Leftovers

Jamie insists on cooking his famous beef curry with the leftovers.

It's almost nine before he presents us with a platter of overcooked, oversauced gristle. I go to bed hungry.

In the morning, we walk to the station.

"Time for a coffee?" Jamie says. He's hungover.

"Sorry. The train's at half past."

"It's been great," he says, as we wait on the platform. "Sure you can't stay for New Year's? Mum would love it."

I sit away from the window, so Jamie can't see me. He slumps onto a bench. He looks lost, deflated. The show's over for another year.