‘And yet you stuck the bloody frame to the ceiling with what exactly?’

‘Blu-tack.’

‘And what happened to you, babes?’

I stuff my mouth with more crisps, speaking with my mouth full.

‘The frame fell off and split me head open. Four stitches!’

Beth clinks my empty wine glass and sips, giggling at the story she’s heard and told endlessly since we were twelve years old.

‘Did you ever tell Jack about that, babes? Show him the scar on your scalp?’

‘No way,’ I say. ‘I’d feel ashamed!’

‘Did he know about the time you got sacked from that call centre job?’

‘I never got sacked,’ I remind her. ‘I was on a zero-hour contract.’

‘Yeah and they specifically said they wouldn’t give you a single hour again, ever.’

‘It was a blessing in disguise. I’d probably still be there today.’

‘Did you tell Jack about it?’

‘Dunno. Maybe?’

‘Or what about how we used to gatecrash those late-night parties above the video shop with those potheads? Does Jack know about how you’d sneak—’

‘Okay, stop. I know what you’re trying to do.’

Beth removes her sunglasses and reaches out for my hand. I snatch it away and sit on it.

‘Babes, we’ve got history. Jack has the right to have history, too.’

Our fries and sticks arrive but Beth shakes her head.

‘We need more wine,’ she says, and hands the ice bucket with the empty bottle to the waitress. ‘Please.’

‘I did,’ I say, burning the roof of my mouth on a fry. ‘I definitely told him about the call centre. He thought it was a brilliant story.’

‘That’s great.’

‘No, it’s not. ’Cause it’s not a brilliant story. It’s a self-deprecating anecdote. I mean, you’ve hit an all-time low when you get booted out of a job you hate that pays minimum wage, haven’t you? A job where you weren’t even worthy of being officially sacked. Yeah, I became a teacher. Whoop, whoop, good for me. But, Beth – I’m an absolutely shit teacher. I don’t change the lives of the kids. I do the bare minimum and tick the boxes and for God’s sake, I teach them fucking drama.’

‘Okay, you’re really spiralling into the dark place, babes.’

‘You came to meet me at a funeral. What did you expect?’

And for some reason, we laugh. Cackle. Like a pair of old witches.

The second bottle arrives and I do the honours.

‘Sometimes I think I’m going mad, though,’ I say. ‘Like, I feel like he’s still close to me. And no, I’m not into ghosts. I just … feel him. I mean, it’s impossible not to. I paid his gas bill last week. It’s like me relationship’s still happening.’

‘I know you’re trying to make sense, but—’

‘How can anyone make sense of death?’