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all,’ she says.

      ‘Let’s not talk about it, it’ll just make me angry, and I’ve had a bad enough week as it is … Ooh, although I did meet a man.’

      ‘A man?’ says Polly. ‘An actual real live man?’

      ‘Hang on, I’ll just put the pasta on and then I can tell you all about it.’

      Two bowls of pasta, two bottles of wine and two helpings of cake later, I’m trying to remember all the reasons why I think Jeff is going to be my new boyfriend.

      ‘And he noticed those earrings I bought in New York, the five-dollar ones from Old Navy that actually look quite expensive.’

      ‘The moonstone ones?’

      ‘Yes, and he actually knows what a moonstone is, but he’s definitely not gay because he went out with another girl called Susie … with three Is … oh, and then he said that this chocolate sponge was my namecake, like namesake, because it’s like a Suzy Q apparently. Isn’t that funny? He’s funny as well as handsome … and he used to live in New York and he’s learning Spanish, and we like the same films, and he loves food!’

      ‘Sounds perfect,’ she says. ‘Apart from one big thing.’

      ‘What?’ I say, suddenly worried that she has found a clue in something I’ve said that reveals he is not single. ‘Polly?’

      ‘It’s obvious what the problem is, isn’t it?’ she says, waving her wine glass in the air.

      ‘No,’ I say. ‘What’s obvious?’

      ‘The name, Suze, the name.’

      I breathe a sigh of relief.

      ‘It’s up there with Tarquin on the list of worst men’s names ever.’

      ‘It’s nowhere near Tarquin,’ I say. ‘It’s a totally fine name.’

      ‘Jeffrey?’ she says. ‘How many sexy Jeffs or Jeffreys are there? There’s plenty of unsexy Jeffreys. Geoffrey from Rainbow. Geoff Capes, Jeffrey Dahmer. Yep, serial killer name,’ she says, shuddering. ‘Or a man in a golfing jumper. A golf-playing serial killer.’

      ‘Jeff Bridges. He’s a sexy Jeff. My God, have you ever seen a photo of him when he was young?’

      She raises an eyebrow suspiciously.

      ‘And Jeff Goldblum, kind of,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I’m in no position to be fussy about names at this stage of the game. If Nimrod Mcfartwhistle asked me out, I’d be hard-pressed to say no.’

      ‘Does he have a beard?’ she says.

      ‘Jeff? Why do you ask?’

      ‘It’s a beardy name.’

      ‘No,’ I say. ‘No beard. A little bit of stubble, but good stubble. And very very blue eyes. Just like Daniel Craig but with a less craggy nose. And he’s bald.’

      ‘So nothing like Daniel Craig.’

      ‘Same eyes,’ I say.

      ‘Thank goodness he’s not called Craig,’ she says.

      ‘What’s wrong with Craig?’

      ‘Who calls a baby Craig?’ she says.

      ‘Who calls a baby Spencer?!’

      She laughs. ‘Fair point.’

      ‘So more importantly, tell me what’s the latest on the wedding!’ I say. ‘I’m so excited, I can’t wait!’

      Her face lights up. ‘The dress is sorted – Nanette’s done the most amazing job ever – and I’ve found the perfect shoes, and they were a total bargain, forty quid in a shop in a village down the road from us.’

      ‘Colour?’

      ‘Silver,’ she says.

      ‘Comfortable?’

      ‘Hell no! And the head-dress! Unbelievable. I found a woman on eBay who’d inherited her aunt’s – Edwardian lace, totally beautiful, a hundred and ten years old this thing, worn once, and she only wanted sixty-five quid for it! And Dave and I have finally made our minds up about the food …’

      ‘Are you going to tell me anything or are you keeping it a surprise?’

      ‘Definitely a surprise. Although I think you’ll like the cake.’

      ‘Tell me about the cake at least?’

      ‘No way!’ she says, ‘the cake’s the best bit. Just be warned, the whole thing’s not going to be as posh as first time round – the venue’s just a little restaurant in Farringdon near the registry office. But all the money’s going into food and booze this time!’

      ‘Poll, I don’t care if you guys get married in Nando’s, I’m just so excited for you. You deserve this more than anyone.’

      She squeezes my hand. ‘I swear, Suze, it’ll happen to you when you least expect it.’

      ‘Oh Polly. I’ve been least expecting it for a very long time now,’ I say, smiling.

      She takes another sip of her wine and pours the rest of the bottle into her glass. ‘Oh. And you’ll never guess who’s RSVPd and is coming without a certain evil other half …’ she says, looking at me with a mischievous grin.

      I put down my glass.

      ‘Daniel McKendall’s coming?’ I say.

      ‘Daniel McKendall’s coming, and he asked if you were coming too.’

      Daniel McKendall: best mate of Polly’s brother.

      I’ve known Daniel McKendall since I was twelve. We were born on the same day, in the same year. And from the age of thirteen through to fifteen, he was my best male friend and my sort-of boyfriend.

      ‘I’m going to open another bottle,’ I say, getting off the sofa and heading to the kitchen. I fetch myself a glass of water and drink it slowly, trying to figure out why even now, after all this time, just the sound of his name still has an effect on me.

      ‘Bring me some booze immediately!’ she shouts from the sofa. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any cider in the fridge, have you?’

      Polly and I spent far too many of our teenage years drinking cider, wearing DMs and listening to The Cure. She was a proper bona fide Goth, hair dyed Naples Black, scary eyeliner, the works. I was just copying her because I was in awe of her, and because the DMs offended my mother in a way that I found hugely gratifying. Although there was no way I’d have got away with dyed hair living under my parents’ roof. They’d have put me up for fostering.

      ‘Polly, I haven’t touched cider since I disgraced myself at your eighteenth. If you really want a blast from the past I can offer you Malibu, or I still have some Galliano left over from New Year’s Eve 2004. It looks like fluorescent urine but it tastes far worse …’

      ‘Malibu,’ she says. ‘And have you got any bad shit in the cupboard? I’ve chucked all the sweets out at home and I need something full of fat and sugar.’

      ‘Chocolate raisins, jumbo Chocolate Buttons, peanut M&Ms, take your pick,’ I say.

      ‘Bloody hell, you’re better than the Texaco. Buttons!’

      I take the booze and the chocolates back through to her.

      ‘Did I tell you Brooke’s been living in New York for the last four months?’ she says, taking a glass from me. ‘Without Daniel …’

      I take a sip of neat Malibu, wince at the sweetness, and pretend I haven’t heard her.

      ‘She said she can’t bear to live in England any more because of the weather,’ she says, with a raised eyebrow. ‘Says the rain gives her headaches. More like it makes her hair go curly.

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