But not today.

“I think I’ve made a huge mistake,” I tell him. “Stuart’s been lying to me about various things. But worst of all, I let him do it. Do you remember the holiday I’ve mentioned before, the one the three of us girls went on?”

“Ibiza, yes.”

God, he has a good memory, I like to flatter myself that it’s because I’m memorable, but really, I know it’s because he’s clearly a good note-taker.

“Looking back from the position I’m in now, I’m frustrated at how much I adapted myself to fit in with Nina by default and always went along with what she wanted me to do. I never thought about myself and what I wanted. My first thought whenever arrangements—like which bar, club or restaurant—were discussed was to first consider what the others would like to do or how they’d like me to respond, then try to pretend that’s what I wanted to do, too.”

“Why do you think you did that?”

“Because I was scared that Nina wouldn’t like me anymore if I didn’t go along with what she wanted, and also I knew that whatever she and Camilla wanted to do, they would. So, by pretending to agree with them, to go where they wanted to go, it saved me having to deal with the embarrassment or face up to the knowledge that I was at the bottom of the food chain.”

I pause.

“I’m annoyed with my younger self. Camilla and I had a drunken argument over her flirting with Charlie and I stormed off. But all that happened was that I ended up being on my own in our shared apartment. They stayed out, had fun and I was left simmering in envious bitterness. Or so I thought. The night they had didn’t turn out that well in the end.”

Sometimes, I play things down for Christian. He looks like such a gentleman that I don’t want to shock him, which I know is silly and pointless. I decide to explain it better.

“It was more than a drunken argument, actually. It was quite brutal, nasty and ugly. It got physically violent when Charlie became embroiled in the conflict.”

I slapped Charlie. He grabbed my arm to stop me doing it a second time.

And then...I remember waking up on the sofa to the smell of the ashtray lying on the coffee table. Lipstick on my beer glass. My makeup bag. (I don’t recall why I had decided to get that out.) All the sad, hopeful debris of me staying up alone, hoping that Charlie would return.

Old wounds reignite, pain burns acid-like inside my chest.

“The thing that really gets me and is the beginning in a long line of punches to the gut,” I say, “is that I wasn’t wrong. I’ve recently found out that Camilla had Charlie’s baby. Nina knew, Stuart knew more than he let on, and I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“Can you talk to them about it?”