger too, because the bride, ladies and gentlemen, is an absolute angel. In fact, as many of you will know, she’s the angel responsible for getting him back on his feet again. She’s done a bloody good job, he can run as fast as I can, no joke, although somehow he’s sitting pretty in a well-heated office while I’m still rotting away in a ditch in Wales. The good ole British Army are labouring under the delusion that he makes a rather good Intelligence Officer, but anyone who’s seen him on a night out in London town will know that that’s possibly most mendacious job title in history. Seriously, though – the job suits his formidable abilities to a tee. He’s one of the finest minds I know, and one of the finest men, and if anyone deserves the beautiful bride, he does. And so, ladies and gentlemen, please join me in a toast: to the very happy couple!

* * *

He is forty-eight years old and seriously unattractive: weak-shouldered and pink-faced, with thinning white-blond hair and disturbingly small ears. He can’t believe his luck when she lets him buy her a drink. Five months later, when she agrees to move in with him, he wonders if it might be some sort of hoax. He is suspicious when she turns up on his doorstep in Battersea with a single packing box.

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘That’s all your stuff, in that box?’