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‘Personally, I think you deserve the whole bottle,’ she said.

Forty minutes later, I was squeezed into the tiniest black boob-tube dress known to mankind, plus a matching pair of heels. I hadn’t worn anything this short since I was on the cover of Cosmopolitan. To be fair, it was a nice dress, if perhaps teamed with tights, a full-length coat and maybe an equally full-length duvet. But, as Claire reminded me, it’s practically a criminal offence to wear so much as a jacket on a night out up here and, frankly, I was too fragile to argue. The mental image of Rupert and Penelope enthusiastically shagging in the luxury of The Ritz was currently playing on a loop in my brain. Somehow, when I thought it was a stupid fling he’d get over, I blocked out the fact that they were ever having sex, knowing it couldn’t be anything serious when he was in my bed every night. But now I had left, I’d given them a hall pass to be at it like fucking rabbits. Maybe she had some weird sexual talent I didn’t. Maybe she had a mouth like a Dyson. I’d certainly never enjoyed sucking his limp dick. Not since my veneers were done, it just felt unhygienic. Perhaps that had been my fatal flaw. I made a mental note to start getting better at sookies.

Claire attacked my hair with her GHDs until it sat in a swishy, stylish bob, then plastered enough makeup on my face to disguise the fact that my soul had recently left my body. Once she was ready, we headed out of her flat and walked five minutes to the local pub. As we approached the rough-cast building, the sound of shouting and laughter spilled out onto the street. Clusters of men stood outside smoking roll-ups like they were enjoying a Victorian factory break. I grabbed Claire’s arm before we reached the door.

‘I can’t go in there,’ I whispered, stomach burning. ‘What if someone recognises me?’

Claire burst out laughing. ‘No one interested in your homepage up here, Harri. No offence, doll. If we went into Berlinkys or Wunderbar, then yes . . . you’d probably be spotted. But in here . . . It’s just a bunch of guys playing pool. You will be fine.’

I stared at her, unsure whether to feel relieved or deeply offended.

‘Look, if it makes you feel better,’ she said, glancing thoughtfully at the sky, ‘I’ll just say you’re my cousin visiting from London or something?’

I nodded but in a half-assed way, even though by this stage I knew I was out of options.

‘Seriously, Harri,’ she added, already pushing the door open. ‘I need inside. My fanny’s about to freeze shut out here.’

My eyes immediately dropped to her crotch.

Ew. Why did my brain do that? I didn’t need visual confirmation.

‘Fine,’ I muttered, following her inside. Immediately, the noise hit me like a slap.

Claire waved at about six different groups of people as we crossed the bar and then she pointed to two empty stools. I perched on one, trying not to stare at the suspicious stains darkening the velvet seat.

‘Two white wines, Rab!’ Claire shouted over the unruly chaos.

Rab, the bartender, nodded.

I scanned the room. ‘It’s all men,’ I said.

‘I know.’ Claire grinned. ‘Pure sausage fest. It’s exactly what you need,’ she added, bursting out laughing.

I shook my head, still taking it all in, when my eyes landed on a familiar tracksuit leaning against the bar.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

‘Is that Jamie?’ I hissed. ‘From the soup kitchen?’

‘Aye. Jamie Jenkins,’ Claire said casually, paying Rab.

I sighed heavily. ‘Seriously. That man is everywhere I go. You’d think there were five of the cunt.’

Claire giggled and handed me my wine. ‘He’s a good guy, actually. He’s doing well for himself. Just bought one of the new builds up the road.’

I gave her a look that clearly said absolutely not and turned away just as Jamie knocked back a pint with a group of older men.

My eyes wandered across the old wooden bar, which was decorated with thin strings of tinsel with far too much Sellotape plastered around it. I wondered if it simply stayed up all year long.

‘So, I take it you’re staying for Christmas now?’ Claire asked, sipping on her drink.

My face screwed up. ‘Can I be honest?’

Claire swung her long black hair sassily. ‘Always.’

‘I fucking hate Christmas!’ I giggled, feeling a weight instantly lift from my shoulders. ‘Even before this one. I just hate it. And the idea of spending it back in Glasgow, while my cheating husband will be cosied up with his evil mistress, is making it so much worse! I wish it weren’t a thing. I wish it would fuck right off and we could all just forget about it.’

Claire looked shocked. ‘Wow,’ she said eventually. ‘Half of your content is literally a countdown to this day, Harri! Liking Christmas is your entire personality.’