The landlord points to the poster on the door.

‘Every Sunday. Seven thirty sharp,’ he says in his deep baritone voice. ‘Valentine and Gisele used to be a winning team.’

I glance sideways at Valentine, worried that might have upset him, but he nods proudly. ‘We were that.’

The landlord pauses by our table, his hands full of glasses. ‘We’re all sorry to hear she’s not been so well.’ His voice is gruff, but matter-of-fact, and I’m reminded of my grandparents and how they used to show their concern without making a fuss, in the way Yorkshire folk do. ‘Make sure to send her our love, won’t you?’

‘Aye, I will.’ Valentine gives a brief dip of his head, but I can tell he’s touched.

Satisfied, the landlord nods to himself.

And I think too how in a world that is constantly talking, tweeting, liking and posting, such a brief exchange between these two men conveys so much.

‘Think on – about that quiz.’ He pauses in the doorway of the pub. ‘It would be good to have you back.’

As he disappears inside, I look across at Valentine.

‘We should get a team together.’ As I suggest it, I’m fully expecting to have to persuade him. So I’m surprised when he drains the rest of his pint and sets the glass back on the table.

‘Aye, you’re right, lass. Who do you know that’s good at sport?’

Easter weekend is spent hanging out with Naomi and Ellie: exploring the village, playing board games, watching films and making numerous trips to the tiny hole-in-the-wall fish-and-chip shop next to the pub.

‘I’m so sorry about not having a kitchen,’ I apologize for the umpteenth time, as we unwrap the vinegary newspaper and sit in a patch of dappled sunlight in the garden to eat from our knees.

‘Stop saying “Sorry”. Ellie’s in heaven, aren’t you, Ellie?’ admonishes Naomi, to which Ellie, covered in ketchup, nods happily and declares that chips are her favourite food.

We talk about anything and everything, as old friends do, picking up and putting down threads of conversation as if we’re browsing through racks of clothes in a shop. We unfold topics like sweaters, trying some on and turning this way and that in the mirror – my need for a haircut, that new show on Netflix, random school gossip, the state of the world, the state of our necks – while discarding others, like my ex David, who was quickly picked up and put down, a sweater that definitely doesn’t suit me.

At some point one evening, after several glasses of wine, Naomi gets all determined to find me a new man and suggests doing some ‘Boyfriend shopping’, and so I play along and we scroll through various dating apps, ‘just to see’. After all, I met David online. Only it all looks a bit different now that I’m older, and so do the men. But then so do I, even with Naomi’s magic phone filter. Which is depressing and funny all at the same time, as things always are, when accompanied by a bottle of something dry and white and your oldest friend.