‘Stuart.’ I touch him on the shoulder, with a smile on my face that I don’t really feel. He barely turns his head, acknowledges me with a little wave of the hand and carries on talking to some grinning musclebound lummox that I recognise from the clubs. I wait, like a 1950s wife at a cocktail party. No attempt is being made to include me in the conversation, which is about people I don’t know, although every so often the lummox looks at me over Stuart’s shoulder. He has pale blue eyes and blond hair, and quite frankly he looks shifty, if sexually attractive.

I’m bored of being ignored, so I go over to the bar and help myself to a large glass of white wine. I actually hate white wine, and would only ever drink it with a meal if someone insisted, but it’s all there is apart from beer, and beer is even more full of unwanted carbs, so wine it is.

‘You are Rrroberrrt.’

It’s one of the black-haired boys, possibly the one that was with Hadley when I first ever met him, possibly his brother, cousin or uncle.

‘Yes. Hi.’

‘You are Stuart’s friend.’

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Tell me,’ he says, standing too close, ‘how does it feel?’

I’m about to ask him what he’s talking about when suddenly Stuart is at my side, an arm round my neck in a wrestling hold, his fist rubbing my scalp – this is one of his favourite greetings, and a sure sign that he’s high.

‘Robbieeeeeee!’ He pulls me away from the bar. ‘What are you doing over here? Come back and join us.’

‘I was just getting a drink. Who was that?’

‘Who? That? One of Hadley’s boys. I don’t know. They all look the same to me, luv,’ he says in a northern club comedian voice.

‘He was about to ask me something.’

‘Oh Christ, he didn’t ask you for money, did he?’

‘No, he said …’

‘Robbie, this is Matt.’ All Stuart’s friends have names like Matt, or Jake, or Guy. Straight names.

‘Robbie.’ It’s the lummox. He’s got his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, pulling them down so I can see underwear. His lower stomach is flat and tanned and covered in a light dusting of golden hair.

‘We thought we might go somewhere,’ says Stuart, shifting from foot to foot like an athlete warming up for a race.

‘Right. Where?’

‘Yours?’

‘What, now?’

‘Yeah,’ says Stuart. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t want to go back there. I’m sick of the fucking place.’

I see Stuart and Matt exchange a glance, as if they’re dealing with a troublesome child.

‘Come on, Robbie. It’s nearest.’

‘What’s the big hurry? I thought we were going out.’

‘We are out. But sometimes staying in is the new going out.’

Stuart’s grinning, and Matt is concentrating on smouldering, and I’m in no mood for either of them. I want to go out dancing, take drugs, listen to deafening music, show off my muscles and forget about everything, my neighbours, my job, my sleep problems, my acne, my debts, Michael, Jonathan, Hadley, the weird black-haired guy and whatever it was he was trying to ask me. I want to forget about Matt. I want to forget about Stuart. I want to forget about sex, which is the last thing I feel like at the moment, and certainly not with a complete stranger.