And for the first time all night, including his performance, I witness Ross Robson break into a wide, dimpled grin.

‘I fucking hope so, mate. She’s been married to me for the last ten years.’

‘Oh!’

‘Yeah!’

‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘You really didn’t know?’

‘Ross, I really didn’t know anything. Did I?’

His grin drops into a bittersweet smile. ‘Maybe you knew enough.’

‘Maybe.’

I back away, wave.

‘Not gonna stick around for the end, mate?’

‘With “a bunch of absolute tossers”?’ I offer. ‘Your words, mate.’

‘Don’t steal my lines!’

‘Ta-ra, Ross.’

And it is goodbye. These people aren’t my friends; were never destined to be. I don’t dislike them. They aren’t bad people. Well, that Minty probably keeps puppies locked in her attic, but … I can’t picture it. Me, hanging out with them. Imagine the bloody skiing holidays I’d have to endure. So I turn left out of the comedy club and head for Shoreditch High Street.

Back at the flat, I remove the flyer for Ross Robson’s gig from the fridge and toss it into the recycling with the brochure advertising tonight’s show. This isn’t anger; there’s no bitterness. This is simply practical. Cleansing. Another plan completed.

‘We did it,’ I say, removing my beret.

But – oh, Florrie. I know it was a lifetime ago, but she’d imagined a love between her and Jack that never truly existed. What if that’s what I was doing, too? Ben had said it, how they all had Jack on a pedestal. What makes me so different? I’d thought Jack was the most brilliant person to walk under the sun. He was the fucking sun. He was the moon. He was everything.

What if I’m another Florrie?

He only ever reckoned he loved me.

The man in the shopping trolley catches my eye. I suppose I’ll never know.

38

‘You’re doing so well, sis,’ our Kit says, peering out from my phone screen.

‘I needed to do something,’ I say, tapping back into selfie mode. ‘Should I text Patricia Carmichael again? I don’t want her to think I’m squatting here.’

‘Hold on – Gareth wants to see the flat now.’

‘HI CHLOE!’ Gareth smacks a kiss onto Kit’s camera.

I turn the camera to show the living room again.

‘It’s nothing major,’ I say. ‘Just a few touches here and there.’

‘Oh, I love the dried flowers in those empty wine bottles,’ Gareth says. ‘And is that us?’

He’s spotted the photo of me sandwiched between the two grooms on their wedding day, in pride of place on the breakfast bar. I show Gareth the invitation he designed, sitting beside it in a matching frame.

‘Did you tidy up especially?’ Kit asks. ‘To call us?’

‘Ha. You wanna see the state of the bedroom. It’s a wonder I can find me knickers.’