But Seb knows. He knows. He saw me at my most vulnerable, face stricken, world crashing around me. Which is why I would rather not bump into him at clubs.

“I don’t usually,” says Seb. “And it isn’t. This is an exception. What are you doing here?”

“Drinking,” I say.

“Ah.”

“Drowning my sorrows. We have cocktails,” I add, brandishing my glass at him. “You can have one if you like. Only you have to be in our party. D’you want to come to it as my guest? I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s full of estate agents.”

Distantly, I’m aware that I’m not speaking appropriately. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Sense has taken a back seat for now. Alcohol is in charge of talking. And Alcohol says, “Woo! Anything goes!”

“Estate agents, huh?” says Seb, his mouth twitching.

“And manufactured-diamond importers,” I say, enunciating carefully. “Actually only one of those. He’s my brother. Who was that you were with?” I add. “Was it your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “Her name’s—”

“I know her name,” I interrupt triumphantly. “I overheard it in the coffee shop. It’s … Wait …” I pause, closing my eyes for a few seconds, letting the music thump through me. “Whiny.”

OK, that came out wrong.

“Not Whiny,” I say after a moment’s thought. “It’s something else.”

“Briony,” corrects Seb, his mouth twitching again.

“Briony.” I nod about fifteen times. “Yes. Sorry. Briony.” I think for a moment, then add, “You could call her Shouty.”

“What?” Seb stares at me.

“I saw her having a go at you earlier.” I wrinkle my nose. “She looked like …” Suddenly it comes to me. “Yes! She looked like a mean newsreader.” I put on an exaggerated TV voice. “ ‘Hello. This is the Mean News. You’re all rubbish and I despise you.’ ” I come to a finish and blink at him. “Sorry,” I add, as Seb opens his mouth. “I’m very sorry. That’s awful. I take it back. I shouldn’t be rude about your girlfriend. She’s probably really nice.”

“No,” says Seb evenly. “You shouldn’t be rude about my girlfriend.”

I swig my drink thoughtfully, then beckon him to lean closer and whisper confidingly in his ear, “She’s not nice, though, is she?”

“Are we really going to start assessing each other’s love choices?” says Seb tightly. “Is that a game you really want to play?”

“Why not?” I shoot back.

“Fine!” Seb’s voice rises with heat. “At least I didn’t harness my heart to a bloody con man. At least I’m not a gullible mug, making excuses for a total dickhead because I had a crush on him at school.”

“What?” I gasp so forcefully, I nearly totter over. “How did you know that?”

“You said you’ve known him since you were ten,” says Seb, shrugging. “Lucky guess.”

I feel a spike of resentment. I should never have given away even a morsel of information to this guy. I take a sip of cocktail, swill it round my mouth, and swallow it. Then I glare at him with all the venom I can muster.

“I thought you were polite,” I say in icy tones. “I was clearly misinformed.”

“I can be polite.” Now he looks amused. “When I want to be.”

“And by the way, I’m not gullible, I’m trusting.” I wave my glass vigorously at him for emphasis, spilling a few drops. “Trusting.”

“D’you want to dance?” His words take me by surprise, and I stare at him blankly, wondering if I heard right.

“Dance?” I echo at last. “You mean … dance?”

“I like dancing. D’you want to dance?”

“With you?” I peer at him.

“Yes,” he says, with elaborate patience. “With me.”

“Oh.” I take another sip, thinking about it. “No. I don’t.”

That’ll teach him.

Although, actually, I like dancing too. And this relentless thumping beat is kind of infectious.

“You don’t,” says Seb after a pause.

“No,” I say, a little defiantly. “I don’t.”

He’s taller than me and as I gaze up at him, the lights seem to halo round his head. His hair is shiny and his cheekbones are gleaming and his eyes are locked on mine in a way that’s kind of disconcerting.

I tell myself to look away, but the truth is, I don’t want to look away. I want to be drawn into his gaze.

Which is dumb. And wrong. He belongs to another woman, I remind myself sternly. He likes whiny, shouty, newsreadery-type women.

“But you owe me one,” he says, and pulls the coffee sleeve out of his jacket pocket. He flicks it thoughtfully a couple of times, then proffers it. “See?”

I glance dismissively at my own writing. “That doesn’t say anything about dancing.”

“Maybe dancing is what I want.” His eyes are still fixed on mine. “Maybe it’s all I want.”

“That’s all you want.” I force a skeptical tone. “A dance.”

The music is thudding through my bones. My blood is pulsing. My feet are twitching. The more we talk about dancing, the more I want to dance.

“That’s what I want,” says Seb, and there’s something about his voice and the way he’s looking at me that sends a sudden tremor through me.

“Fine,” I say at last, as though bestowing the hugest favor on him. “Fine.”

I follow him to the dance floor and we start to move. We don’t say a word. We don’t smile or even look at anyone else. Our eyes are locked on each other and our bodies seem naturally in synch from the minute we start.

I mean, here’s the thing. He can dance.

Song blends into song and still we keep on dancing. Lights are playing over us, turning Seb’s face into a multicolored whirl. The constant thump feels like a heartbeat. Jake and Leila come onto the dance floor and I glance over briefly, nodding hello, but I can’t disengage. I can’t shake the spell of dancing with Seb.

The longer I dance, the more I’m transfixed by him, by the intensity of his eyes, by the hint of his body under his shirt as he moves. He’s fluid and grounded all at once. Strong and lithe but not pumped up, not an extrovert, not constantly glancing around for approval like Ryan would be. Seb is focused. He’s honest. Everything he does seems natural, even the way he wipes the sweat off his brow.

I wipe my own face, mirroring his action. It is hot. We’re dancing to Calvin Harris now and I’m reflexively mouthing, How deep is your love, over and over along with the song. I can’t stop moving, I can’t stop responding to the music, but at the same time I’m aware of something that’s not quite right. The colors are blurring even more than they were before. I’m feeling pretty dizzy. I feel … not sick, exactly, but …

My stomach gives a heave. OK, I definitely feel weird.

I try to anchor myself by gazing at Seb’s face, but it’s splintering like a kaleidoscope. And my stomach is protesting about something—did I eat some bad food earlier? Why do I feel so—

Oh God.

OK, really not feeling good.

Although … does it matter?

My legs suddenly seem to be giving way beneath me, but then I don’t mind lying on the dance floor. I’m not fussy. I feel quite blissful, really, lying here under the lights. Leila’s face looms above me and I give her a beatific smile.

“Happy birthday,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to understand.

“Fixie! Oh my God, look at you!”

“Hi!” I try to wave cheerfully but my hand isn’t working.

Where is my hand? Oh my God, someone stole my hand.

“I don’t know!” I hear Seb’s voice above me. “She was fine. I mean, obviously she’d had a few—”

“Fixie!” Leila seems to be shouting from a great distance. “Fixie, are you OK? How many cocktails did you— Oh God, Jake? Jakey? I need some help here.…”

—

If there’s anything worse than waking up to a hangover, it’s waking up to a hangover at your brother’s flat and hearing how you ruined his girlfriend’s birthday and embarrassed him in front of all his friends.

My head is crashing with pain, but I can’t even take a paracetamol until Jake has stopped his tirade. Eventually he snaps, “I’ve got a meeting to go to,” as though that’s my fault too, and strides out.

“Oh, Fixie,” says Leila, giving me a glass of water and two tablets. “Don’t listen to Jake. It was quite funny, actually. D’you want some coffee?”

I totter into the living room, sink into the leather sofa (the Conran Shop one? I have no idea), and stare blankly at the massive TV screen which Jake bought last year. This whole flat is glossy and modern, with hi-tech everything. It’s in a block called Grosvenor Heights in Shepherd’s Bush (he calls it “West Holland Park”). Jake offered on it as soon as he’d landed his nude-knickers deal, and I’m sure he chose it because the word Grosvenor sounds posh.

Leila brings me in a cup of coffee, sits down next to me in her silky kimono, and starts opening birthday cards with her sharp nails.

“It was a fun evening, though, wasn’t it?” she says in her gentle voice. “Jakey spoils me, he really does. Those cocktails were lush.”

“Don’t talk about cocktails.” I wince.

“Sorry.” She laughs her rippling laugh, then puts down the card she’s holding and gives me an interested look.

“Who was the man?”

“The man?” I try to look blank.

“The man, silly! The one you were dancing with all that time. He’s nice.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Handsome.”

“Well, he’s taken,” I say quickly, before she gets any ideas.

He was carrying the coffee sleeve in his pocket, a small voice in my head points out.

But another one instantly answers: So what? He was there with his girlfriend.

“Oh.” Leila deflates. “Shame. Well, he was very concerned about you. He wanted to come and make sure you were all right, but we said don’t worry, we’re family, we’ll look after her.”