He looked at me quizzically for a moment, probably trying to remember if we’d had a conversation about the letter; whether he was partially to blame here.

‘It’s not your fault, I’m just annoyed at myself,’ I said, more softly, swallowing my frustration. ‘Plus none of my clothes fit and I feel like a frump. I’m not up for it any more.’

‘For what it’s worth, I like you in that top,’ he offered, as I pulled it down a bit more, watching it stretch across my impressive chest and large, round bump.

I ignored his compliment. ‘You know that food preparation isn’t exactly my forte. What hope do I have with no ingredients and less than five minutes to make something?’

I was brought up by a ‘feeder’ mother who took great pride in cooking delicious dinners from scratch and was very particular about how they looked. Her signature dish, a version of Coronation Chicken, made with a blend of spices inherited from dad’s Indian mother and smothered in yogurt, was legendary in certain Leamington Spa circles. I’d inherited my love of spicy food from dad’s side of the family, but none of the domestic skills. Though I was artistic enough to make a plate look good, the taste of its contents was another matter. Hence Jason was the main chef in this household. But he wasn’t quite as good at ensuring the fridge was adequately stocked. Oh, why didn’t I check the bloody letter? I managed to stop myself from swearing out loud.

‘I’m sorry I’m not going with you today, Aish,’ Jason said, ‘I really am. But I promise you, if you pick up a few sandwiches and pastries from the deli the other ladies will be really happy. Not many pregnant women turn down deli goods, from what I’ve learnt.’ He winked – an obvious reference to my obsession with the almond croissants from our local deli. ‘Anyway, I doubt anyone else has had time to rustle up a MasterChef-quality homemade dish. And if they have,’ he qualified, ‘well, they need to get a life, if you ask me. You must go, you’ll regret it if you don’t – and you never know, you might meet some like-minded people. You said yourself you’re keen to make some “mum friends”.’

I smiled. He knew what to say to make me feel better. It would have been nice to have Jason by my side in this first session, but I understood. We’d had this conversation a million times – he needed to put in the overtime while he could, before the baby came. Being an IT manager often meant him working unsociable hours. I didn’t like it, but I was used to it.

‘Thank you, Jase.’ I smiled and gave him a peck on the lips. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

Fully dressed, I waddled back to the kitchen to look for a suitable plate for the sandwiches. To be honest, lunch wasn’t the only thing I was worrying about this morning. Walking into a room full of strangers with the intention of making friends was a weird and nerve-wracking prospect. All that judgement. It made me feel anxious. And if that wasn’t enough, the day was also likely to involve some awkward chat about the perineum and confronting childbirth head on. I hadn’t given much thought to the actual birth bit because it made me feel nauseous whenever I did. I was convinced I was going to need a caesarean, like Mum, and the thought of being butchered in a stark operating room had cost me a few sleepless nights already.