Emma put the paper down and got out her Hotel du Lac. She crossed her legs, registering the slinky feel of the silk of her knickers against the smoothness of her waxed skin. She felt a twinge of guilt. For whom had she suffered the agonies of hair removal? She might pretend it was for herself but she would be lying. And yet it was truly lovely to touch – she’d spent a long time running her hand over her own softness in the bath. But that wasn’t the whole truth. She’d invited Si to come with her to the party, of course, hoping he’d say no, and when he did say no she’d felt a small disappointment, but was it only because she didn’t like arriving on her own at occasions? No, I understand, she’d said when he’d dithered. A reunion is always boring for partners.

Sally Pea had looked exactly the same to Emma. Apart from the fact she now had blonde hair (with purple streaks) and they both used to have black hair. Plus she must be about four stone heavier than she used to be, which came as something of a relief – Emma had been half starving herself since Sally sent the invite. She’d somehow imagined everyone from her past being unravaged by time. But there was much that hadn’t changed about Sally: her bright button eyes, her smile, her laugh, her warmth. She’d squealed with delight when she saw Emma approaching. They were both dressed entirely in black, perhaps subconsciously for old times’ sake. And it seemed to Emma, who was filled with a powerful nostalgia, the craziest thing in the world that they had lost touch. How had that happened? How introverted and serious she herself had become with her small life and her big career. As they held each other at arm’s length to examine the doings of time, Emma deeply regretted her self-inflicted isolation, all because of her inability to express her vulnerability. She had immersed herself in her work when perhaps it was friendship that got you up and down the snakes and ladders of life. Connection was all that really mattered.

‘You won the lottery! I can’t believe it!’ she cried, clinking her glass against Sally’s.

‘I know! I’m a jammy bugger!’ Sally hugged her tightly. She was already pretty plastered. Emma wasn’t far behind – she’d knocked back a few martinis on her own before coming.