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Flora. Justin, scram.’

      ‘You always treat me like a kid,’ scowled Justin.

      ‘That’s because you sulk and whine all the time.’

      Justin sulked off, whining.

      ‘He’ll be OK. He needs to eat about nine times a day, so the buffet’s probably the best place for him.’

      Clelland was … well, it was impossible I’d have mistaken him for anyone other than himself.

      He had filled out, of course; he couldn’t possibly be as absurdly skinny as he had been; that would have been David Bowie and nobody else. But his black, unruly hair was just the same as ever.

      ‘I thought he was you,’ I said, not trusting myself beyond a short sentence.

      ‘God, really?’ He glanced behind him at his brother, mooching off. ‘Was I such a slouching runt at that age?’

      ‘Worse!’ I gave a very peculiar slightly strangulated laugh. ‘At least he’s not wearing a Morrissey T-shirt. Every day!’

      ‘I loved that T-shirt.’

      ‘I know.’

      I held out my hand. ‘Clelland, it’s good to see you.’

      ‘Oh God, it’s John. Please. Nobody calls me that any more.’

      ‘No, really? I thought you swore you’d never get tied down into “bourgeois tying-down name fascism”.’

      ‘Yeah? And do you still spell your name P-f-l-o-w?’

      ‘No,’ I said, going scarlet.

      ‘So … what have you been up to?’ He looked … he looked great. And wryly amused to see me.

      ‘Oh, lots of things,’ I said, as he easily lifted two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter.

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘No!’ I said. ‘Well, I went to university then got a job and moved back to London.’

      ‘That’s three things.’

      ‘Over quite a long period.’

      We stood for a moment.

      ‘What have you been doing then?’ I asked awkwardly.

      Oddly, I could see over my shoulder, Justin had bumped into Olly at the buffet and was pointing out foodstuffs to him.

      Clelland – John, but I really couldn’t think of him any other way – shrugged.

      ‘Well, I went to Aberdeen.’

      ‘I remember that,’ I said quietly.

      ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, looking slightly awkward for a second, which came as a big relief to me. From the way our conversation had been going, I was beginning to wonder if I’d made up the whole romance in a psychotic episode and we were distant acquaintances greeting each other at a Rotary Club dance.

      ‘Then I joined VSO for a couple of years – get out and see the world, you know.’

      ‘Oh yes. Where did you end up?’

      ‘Africa.’

      ‘Wow, that’s amazing!’

      ‘Complete and utter shithole. I hated every second of it. I wanted to catch malaria so they’d have to send me home.’

      ‘God, I haven’t wanted you to die for ages,’ I said, before my brain had properly engaged. It was not a good moment. Olly stumbled over.

      ‘Jesus, Flo, I can’t eat a damn thing. Do you know they have almonds in the salad? You’d think they’d put on a few fish fingers just in case. This is going to be even worse than the Stricklands’ wedding, and that made me sick.’

      ‘You were drunk.’

      ‘God, yeah.’

      Clelland raised his eyebrows.

      ‘This is Oliver,’ I introduced him. ‘My, er, boyfriend.’

      Why the ‘er’? I was conscious that perhaps I wasn’t sounding as thrilled as I could.

      Clelland put his hand out. ‘Hi.’

      ‘Hi,’ said Olly, holding out his hand.

      ‘Clelland’s an old school friend.’

      I’d never told Olly about Clelland. At first it was because I was obeying the ‘don’t tell new boyfriend about exes; they must think you’re a virgin’ type bullshit law. And then … well, some things are private. Also, I think if we knew all about how people behaved when they were teenagers, no one would ever go out with anyone.

      ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Olly gruffly.

      Looking at them both, I felt very strange suddenly. I wasn’t comparing them. Definitely not. This was not a competitive thing. Clelland still had a chance to appear a complete prick.

      ‘Olly’s a lawyer,’ I said helpfully.

      ‘Really? And I shook your hand?’ said Clelland, and smiled.

      I’d hardly ever seen his smile. Not something suburban rebels do very often, smile. They talk about suicide and Leonard Cohen quite a lot. It was lovely. His teeth were slightly crooked, and the incisors pointed in.

      ‘Oh gosh, yes, sorry about that. But we only really screw you if you’re a multinational, our lot,’ said Ol. ‘Just the sixth circle of hell really.’

      ‘So you’re not one of those chaps that advertises on telly for fat ladies who fall off their chairs at work?’

      ‘No. Although I help Flo, you know, when it happens at home,’ he said with a grin.

      ‘Yes,’ said Clelland in the way people have to when someone makes a slightly off-colour remark. I couldn’t tell if he thought it was funny either.

      ‘What line are you in then?’ said Olly, half eyeing a waitress carrying a bowl of prawn toast. He reached out a hand and took four.

      ‘How come you can eat sesame seeds on toast and not on sausages?’ I said without thinking. Both the boys looked at me.

      ‘Because it’s toast,’ said Olly, as if explaining to a four-year-old. ‘Anything can be done with toast.’

      Clelland stuck his bottom lip out at me.

      ‘Um … I’m an ethical logistician.’

      ‘A what?’ I said.

      ‘Oh. Do you perform on stage a lot?’ said Ol. ‘Puppets and so on?’

      ‘No …’

      ‘OK, what is that then?’

      ‘Well, I try to direct aid through the best routes. Try to play down the possibility of it being hijacked by armies, that kind of thing.’

      I admit it. My heart leaped. This was exactly the kind of thing I’d have dreamed he’d be doing. Well, that or some sort of tragic Moulin Rouge-style poet, obviously, but this – heroic, good for the world, manly – I had a vision of him standing on top of an elephant, for some reason. Then, I’m ashamed to say, one of me looking like Meryl Streep in Out of Africa-style linens, saying, ‘I hed a ferm in Efrica …’

      ‘I hate it,’ said Clelland. ‘It’s a pissy job.’

      ‘Really? It sounds interesting,’ said Olly.

      ‘Everyone says that.’ He ran his hand through his dark hair. ‘It’s bloody endless government bureaucracy, and as to how much good we even do at the end of the day I couldn’t tell you. Certainly doesn’t seem to make anything any better. God, I’m sorry. Am I being really depressing at a wedding? Was I always like this?’

      He

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