‘Hey, look, look, of course I’m having a good time,’ I whisper in his ear.

He wails softly and snuggles against me, burrowing into my hair. I can feel his lips brushing my neck, his hot breath, his five o’clock stubble, and three in the morning must be a barman’s five o’clock. This tired and heavy body feels strangely familiar. It’s nicely familiar to be holding a man. His breath becomes more regular and I become aware that his fingers have penetrated slightly under the hem of my dress and are moving upwards at an imperceptible pace with each of his breaths.

‘I just wanted,’ he murmurs, ‘for you girls to have the best night ever.’

‘I told you: we had a great time.’

‘Are you, though?’

‘I am.’

He pushes my soggy underwear to the side and begins touching me. I let out a sigh.

‘Then tell me,’ he says.

‘What?’ I say.

‘You’re having the best night ever.’

He is relentless. He must have been a popular boy in school or friends with popular boys. The only thing teenage boys will ever get right is that persistence pays off. Clearly this isn’t the kind of man who gives up easily. Fail, fail again, fail better.

‘I’m having the best night ever,’ I say.

‘Tell me again.’

‘I’m having the best night ever.’

The repetitive movement continues, and it is pleasing. The inside of his arm against my cheek is cool, and smooth. I give up and I come.

He struts back to the table with his arm around my shoulders. I’m feeling utterly tired in that way you do after an orgasm when sleep overcomes you completely. The way that he holds me feels impersonal. He could be carrying a watermelon or a baguette under his arm. The lights are on. The girls have gone. The twin boys are stacking cocktail glasses. They look younger in this light. They look up at us.

‘All right now, boys,’ says Stuart Brandon Pierce. ‘Who’s the Best Mixologist in the World?’

He runs his thumb lightly across my arse. My heels feel heavy in my hand. The boys cheer and exchange high fives, low fives. I leave.

I pull the key out of the lock and shut the door to the flat behind me. I pause for a minute with my back against the door. I hook one big toe on the back of each foldable pump and slide them off my feet. I wiggle my toes. I double lock the door and find the packet of cigarettes in the bottom of my handbag. There is one left. I stick it in my mouth, my lips furry around the filter. I lock the door and leave the key in there because no one else needs to come back to this flat tonight.