He nods. ‘I envied them, you know. They were so bloody happy together, properly in love. I watched them sometimes and it was the way he watched her, you know?’ He looks my way, but I don’t think he really sees me, he doesn’t seem to expect an answer. ‘It was like at times nothing else mattered; he literally only had eyes for her.’ He laughs, a short laugh, but it isn’t harsh, it’s fond memories, I think. ‘I used to tease him, but he didn’t care, he’d just shrug.’ He studies his hands for a moment. ‘When it happened, he seemed okay at first, he went through the motions, coped at the funeral; you know, one day at a time stuff. He coped, that’s the word everybody used, coped. I thought give him space, support him, don’t rush. You know?’ He looks at me properly now, his eyes darting as though he’s looking for answers in my face. I nod. ‘Six months after she died, we went to a footie match. We’d always gone to the football together and Millie used to come too. He cracked, completely,’ he shakes his head, ‘he wasn’t bloody coping at all. He fell apart, right there in the grounds before the game had even kicked off.’ He takes a long swig of beer. ‘And that,’ his voice is stronger now, his normal tone. Decisive. ‘Is what love does to you. To think I was bloody jealous of him.’ He laughs. ‘Wrecked him. Never had a date since. Never been the same happy guy again. And that is why it just isn’t worth it. I am never going to be like that. Happens once, happens twice, never going to bloody catch me out a third time.’

‘Oh.’ I try to get to grips with this in my slightly drunken brain. Noah is a serial one-night stander because he’s scared? Scared of falling in love? Big, brave, confident Noah isn’t incapable of being faithful, he’s just frightened of what meeting the right woman might do to him? And what did he mean, it happened twice?

‘You don’t have to be madly in love though, you can just be …’

‘A bit?’ He guffaws, but then it gradually morphs into his normal deep chuckle – sending mixed messages to my tummy. He’s so gorgeous, he’s so nice, he’s so … wrong. He stops laughing and gazes at me, his face serious. ‘It’s the real deal, or nothing at all.’ He leans forward, intent. ‘How many songs do they sing about being a little bit in love? Or how many of your movies tell you to settle for the nearly-guy? Eh, eh? How many,’ he taps my hand, ‘settle for boring?’ Then he sits back triumphant while I wriggle uncomfortably. ‘All or nothing.’ Then he grins. ‘Though nothing can be pretty damned good sometimes.’

Noah is never going to understand my version of comfortable love. How can he not see it doesn’t have to be total passion, it can be more about companionship, somebody you like. That you trust. I think that is a conversation for when I am sober and can think straight, and he is sober and might listen to my logic. ‘How is he now? Jed?’