‘Nice. Can I come? I can be there in half an hour. Or meet you after?’

‘No, it’ll look weird if you come with me. And then I’m going straight to bed.’

Great. My suitcase is in between my knees and I’m sucking on the last dregs of an iced coffee from Caffè Nero, contemplating which direction to go in. I’d banked on it being east to Islington, but Beth’s having none of it.

‘Babes, I’ve gotta go. I’m running late as it is.’

‘Bye—’ but she’s already gone.

We still haven’t mentioned our fight. I sent her a message the day after the wedding, apologising for not getting much chance to speak to her. Our cosiest moment had been at the end of the night when we found each other side by side – hand in hand – in the circle for ‘New York, New York’. Our Kit had been adamant his big day wouldn’t end so predictably. But it did.

I toss my iced coffee cup into the bin and open Instagram. The guests all went a bit Insta-crazy and I’m loving the captured magic, the filters, the hashtags. There’s our Kit and Gareth in a selfie at the airport now, on their way to Mykonos with pints in hand, toasting. The message request from Justin remains unopened. I can’t imagine it’s anything more than a simple Hi, how are you?, but other than that being the world’s most banal question – especially when you’re not fine – I’m uncomfortable with what I did. Not only with what happened in his room in Vietnam; what had I been thinking, going to Bangkok? Trying to find that man sat in the shopping trolley? It’s absurd.

I wheel my suitcase into the noodle bar. Si hasn’t read the messages I sent him two hours ago. After the wedding, he told me he ‘owed me, big time’, and I’ve politely asked if I can crash on his sofa because I couldn’t get hold of Beth. I select a readymade yaki soba and pot of edamame from the self-service counter. Si will respond soon; or Beth might change her mind.