That wedding in the Cotswolds, her dad's third one, marble floors and waiters calling me "sir" like I'd break something — I stood by the chocolate fountain in my £60 suit, sticky fingers, wondering if they could smell the chip shop on me. Her new boyfriend, some hedge fund prick, asked what product I use in my hair like it was a portfolio review. I smiled, said "mostly sweat and cheap lager," and watched his face do that thing where polite dies.