There’s an ulterior motive for wearing the slightly low-cut frock; the event at The Book Club is tonight and I want to make an effort for Tom.

Once I’ve slipped into it, I lie back down on the bed with my hair in a towel and consider what is happening between Tom and me. I don’t even know if I want anything to develop with him. It’s so soon after Darren and I had decided to call it a day, though it feels like we have been separated for a lot longer. I’m not sure Tom wants anything to happen either. Conceivably, a drunken fumble was all that he wanted. Still, best to look the part.

I decide to let my hair dry naturally so I walk down the stairs and gobble down a quick brunch before leaving the house and heading towards the train station.

I take a steadying breath and knock on Sarah’s door. My sister lives in a red brick end-of-terrace on a quiet cul-de-sac in Didsbury, a desirable suburb in South Manchester. A silhouette appears in the frosted glass, growing as the figure reaches the door. Sarah’s husband, Will, answers and greets me with a hug. He is holding a jacket in one hand and car keys jangle in the other.

‘Good luck,’ he says with a devilish grin.

‘Have you managed to worm your way out of staying?’

‘Indeed I have, I’m going golfing,’ he replies, wiping his brow in mock relief. ‘It’s a ridiculous Americanism that I want no part of. Though I am grateful for the presents!’ he adds hastily, eyeing the present in my hand.

With that, he walks towards his BMW, starts the ignition and reverses out of the driveway with a beep of his horn. I walk in and announce my arrival. Sarah, smiling, appears at the far end of the hallway, motioning to join her in the kitchen.

‘Oh, you look fancy,’ she trills, looking me up and down and caressing the silky material of my dress. ‘A bit sexy for a baby shower isn’t it?’

Sarah and I could be twins, but for the two-year age gap. We both have dark brown hair, though I have let mine grow beyond my shoulders and she is currently sporting a bob. We share green eyes, a slight build and sadly, the Piper family overbite.

She opens the door of the American style fridge and retrieves a bottle of Moët & Chandon, the one her office stupidly bought her for going on maternity leave. The cork leaves the bottle with a loud pop and some of the sparkling liquid spills onto the floor. She hands me an empty glass and starts to pour, ignoring my protestations about having to work later.

‘Thanks for being here, Erika,’ she says, clinking her glass of orange juice onto mine. ‘I know this can’t be easy for you, but it means the world to me that you are here. Especially since mum…you know…’ she trails off and dabs at the corner of her eye with a paper napkin.