They’re out in force for Hadley’s funeral. Stuart is there, which I was dreading, and Jonathan, who pounces on me and then watches my face for a reaction every time Stuart comes into view. I’ve been practising a detached and slightly hostile look for days, and I think I’ve got it down pat. It’s become my default expression, which is just as well because Stuart’s with Matt, both of them bigger than ever, as big as houses, like walking sides of beef from a meat warehouse, gossiping behind their hands like vastly inflated schoolgirls, looking over at me and Jonathan and giggling, which is nice for a funeral, I think.

It’s a sunny November morning, not really cold, but everyone seems to have taken this opportunity to debut their winter wardrobe, so there are a lot of casually-tied scarves and pre-distressed overcoats and a smattering of absurd fur hats, which look very odd with this summers aviator shades and sunbed tans. There’s a certain amount of overheating going on, and some very red, shiny faces, although that could be drug-related. There are several Hadleys-in-waiting in the crowd, pumped up to bursting, ravaged by time and excess but still dressing like American college jocks. They tend to be radically underdressed, tight T-shirts and clamdiggers, even flip-flops, the goosepimples white against the brick-red skin.

Hadley arrives in his coffin, borne on the shoulders of escorts. We follow them into the chapel. ‘I wonder how much they’re charging for this,’ says Jonathan. His foray into prostitution was not a success, as he only got one punter who wanted him to dress as a schoolboy and pelt him with cream horns, which was a complete disaster as Jonathan was on a strict no-dairy diet at the time. ‘Six of them, at £120 an hour, say this lasts for two hours …’ He mumbles through the calculations half a dozen times, reaching a different answer every time, eventually doing the sum on his phone’s built-in calculator, until asked to switch it off by an usher.

Stuart is sitting across the aisle from me, and it’s impossible to ignore him. His face is so wide now that his grin is like the Cheshire cat’s. I give him my best detached-and-hostile, but seeing him makes my stomach cramp and flip, as if I’m about to get diarrhoea again. It doesn’t feel like love. Stuart winks, then whispers something to Matt, but I’m staring ahead so I don’t see if Matt turns to look at me. I don’t want to see his face.

Various friends are giving speeches about what a great guy Hadley was, what fun, how talented and generous. There’s an ex-wife (‘Who knew?’ whispers Jonathan, very loud) who cries and laughs at the same time, and several members of Hadley’s family, including an elderly mother. There must be at least 200 people in the room, and I can’t help wondering if I’ll do as well when my time comes. I don’t suppose there were that many at Michael’s funeral, to which I was too busy to go.