‘Well, not really new of course.’ I’d been a journalist before having Cassie, for five years. ‘I wanted to do something with my time now the kids are older, and there was a vacancy on the trustee board of the Women’s Refuge here. So I joined, and then the chance came up to debate domestic violence on Channel 4, you know with that awful comedian, and no one else was free so I did it.’

‘And she wouldn’t put on lipstick for it, even though I like, begged her to,’ said Cassie, earning a small laugh.

‘Domestic violence, Al? Mikey here been knocking you around?’ Callum batted at his friend. I remembered now how drink made him bear-like, swatting at you with clumsy affectionate hands. ‘If he has, just say the word and I’ll kick his arse for you.’

I saw that, across the table, Karen was trying to meet my eye, but I didn’t want to remind Callum why I knew so much about that topic, especially not with the kids here, so I pasted on a smile. ‘Ha, no. It seemed to go well anyway. Since then I’ve been getting back into features, opinion pieces mostly, lots of feminist stuff.’ Cassie gave a quiet groan. She thought my new-found career was unutterably embarrassing.

‘You want to watch it, Mikey, or she’ll be doing a Lorena Bobbit on you,’ said Callum. He caught Jodi’s look. ‘Only joking, Al. You’ve done brilliantly. Should get you in to give a talk to the office. We’re swamped in sexual harassment cases, it’s awful really.’

‘What percentage of them are you?’ I asked, to show I wasn’t a humourless feminist, earning a laugh from Mike, and another – rare and precious – from Bill. I felt myself relax a little more. We were having a good time. It was all fine. ‘Hey, do you guys realise it’s coming up for twenty-five years since we all met? Scary or what? A quarter century.’

Jodi put a hand on Callum’s arm. ‘I almost forgot. Show them the picture I found clearing out. I was setting up the nursery and there was this whole shoebox full.’

‘Oh yes.’ Callum fished out the iPad he’d stowed under his seat. ‘Look at this.’

He passed round the little tablet and I was looking at our faces, but from twenty-five years ago. It was the night we’d all met, in the bar of our college at Oxford. Mike and Callum had already made friends in that easy way boys do, whether they’re four or forty. Both of them from private schools, living in the same corridor by virtue of their surnames Morris and Mackintosh. In the picture they were wearing Nikes and black jeans, Callum in a white polo shirt and Mike, trying to be a little cooler, in a Rolling Stones one. Callum still had the ruddy glow from his ‘gap summer’ in Greece.