“Oh, we should toast, celebrate Anju’s success,” James says. “Lyd, I’ll just put a bit in your glass and I’ll have it later.” He tips some in. “To Anju!” We start clinking our glasses together. This isn’t an experience I’ve ever had. Usually, I avoid group dinners completely; I just don’t turn up when invited, or turn down invitations entirely. At art school, I barely even socialized. After every lecture and group critique I went home to be with my mum, and had my meals with her in the kitchen. I’ve never shared a bottle of wine, or had conversations with strangers over food. It feels kind of holy. The bread being broken next to the plate of eggplant. Wine being poured. The warm light. I feel like I belong here, with the spirit of a bird rather than a pig inside me.

“Oh, oh, wait, stop!” Mark says, in a booming voice. “In Germany, we look each other in the eye, always, when cheersing,” he says. “It is polite.” And he demonstrates with me. I look into his eyes. Deep brown. Everyone resumes, making a point to look each other in the eye, and laughing. Ben looks sheepishly over the table at me. He smiles. Our glasses come together. Sorry, I mouth at him. He shakes his head. His eyes are a very pale blue. He has bags underneath them. He looks tired.

After dinner, a little beige lump in the corner of the room moves, and everyone starts calling, “Piggyyyy,” “Piiiig,” “Pigleeet.” The lump is a pug, and he comes over to the table, snuffling. “Pass the pig?” Maria says, next to me.

“Pass the pig!!” Ben roars. He raises his glass into the air. His face is bright red. He scoops the dog up into his arms. In between folds of skin, two big, black eyes peer out. They look my way.

“Oh, Shakti, I have to go. I have to catch the last train, which is . . .” Utte looks at her watch. “It is seventeen minuten.”

“Oh nooo, Utteee,” James says, pouring himself another glass of wine. “You won’t stay for just one round of pass the pig?”