I have—well, Leah had—already selected the book. A well-received novel about the importance of forgiveness and one I have thankfully already read. At three thirty, an Ocado delivery turns up full of champagne, wine, and tequila, plus an assortment of fancy-looking nuts and nibbles to be tastefully dotted around the living room in posh bowls and which I doubt anyone will actually eat.

By five thirty everything is prepared and I’m furiously pacing the living room trying to remember key facts: who wrote what; the names of spouses, kids, and handbag-sized dogs; ages and life stories. This is my biggest challenge as Leah so far. Four other people in the house, who will have anecdotes and in-jokes and gossip. I can’t do this. I have to cancel, feign illness, or a family emergency, or something. Anything. I can’t let them in here.

But suddenly it’s six p.m. and I’m too late to call them off as they arrive in a flurry of air kisses and a whirlwind of hair extensions. The biscuit scent of fake tans clings to one of them, Joey, who is wearing navel-skimming jeans and a cropped T-shirt to show off her abs. She looks like she has stepped out of a late nineties pop video; all that is missing is a twisted bun knot on either side of her head. She recently published a young adult novel written entirely in an epistolary style, as a stream of texts; she has sold well over a million copies apparently and there are rumors she’s the favorite to win some prestigious literary award.

Kira is older than Joey, dressed in a pleated animal-print midi-skirt and leather jacket. Her recent book, aimed at the suburban mother, is a jolly jaunt into the world of stretch marks, breastfeeding and post-partum sex. In it she describes, in excruciating detail, how her husband finds the scent of her milk arousing, and how more than once he has masturbated as he watches her pump. And when I say excruciating detail, this particular scene covers five pages in an almost stroke-by-stroke account.

Amy is a pixie-haired socialite in a modern version of a twinset and Jodhpur-style trousers. In real life she talks with an irritating nasal voice, clipping her vowels aggressively. However, on the page she writes surprisingly gritty domestic thrillers with bold and intriguing female protagonists, one of which has just been optioned by Sky.

The last to arrive is a diminutive woman called Rachel, who, at fifty-five, is the oldest and, it becomes swiftly apparent from her demeanor, the matriarch of this funny group my sister is part of. Rachel had a breakdown when she hit fifty, threw in her marriage, her corporate job, the whole shebang, and took herself back to university to do an MA in Creative Writing. Her family laughed at her and told her she was ruining her life. Her book is currently number six on the Sunday Times bestseller list. She dedicated it to her Boston terrier.

Rachel kisses my cheek and then stands back to look at me. I’ve tried so hard to look like Leah does for these sessions: skinny jeans and a chunky jumper, hair in a messy bun, glasses on my nose that don’t actually change my vision at all. She narrows her eyes and I feel dizzy, like I’m about to faint. This is it. The moment it all comes crashing down.