She has the sexiest mouth in the Western world. It’s broad and red. Women describe her as stunning. Men are diametrically opposed; they either fail to notice her at all, her paleness rendering her invisible, or they want to be her knight in shining armour and put her on a pedestal. I don’t think either of these responses suits her. Issie’s fierce intellect and brutal honesty ought to be dignified with something more than indifference or insulation. But then there’s a lot of things that ought to happen and won’t. I don’t hold much hope for Issie finding a man that is worthy of her. Especially since her optimism has overpowered her intelligence and she has spent her adult life in a stalwart but senseless crusade to discover hidden depths in the men she dates. I’ve explained on countless occasions that there isn’t a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

It’s really Josh who is responsible for Issie’s and my friendship. He spotted her at Freshers’ Week and developed an intense crush on her. He begged me to befriend her. I did. By the time I discovered how much I liked her and how ethereal and fragile she was, Josh had slept with half of the students in Withington and Fallowfields. I decided that she was far too special to allow him to have his wicked and transient way with her. I discouraged both parties, in what I admit to be a Machiavellian manner. I pointed out his shortcomings to her and other women’s attractions to him. It was a successful ploy.

I still think I made the right decision.

If they’d wanted each other so much, they’d have found a way to make it happen.

We settled into a healthy flirty relationship where we often confused who fancied whom. Instead of any of us sharing each other’s beds, in the second and third years, we shared a student house. Just the three of us, loath to let anyone else into our inner sanctum. This was sensible, as arguments over who bought the last loo roll and put an empty milk carton back in the fridge put a full stop to any romantic notion any one of us harboured.