‘I went to Vietnam, too,’ I say.

‘Oh, I love Vietnam.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Bloody hell, Gareth,’ Kit says. ‘Kick her while she’s down, won’t you?’

Gareth blows me a kiss with both hands and then points upwards.

‘I’m just gonna …’ he says. And off he goes to the spare bedroom which is his office stroke studio stroke gym. Of course, it’s Kit’s too, but Kit doesn’t work from home or work out at home. He works for the Liverpool tourist board and plays footy twice a week.

‘How’s the wedding coming along?’ I ask, curling my feet beneath me.

Kit raises his eyebrows. ‘Let’s not talk about the wedding.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause we need to talk about you.’

His eyebrows return to their rightful place. They’re such a perfect shape and he insists he doesn’t pluck them. We share the exact same colouring except Kit doesn’t bleach his hair like I do. He leaves it au naturel, mousey working so much better on him than it does on me, perhaps due to the way he styles it; neatly shaved around the back with a lovely quiff on top that he washes and blow-dries every day.

‘Okay, well if you’re not gonna talk, Chlo, I will.’ Kit sits down cross-legged upon the white rug. ‘I’m mortified I never came to see you—’

‘No, Kit. Honest—’

‘Sis. Please. You know I haven’t got any annual leave left with the wedding and the honeymoon coming up, but I could’ve got the train down one weekend, stayed with you and made sure you were alright. Mum kept saying you were coming home and I shouldn’t’ve listened, shouldn’t’ve waited. I should’ve been there for you. And I’m dead sorry.’

‘Honestly, I didn’t want anyone coming to stay. No offence.’

‘Highly offended.’

‘Tough. I liked being on me own.’

‘You liked it?’ Kit asks, as if he’s just choked on one of Mabel’s dog biscuits.

I take a velvet cushion to my chest and hug it. ‘No. It was awful.’

Kit leans back on his hands, sighs. ‘I feel a thousand times more guilty now.’

‘Don’t feel guilty, hun. I’m the one who’s gonna be making a show of meself at your wedding, aren’t I?’

‘Oh, ’cause your plus-one is …’ and Kit pretends to slit his throat with his finger and sticks out his tongue, which I find very funny. Nobody else could ever make a joke like this, but Kit can. He always can.

‘Got any chocolate?’ I ask.

Kit grabs my hands, pulling me to standing.

‘Don’t tell Gareth,’ he whispers, leading me into the kitchen by my index finger.