Through the traditional means of a twenty-first-century group chat, Betty managed to call us all together to one bar, at one time. She cautioned us privately though – in another group chat, minus Molly – that it would be best if we didn’t mention what Betty was referring to as, ‘the fuck-boy situation’. It was inevitable, though, that Molly would get drunk enough to confess all, so we knew it was only a matter of timing. We were five drinks in – apart from Lily, who was seven in, despite her protests – when Molly started to slur her worries and disappointments. Betty interjected now and then with a correction, as the only person to have received this original story earlier in the day as it unfolded – in the harsh light of sobriety, too. But Molly looked to largely keep to the script of what had happened.

She and Patrick had been sleeping together and dating – Molly thought – exclusively. Only Patrick thought he and Molly had been sleeping together in the non-exclusive way. Jesus, what is it with Rowan and his friends? I threw down enough wine in one go to make my throat burn. Faith squeezed my knee and asked for the fourth time if I was okay and for the fourth time I lied and said I was. Horrible as it felt to admit, the situation with Molly was at least a good distraction.

‘Like, were there loads of girls or one other girl?’ Cora asked, her words clanging together. She gestured to nothing at all with her beer bottle as she spoke. ‘Because it might be just the one.’

‘Does that make it better?’ Betty snapped back.

Lily laughed. ‘If anything, doesn’t it make it worse?’

‘Fucking hell!’ Cora threw her hands into a defensive gesture. ‘I only asked.’

‘There were other girls,’ Molly started, then stalled and placed a hand flat on her chest plate. She took two deep breaths, universal drunk speak for, I might be about to vomit … but then she picked up, ‘He said it’s just lads being lads. Some fucking, I don’t know, some disgusting competition with him and someone. I think he said one of the others. But then—’

‘Moll, wait,’ I interrupted her. ‘What do you mean a competition?’

‘Boys being ratbag, arsehole boys,’ Betty answered. ‘He said something to her about being quids in on a bet with a friend about, I don’t know, being a fuck-boy?’ She waved away anything more, as though what she’d said were a complete explanation of something. Oh, but there’s so much more to this now, I thought, as I leaned back in my own chair and gulped air down like it were shots of something stronger. Because Patrick might be Player One/Two.