‘Oh, my bloody God, you are a genius, Sandra! Really! I didn’t even tell you that all Bella’s favourite dresses have halternecks! She’s got lovely shoulders. She’ll absolutely love it!’ Poppy flung her arms around Sandra’s neck, and it had the same effect as it always did, on everybody. Sandra would be a little bit in love with Poppy for the rest of her life from now on.

‘Yessssshhhh, that is right, David.’ Lars tried to focus on his new best mate, his blue eyes substantially more glassy than piercing now.

‘Damian.’ Damian tried to pronounce his own name correctly.

It transpired that Lars had been living in the Big Apple for five years, ever since he’d been headhunted from Merrill Lynch in Stockholm at the age of 29. The previous year, along with about half of his fellow emerging market traders, he’d been unceremoniously dumped by the bank. And even less ceremoniously dumped by his girlfriend, a stunning 21-year-old Romanian, who, in retrospect, he realized, ‘loved the banker, not the man’. He repeated this phrase several times to Damian and the bartender.

‘She sounds like a complete bitch, dude,’ said Damian. ‘What you need is a proper woman with her own mind, and her own job, like my wife.’ He went all misty eyed for a second.

‘Wow, man, you are one lucky guy,’ said Lars. He put his enormous arms around Damian in the biggest, strangest (but somehow loveliest) man hug Damian had ever experienced.

‘More schnapps!’ shouted Damian, aware that there was something he was meant to be doing today, but not till an awful lot later. It was still broad daylight, so he had plenty of time …

‘Schnapps! Skol alcohol fer dom som tol!’ shouted Lars.

‘Skol alcohol … der molisotito … fom!’ shouted Damian and the barman.

After a moment’s thought, ‘Hey, dude?’ the bartender asked mildly. ‘What does that mean?’

At that the enormous Swede started to laugh so much he was crying, wiping his eyes with his oversized fingers. ‘It means … it means … cheers, alcohol … for those who can take it!’

Damian and the barman also started to laugh so much that great salty tears were pouring down their cheeks. Another macho group hug was in order.

After a bit, Lars said decisively, ‘And now we must shing. Ssshurely, you shing, my brotherssh?’

‘Karaoke? Hey, man, why not? I’ve finished my shift and probably lost my job anyway!’ said the good-natured barman, who Damian thought was called Tom or Tim (or possibly Jim). So they all piled into a great big limo ordered by the equally great big Swede, Damian and the Swede singing ‘New York, New York’ at the tops of their voices. Soon they drew up at a seedy-looking place with blacked-out windows and KARAOKE in neon letters above the door. The sun was still blazing overhead.

‘It’s not the toniest joint in town, but it’s the only one in the neighbourhood where you can sing karaoke in daytime. Most of them don’t open till seven,’ said the omniscient barman. But Damian and Lars weren’t listening, as they shouted the final chorus of ‘New York, New York’ into the bouncer’s face.