‘I hate to disappoint you, Jakey mate, but you’re not my type.’ Pip indulged himself in some more jocular slapping. His friend was in a spectacularly good mood. Jake wished he could say the same of himself. He wasn’t normally a heavy drinking man, but he’d been drowning his sorrows in cans of Miller Lite all day. He’d also been sitting at home looking at pictures of him and Lyssa on their last holiday in Thailand, but he wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. She’d looked gorgeous and smiley and tanned in each photo and it had only served to make him feel much, much worse. It was as if he was seeing Lyssa with fresh eyes. What was that saying about scales falling off? Whoever had said it bloody well knew what they were talking about. He’d even felt moved to put a picture of Lyssa in his wallet and wear it next to his heart. With a bit of persuasion, he’d always considered himself reasonably romantic, but it had always been an effort, always forced. Now it felt real, sincere. Had it needed all this chaos to make him appreciate what he’d once taken for granted? Does the complacency of long-term familiarity mean that you become immune to the obvious charms of your lover? He was a bloke—how could he answer that? He just knew it would have been a lot more sensible if he’d stayed off the beer today and had got off his arse and phoned round some agencies to find himself a new job.

They finally reached the door of the gallery and, with Pip flashing his invitation, they were allowed through into an even bigger crowd. Pip knew everyone who was anyone and they all seemed to be here tonight. All pressed up against each other, air kissing and yah-yah-yah-ing. Jake was sweltering inside his suit and he could feel unpleasantly damp, warm sweat trickling down his back. This was torture. He wanted to lie down and cry or drink himself into oblivion. He didn’t want to socialise—if that’s what you could call squashing up against hundreds of nameless strangers.