It was nice, to give my book the ending I never got. Well, not nice. Perhaps bittersweet is closer to the mark.

‘What did you think of it?’ I ask her. I gave Ali an early copy to read, eager to get her opinion. I’ve always written stories with real-life inspiration in mind, but nothing as close as this, and Ali was actually there.

‘I haven’t read it yet, I’m sorry,’ she replies. Ali is currently removing heated rollers from her head. She’s wearing a slinky red dress that lightly skims her enviable figure. ‘I think I lost it. Can you get me another, please?’

‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘I guess, even if you think it’s dumb, it’s too late to change now anyway.’

‘That’s true. In that case, go put your best dress on. That black one, with the mesh at the front.’

‘The one you got me for my birthday, that I feel wildly self-conscious in?’

‘That’s the one,’ she says. ‘It’s hot!’

‘Are you really going to make me do this?’ I whine. ‘I’m so comfortable in my pyjamas and it’s winter out there.’

‘You’re too comfortable in your pyjamas,’ she corrects me. ‘So go get ready and I’ll bang what you’re wearing now into the washing machine so that we can wash the tea stains out whilst you’re distracted. You can put them back on again when we get back, and keep them on for another five months if that’s what is going to make you happy.’

‘It is,’ I reply with a faux seriousness. ‘I’ll go on the double date – because I do owe you one after forcing you to go out with Marty – but I will be counting down the seconds until I can put my pyjamas back on.’

‘Atta girl,’ Ali says enthusiastically. ‘I just need to go do my make-up.’

‘Seriously? You look like you already have. Any more make-up and your date won’t recognise you.

‘I just want everything to be perfect,’ she replies.

I eyeball her suspiciously. Sure, Ali takes a lot of pride in her appearance, but only ever for herself, never for a man.

‘Come on,’ Ali orders. ‘I’ll do yours too.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ I reply.

‘Why not?’

‘Because the last time you did my make-up someone asked me what my drag name was.’

‘That’s a compliment for us both, so I’m doing it.’

‘Oh, joy,’ I say.

‘That’s the spirit,’ she says.

‘Do we know anything about this guy?’ I ask.

‘Mine is someone I’ve dated a couple of times, and it’s going very well. Your guy has been single for a long time, so we’re trying to get him back out there.’

‘Yay,’ I say sarcastically. ‘It doesn’t sound like there is anything wrong with him at all.’

‘You’ve got to move on at some point, you know,’ she says.

‘I know, I know,’ I reply.

I know that I should force myself to get dressed up and go out; it’s just hard to find the will. When I got back from my holiday I had a whole book to write, so it was easy to keep myself distracted. Now that’s out of the way I need to fill my life with something. It might as well be squashing myself into tiny clothes and forcing myself to go out with people I have no interest in. That’s what single people do, right?