‘I go by Chloe Marie. Me middle name,’ God knows why the fuck I told her that, ‘’cause I’m a teacher. Secondary. Anyway, better dash.’

I push the door a little, giving the two lads a bit of a nudge. Without any acknowledgement of my action, they flop off the step and onto the pavement in slow motion, still chatting, still smoking. The Gherkin looms in the near distance above a row of Dickensian rooftops, and the air greets me with a hint of weed from a passer-by, on a lane where Jack the Ripper supposedly once roamed.

‘Chloe! Wait!’

It’s Ross. He’s stood in the doorway behind the two lads smoking, waving my cream beret like a flag. Florrie is on her tiptoes peering over his shoulder and beckoning me back inside with her hands.

‘You forgot your hat,’ Ross says.

‘It’s freezing,’ Florrie calls out.

In a fatherly manner, Ross rubs his hands up and down Florrie’s upper arms to give her a boost of warmth, telling her to go back inside, he’ll be down in a minute. He joins me and I take back my hat, fixing it onto my head. I need to go.

‘Come on,’ Ross says, reaching out and punching my arm lightly. A brave move. ‘Come back downstairs. I might even buy you another drink, if you’re lucky.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘God, I’m a sick bastard. That just sounded like I was coming on to you, didn’t it? Ah, mate. I’m sorry. I’d never. I mean, you’re gorgeous. I didn’t mean I wouldn’t. Although I wouldn’t. You’re … Actually, you’re probably still single, yeah?’

‘Wow. Now I know what Jack meant by you being “close to the bone”.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Now can we go back inside?’

There’s a twenty-minute interval before two more comedians finish up the entertainment. Ross goes straight to Florrie once we’re inside at the table and I’m left without introduction or welcome. The skinny-fat fella leans across and tells me his name is Benji. Or Ben. Or Benjamin.

‘Balls, call me anything!’ he says, flashing his teeth. ‘Everybody else does.’

‘Chloe,’ I remind him.

He doesn’t have a fucking clue who I am.

I sit down, committing to half a seat, unsure if it’s going spare. Benji-Ben-Anything yells at someone I don’t recognise and a ritual ensues; fists banging on tables, thigh-slapping. A rugby chant, maybe? Was Jack into rugby? He was a Man United fan. Little old me never presumed he could be into football and rugby.

The girl with(out) the baby bends towards me.

‘You’re in my seat.’

‘Oops – so sorry,’ I say, standing immediately.