‘Interesting,’ Jesse says, looking at me with wide eyes and I know he’s going to tease me about it later.

‘Tooky,’ Henry says, and laughs. He seems to have crossed the line into drunk at the same time as Tristan. Jesse, thankfully, hasn’t been drinking at all.

Jesse and I sit, pressed close on the couch, and listen to Henry and Tristan happily chatting, moving on from the show they both like to a podcast they both love, talking over each other. We occasionally try to join in the conversation, but they’re not really listening to us. Henry and I might have failed but I’m happy he’s at least getting a good friendship date right now. It’s only when I see Harper and Penny chatting to a big group of Harper’s friends that I realise Jesse probably wants to escape this and go and join them. Amber might even be here somewhere.

‘I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a five-minute thing. And it’s ruined your whole night,’ I say to him.

‘It hasn’t ruined my night. I’m having fun,’ he says.

‘Really?’ I’m not sure if I believe him. This is the problem with pretending to be in a relationship. Where does the sham stop and the truth start. Also, I’m never sure other people are having the same amount of fun as I am.

‘Well, we won pool.’ He ticks it off on his fingers.

‘That’s true.’

‘And Tristan is clearly pissed off on some level that we’re together.’ Another finger tick.

‘Also true.’

‘And these two are very entertaining together.’ Tick. ‘Plus I found out Tristan’s pet name for you was Tooky.’ He holds up four fingers. ‘Are four reasons enough evidence?’

‘You need a fifth one before I can officially accept you might be having fun,’ I say.

He drops his hand, and lets it rest near mine. ‘Number five. Pretending to be your boyfriend isn’t the worst thing in the world,’ he says. He’s looking at me like he’s trying to gauge my reaction to that comment, and it makes me swallow nervously. I glance away.

‘Okay, good, five solid reasons,’ I say, still not looking at him.

Across from us, Tristan gestures wildly and his beer sloshes onto my shoe.

‘Tooky, I’m sorry!’ he yells. Henry kneels down to wipe it with a clean tissue he pulls out of his pocket, despite my protests that he really doesn’t need to do that.

‘I can fix this for you,’ Henry mumbles, looking up at me with big drunk eyes as he runs the tissue over my shoe. I resist the urge to pat his head like he’s a sweet-tempered dog, and I help him get up again because he seems a little unsteady.