When I finally stumble home, I stick some chips in the oven and stretch out on the threadbare sofa, scrolling absent-mindedly through Instagram. It is a newsreel of updates of baby Oscar and jolly family album photos of Bea with her kids playing dress-up. I ‘like’ them with a drunken thumb.

The night out has been a reminder that I have no one to go out with any more, apart from Zeta occasionally, but she’s hardly ever here. I realize that I miss these carefree, spontaneous nights. I crave them. I don’t want to forget that we are still young. It’s clear that our lives are at a major crossroads. We are no longer sat at the traffic lights, though, everyone is already zooming off in different directions. I wish everyone and everything would slow down just for a moment.

9

2012

We were sitting in the sunny beer garden of The White Horse. The outside area was modern and welcoming, lined with deckchairs with striped cushions and big patio heaters. The insides of the old pub building were really in need of a paint job – undecorated since the smoking ban, the pub still reeked slightly of stale smoke, and the once-white curtains remained an off-yellow colour. The girls and I had spent many drunken summer evenings in here. There was normally a cheesy tribute band playing in the evening, or a big football screen with people milling about spilling their beers, or loud, cackling birthday parties. Last time we had a night out here, Fleetwood Bac was the featured act, and I drank and danced with a fake Stevie Nicks until we were both sick in the toilet. This, however, was a more low-key lunchtime affair: Jacob, Cec, Isla, Mike and I were all seated around a big wooden picnic bench. It was just warm enough to sit out, but it felt nice because the evenings were getting lighter thanks to the clocks going back. Mike had just bought a round and was carrying all the pints over on a wobbly tray. We then noticed Bea come in with her big pram, pushing everyone out of the way.

‘Excuse me! Coming through,’ Bea shouted, loudly.

I went up to her, and kissed her on the cheek. ‘So good to see you,’ I said. I was acutely aware that I hadn’t seen Bea for ages; it was longer than we’d ever been apart before, and I found myself feeling a little awkward around her. A sort of social anxiety, even. A distance.

‘Man, I love having a pompously huge pushchair; it’s like having a massive lawnmower, everyone immediately moves!’

‘How are you?’ Isla asked, hugging Bea.

‘I’m good! He’s fast asleep,’ she said, nodding down towards the pushchair. Bea had recently given birth to her first child, Andrew. He was in the land of nod, wearing a bunny hat. Butter wouldn’t melt.

‘Congrats, Bea,’ Jacob said, putting his arm round her. ‘He’s bloody gorgeous.’

‘I’ll go get you a drink, Bea.’ I stood up.