‘Ah, mate. I wish I could get my own back,’ he says, his eyes falling to the floor.

He’s got nothing. He’s a stand-up comedian, someone used to heckles and quick comebacks, and it takes me for him to draw a blank. I’m a mystery to him, but I’m upsetting, not intriguing. I remind him of Jack, the one person not here. It’s perplexing to think that minutes ago, I was belly-laughing at this man from the audience. I’ve single-handedly killed the comedy.

This crowd – this gang – can function without Jack here. Yeah, it’s sad. But they all have history and it didn’t always involve Jack Carmichael. Ross Robson will have been to parties with people sat around that table, ones that Jack didn’t go to because he was working, or he was in bed with a cold, or at a family do. Ross might have been to Ibiza with them, or judging this lot, skiing. He’s probably slept with one of the girls; possibly a few. That’s how big groups of mates work, isn’t it?

But when you throw a newbie like me in, everything shifts.

‘You know what?’ I say, placing my JD and Coke on the bar like a delicate ornament. ‘I’m gonna go. I’m – erm – sorry. Thanks for the drink, and sorry I didn’t drink – erm – I better just … bye, Ross.’

The narrow staircase beckons. I slip into my long suede coat and trudge upwards. Outside, two lads having a ciggie obstruct the door and before I get a chance to squeeze past them, I hear my name. My whole name.

‘Chloe Roscoe,’ Florrie states slowly, as if addressing an old school chum at the twenty-five-year reunion. As I turn around, I expect her to say something along the lines of, ‘Well, look at you now!’ or ‘Who would’ve thought you’d become a …,’ but she just repeats my name, even slower. ‘Chloe. Roscoe.’

‘I have to go,’ I say, attempting a smile and hoping it sounds like I have somewhere important to be.

Florrie’s bottom lip puckers and she twists from side to side. Her dress is navy blue, crushed velvet and floor length, the sleeves tight along her slim arms. Rings cover her fingers: gemstones and pagan patterns. Her eye makeup is heavy, her fiery hair loose and unstyled, as if she got out of the shower and just left it to dry. I’m into this look. It’s gothic and it suits her.

‘But I want to know everything!’ she cries. ‘After the funeral, I tried to find you on Facebook – I know, PSYCHO – but I couldn’t. Are you laying low?’ And she crouches down, like a cartoon cat about to pounce. She’s so, so posh, it’s making me want to sneeze.