To my left, I see a pub on the corner. Dark wood, a lengthy food menu, serves Guinness on draught. Beth wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like that on her own. So I turn right past a deli, a dry cleaners, an estate agent. Within minutes I’m surrounded by cafes, small and intimate restaurants – and bingo. A wine bar.

Beth is there, easy to find. She’s sat outside the front beneath the white canopy, smoking.

‘Since when did you start smoking?’ I ask.

Her free hand slaps against her chest as she shudders in her seat. Her smoking hand goes to the ashtray in the centre of the circular white table and she stubs the ciggie out so ferociously she might as well be murdering it.

‘I wasn’t judging,’ I say. ‘Just asking, like.’

‘You’re an actual stalker,’ she says.

‘My intentions are good. Promise.’

‘Sit down. I feel ashamed you standing over me like some sort of fucking apparition.’

She’s still in her work clothes; a fitted beige dress with square neckline, the skirt touching her knee. Only Beth can make beige look bold. Her tan hasn’t faltered despite her not having been on a big holiday this summer, and her lip gloss is fresh, as if she applied it seconds before I showed up. She’s twirled her hair into a low bun, showing off delicate gold earrings in the shape of long leaves.

‘I feel a bit underdressed for this place,’ I say, referring to my jeggings, Converse and damp denim jacket. Even my pink t-shirt is sticking to my chest. My hair is like a drowned rat left out to dry.

‘Nah. Go inside. Everyone in there’s as scruffy as you, babes. I’ve just set a new standard. As always.’ Beth allows herself to smile, closed-lip, one-sided. She’s been crying, a gloss on her eyes that isn’t due to Charlotte Tilbury.

‘I saw Fergus. He told me.’

‘I wanted to tell you meself—’

‘I know. When we went to that bloody ski slope, you wanted to talk. Beth, I’m so sorry. I’ve been the worst friend.’

Her gaze falls to the drop of white wine left in her glass. She pushes it towards me.

‘Look, life hasn’t been kind to you either, babes.’

‘No, you should’ve just grabbed me and blurted it out.’

‘It’s not that easy to admit. Remember when you couldn’t tell me about Jack?’

She’s right. Beth carries a wisdom I don’t possess.

We became friends in high school. I spotted her on day one, her purple drawstring Benetton bag gleaming new. She was the girl every boy fancied and every bully avoided. She didn’t speak to me until the Christmas disco.

‘Where’s your bodysuit from?’ she had asked, sipping a can of Coke.