I giggle. Mairead is Gabe and Brendan’s sister and, by all accounts, not to be messed with. Apparently, she runs the stud farm attached to their parents’ stables. ‘Well, I will definitely not be breeding him. I love my daughter dearly, but a little Sullivan baby is not part of the plan.’ I cough meaningfully and give my friend a look. ‘For me, anyway.’

She rolls her eyes, which is an excellent sign that I’ve flustered the unflappable ice queen. I know my friend, and she so wants Gabe’s little dark-haired, blue-eyed babies it’s not even funny. ‘You are attracted to him, correct?’ she demands instead of gracing my little jibe with a reply.

‘He’s gorgeous, obviously. I mean, it’s not like he’s an acquired taste. I’m sure he’s everybody’s type. But that doesn’t mean I want to just show up and shag him. I’m terrified,’ I add softly, and she sighs and folds me into a hug.

‘I know you are, sweetie. I hope you know how proud I am of you. This is an amazing, amazing thing you’re doing for Tabs. Remember that. Now, let’s look at you.’

She gives me one last squeeze and releases me before turning me around to face the full-length freestanding mirror in the corner of her beautiful, neutral bedroom. This is undoubtedly a more uplifting and glamorous location to prep for my weird rendezvous. There isn’t room to swing a cat in my bedroom. I gave Tabby the big room, so mine just about fits a double bed, even if I can’t open the wardrobe doors next to it a full ninety degrees.

I force myself to take in my reflection: the finished product. The woman looking back at me is not an exhausted single mother, nor is she the usual boho, shabby-chic working version of me who favours air-dried hair and long, cheapo sundresses in the summer or fleece-lined yoga pants made from crappy petroleum-based fabrics in the winter.

Nope. I can confirm that this woman is categorically neither of those things. Instead, she looks like the kind of person I might see on Instagram, if I’m honest. The kind of person I have never, ever presumed to be. You always assume you either are or aren’t a certain type of person, and I’ve always assumed that I’m not the woman who treats making her oat milk matcha latte as a “sacred ritual” or goes out on the town looking like she’s about to step onto a red carpet or would ever insert a hashtag before the word blessed.

There may not be any ceremonial-grade matcha in sight, but, to my shock, High Class Hooker Barbie looks a lot like a red-carpet-walking, Instagram-posting socialite.