Then his eyes shift; he’s looking past me, focusing on something over my shoulder. He smiles at whoever it is. Waves. And I turn to look: it’s a guy of about fifty in a green velvet jacket.

‘I’ll be right back,’ Noah says to me, touching me on the shoulder as he moves past me towards the man. So I lean back against the counter, sip my drink and watch him go.

That’s when I see Sabine.

His model.

I recognise her immediately – the red hair, the pale skin, the vulpine face. She’s wearing a pair of black jeans and an olive green netted top, and is talking to a guy with a long, limp brown ponytail.

Everyone else is either huddling in small groups or swaying on the dancefloor. I don’t know anyone and nobody is talking to me. And even if I wanted to try to make conversation – which I don’t, I hate small talk – they’d probably speak French and I’d get lost after the introductions.

So instead, I sip on my drink, pull out my phone, scroll through Instagram and wait for Noah to come back.

Twenty minutes later I’m getting annoyed. Noah has moved on from the guy in velvet to another guy of about twenty-two in baggy light denim jeans and now to a small group of girls. And I’m still standing here in the kitchen, trying to pretend I’m not watching him and feeling awkward. One of the girls he’s talking to laughs. She’s got long, pin-straight dark hair and it shimmers like onyx under the light. She looks like she’s in a shampoo ad as she throws her head back in that flirty way girls do. I can feel myself wanting to go over, to try to pull him back to me, like he’s some prize to be fawned over. I used to feel that way about Harrison too.

I shouldn’t have come here.

So I down my drink, leave the glass on the countertop, set my eyes on the door and head in that direction. I’m almost free and clear when a hand reaches out, grabs mine and stops me.

‘Hey,’ comes his voice. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You seemed busy and I don’t really know anyone…’

‘I’m not busy,’ he says, pulling me close so he can whisper in my ear, ‘I’ve run out of weed. I was asking around.’

Goosebumps.

I can smell the booze on his breath and my skin is getting warm.

Then someone yells something and turns the music up louder. Tupac, ‘All About U’.

‘I love this song,’ Noah yells over the music, ‘come.’ He takes my hand and leads me to the makeshift dancefloor.

Everyone is yelling and the walls spin around me as I sway side to side. There are four piña coladas and a glass of champagne pumping through my veins right now and I haven’t eaten since a chocolate croissant at 11 am. I’m worried that if I don’t hold onto something and keep moving around like this I’ll topple over. So I drape my arms around Noah’s neck and his hands land on my hips. We’re barely moving, and that suits me just fine. I’m trying to remember what I wanted to ask him, why I came here, because right now all I can think about is the heat of his chest pressed against me. I look up at him, he’s watching me and it puts my heart out of rhythm. I look away. To the side. And that’s when I catch sight of his model again. Sabine.