I cringe at the use of the nickname he used to call me. I haven’t heard it in years. When I was younger my glasses were really thick and, if you looked through the side of them, it often looked like I had multiple eyes. Add to that my tall, gangly limbs and my flat chest, and Max had once said that I looked like a spider, and the name stuck. Heartache and pain coming flooding back, of having the kind of teenage crush that consumed every fibre of my being, only for the object of my affection to see me as a spider.

Tears start to form as the memories come in thick and fast, Max’s friends all still calling for me to strip. It’s too much. I turn and push my way through the crowds on the dance floor and down the stairs towards the exit.

‘Spider, wait!’ I hear as Max thunders down the stairs after me.

I ignore him and find myself out on the pavement, wrapping my cape around me to counter the chill in the air.

‘Spider, please. I’m sorry,’ he says, turning me round gently from my elbow.

‘You thought I was a stripper?’ I say, putting my hands on my hips. My cape billows out behind me in the wind.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, taking me by the hand and walking me away from the bouncers who are trying not to laugh at us. ‘It was the outfit. My mate Jez said he’d booked one and then you were standing right in front of us and you were looking over and I just thought… Shit, I’m so sorry. But look at you, Spider, all grown up.’

I’m aware that he’s looking at my boobs, which are squeezing over the top of my corset, and my cape is no help; no matter how many times I try and wrap myself in it, it keeps flying back in the wind.

‘Um, Max,’ I say, waving and pointing at my face. His eyes flick up.

‘Oh yeah, sorry, it’s just. That outfit. Do you always dress…’

‘I went to Comic Con today.’

‘Comic what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Are you here with friends?’

‘I was, but I lost them. I was looking for them when I bumped into you. But I think I’m just going to go home,’ I say, scanning the street for a cab.

Two bouncers struggle out of the club; they’re manhandling Max’s friend in the Borat mankini. They practically throw him into the arms of his waiting friends, who have scrambled out after him.

‘What the hell happened?’ asks Max.

‘Rodge’s just been sick on the dance floor.’

Max winces.

‘We’re going to take him home,’ says his friend.

‘I’ll help.’

‘Nah, mate, we’ve got him,’ the friend says, tapping Max’s chest. ‘You stay here.’