‘That’s too cynical,’ I told him. ‘If you’re right and it’s bullshit, they’re not doing it in a calculating way. It’s a psychological defence reflex. Probably means they weren’t fed often enough as hungry babies or something. Now they’re adults, they’ve worked out a few strategies for getting their needs met, but they have to make sure those needs keep coming, as the cue for endless reassurance. When the needs stop, the meeting of them stops too. Then they’re catapulted right back to their childhood misery.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that’s what they’ve all agreed to say if challenged.’ Gabe nodded emphatically, as if no conspiracy could get past him. ‘It’s up to you if you want to take the word of the backwards-facing cabal over mine.’

I couldn’t help laughing. In our early days, Gabe did this all the time: veered towards the surreal when he was losing an argument – not in order to win; purely for entertainment’s sake. It made me realise how dull and rule-bound most people’s conversation was. As I told Marion when she asked about the new boyfriend I hadn’t yet let her meet: ‘He’s as much fun to chat to as a gay man, but straight.’ Marion frowned and said she didn’t think she’d ever spoken to a homosexual.

Gabe was as infuriating as he was amusing. I soon learned that his moral code bore no resemblance to mine. He was happy to wander around with disused marjoram jars full of sprigs of skunkweed nestling in his every pocket, but he thought cheating on your partner was scummy. He was sweetly naïve about sexual exclusivity being an integral part of romantic love. On that first train journey, he proudly declared himself to be the if-you-kiss-anyone-else-it’s-over type, and I showered him with good-natured ridicule for it. (That’s right: he read the small print before he opted in, in case any of you are worried about him.)

As Gabe said in his speech at our wedding, the woman in seat D14 and the man in seat D16 had nothing in common but powerful sexual attraction. This was what convinced me, before our train had pulled into King’s Cross station, that I’d met my future husband. Opposites attract, don’t they? Every romantic book and film ever made tells us that thinking someone’s an utter twat is a crucial pre-love stage that can’t be bypassed or else your relationship is lacking something.

If I were a romantic novelist, I’d want to send out a different message: imagine the same words and behaviour minus the attractive physical shell – would you still be interested? Or would you want to tell the person to fuck off? If the latter, do not marry.