We touched down at Heathrow in the last hours of 2008. It was already dark. We were supposed to be going to a New Year's party, but Frances was asleep by the time the taxi hit the motorway. Even the erratic, breakneck drive along the M4 failed to rouse her.
The city was more immense and alien than I remembered.
Back at the flat, Matt was ready to make a saffron risotto, but we weren't hungry. When we woke the next morning, Matt was gone and it was 2009.
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