After he graduated, though, nothing seemed to quite fall into place. Film school turned out to be a dead end, so he went into advertising. It was supposed to be a stopgap: a way to earn a bit of cash to fund his own independent movies. As the years went by, he clung to this idea tightly, retaining the dress sense and swagger of a critically acclaimed auteur when he was actually spending most of his time directing fast-food commercials. At his wedding, back in 2020, he was quick to tell me he was ‘making shitloads’ doing this kind of work, but I could tell that his guard was up. He was spiky and defensive about it; like he suspected I might be about to remind him of our student days, when he used to swan into pubs drunkenly bellowing that Bill Hicks line: ‘If anyone here is in advertising or marketing … kill yourself.’
I guess none of us turned out how we thought we would at nineteen. We all made mistakes and concessions and wrong turnings.
I realise I’ve zoned out slightly, and as I tune back into the conversation, I find that the chat about my and Alice’s wedding has now somehow segued into the story of how Phil proposed to Becky. It’s an anecdote everyone here is clearly already familiar with, but you can tell the protagonists get a massive kick out of rehashing it.
‘Show them the photo again, Phil!’ Becky squeals.
‘There you go.’ Phil passes me his iPhone – an iPhone 14, I notice – and I squint down at the picture. It’s taken from far away, like a long-lens paparazzi shot, and it shows Phil and Becky on a swanky-looking speedboat. He’s down on one knee holding a velvet box open as Becky does her best Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone impression: shrieking with both hands clasped to her face.
‘Where were you again?’ I ask Phil.
‘Cancún, mate,’ he says smugly.
‘Right, yeah. So who took the photo?’
‘They’ve told you this so many times, Ben,’ Alice mutters.
‘I’d hired a guy beforehand,’ Phil explains. ‘Gave the doorman at our hotel twenty pesos to snap a few pics with my Nikon as soon as I got down on one knee.’
I look at Becky. ‘So the whole day, there was a random bloke on the shore watching you through a camera without you knowing about it?’
‘Yes!’ Becky tilts her head at Phil. ‘It’s so romantic, isn’t it?’
Everyone murmurs in agreement, although ‘romantic’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use. It sounds like the kind of stunt the Walking Dead guy might pull if there’s ever a Love Actually sequel.
‘How did you pop the question again, Ben?’ Marek asks me.
Becky claps her hands. ‘Oh yes! I love this story.’
All five of them are staring at me now, their smiles withering fast as I gape back in silent panic.
‘Ha! He can’t bloody remember!’ Phil booms.
‘I, er … No, of course I can … I just …’ I can feel myself going bright red. I glance over at Alice. ‘You tell the story so much better, babe.’
Babe. What the hell is happening to me?
Confusion and fury are fighting for territory in Alice’s eyes, but she manages to compose herself. ‘What is my fiancé like, honestly?’ There’s a tinkle of polite laughter. She continues. ‘Well … we were in New York, on Broadway, about to go and see Legally Blonde: The Musical, and Ben did this whole sweet little routine, pretending to bend down and tie his shoelaces, and then suddenly he was looking up at me and holding a box …’
‘Aw,’ says Dee.
‘Bless,’ says Becky.
‘Classic,’ says Phil.
Alice nods. ‘Yeah. It was a total surprise, and I just—’
‘Oh come on, Ali,’ Becky scoffs. ‘You’d been dropping hints for months.’
There’s laughter again at this, though you can feel the tension in it.
‘No I hadn’t!’ Alice says, her voice suddenly a pitch higher. ‘Had I, babe?’
She looks at me and I shake my head. ‘No, not at all. Babe.’
‘I was totally surprised,’ she says again.
‘I think we all were!’ Phil nudges me with his shoulder. ‘We thought you were still moping over your ex!’
This time, there’s no laughter.
Dee looks at the floor. Marek coughs.
‘Phil,’ Becky says. But you can see a smile flickering on her lips.
‘Sorry.’ Phil holds his hands up. ‘It was just a joke. Backfired!’
Alice laughs tightly. ‘No, it’s fine.’
‘It’s fine,’ I agree, though it is currently taking everything I’ve got not to grab Phil by his Ralph Lauren shirt and demand that he expand on that comment. What did it mean? How did I get from ‘moping’ over Daphne to proposing to Alice on Broadway?
‘Anyway. Such a romantic story,’ Dee says finally.
‘So sweet,’ Becky agrees, the ghost of a smirk still lingering.
‘Anywhere I can smoke, Alice?’ Marek asks, jiggling a packet of cigarettes.
Becky clasps her bump protectively, and Alice frowns. I’m guessing her Parisian Gauloises-puffing days are now long behind her. ‘You can go out in the garden if you like,’ she tells him.
I see my chance for some fresh air, and a much-needed break from this dystopian nightmare.
‘Hang on, Marek … I’ll keep you company.’
We stand shivering in the little back garden as Marek lights his cigarette.
‘Do you want one?’ he says, offering me the pack.
‘No. Actually … yeah. All right.’ I haven’t smoked in about fifteen years, but right now, I feel like I need one.
He gives me a strange look as he hands it over and lights it. We both exhale and watch the smoke drift up towards the white-grey sky.
‘God, Phil can be such a dickhead sometimes, don’t you think?’ Marek says.
‘Er, yeah, I guess.’ Still moping over your ex. What did he mean by that?
‘I honestly don’t know how you can see those
