Creeping towards Beth, I sit delicately on the bold, pink armchair, smoothing down the cotton floral dress I threw on before leaving my flat. Well, I say I sit delicately. What I mean is, I try. Unlike Beth, I’m not particularly delicate or graceful, and attempting to be either takes a lot of effort. I notice a button missing from my dress, right in the middle, exposing the milky-white flab around my belly button. I cross my arms and lean forward.

‘Are you and Fergus alright?’ I whisper.

‘Oh, me and Fergie?’ Beth responds, loud enough for the whole street to hear. ‘Yeah. We’re amazing. Fucking fabulous. Aren’t we, Fergie babes?’

I hear a mug slam onto a marble work surface, followed by another.

‘He’s going on another “work” night out on Friday, aren’t you, babes?’ Beth goes on. ‘This time, it’s the casino. I mean, how exciting. How many times have you been the casino with your colleagues, babes? Once? Twice? Thirty-five thousand fucking times?’

‘Give it a rest, Beth,’ Fergus says, placing a mug of tea onto a coaster for me. I won’t get offered a biscuit, though; they’re both too health conscious to keep refined sugar in the house.

‘Rest? Oh, why would I give it a rest?’ Beth says, playing the innocent. ‘It’s so exciting. I mean, it just so happens that you wanna go out on the exact day I’ll be ovulating. Isn’t that a coincidence?’

I really should have rung her first. Or gone to my local pub.

Fergus takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa to Beth and takes out his phone, scrolling and tapping. When he’s not in his corporate suit, he always looks as though he’s either about to hit the gym, or he’s just been. Right now, I wish he’d go to the bloody gym. They have one in the spare room.

‘Do you have to sit there?’ I’m relieved to hear Beth ask.

‘Yep,’ he grunts. ‘My sofa, too.’

I sip my tea, even though it’s still too hot, and wonder how I’m going to break the news to them that my boyfriend died today. Beth’s unfertilised eggs might not have any sympathy for me.

‘You’d think he didn’t wanna have kids,’ she goes on, as if Fergus isn’t there. ‘And I mean, it’s not me putting all the pressure on, is it? It’s his bloody mother. The amount of times she’s pestered me, asking me when I’ll give her grandkids so they can play in her massive garden-slash-field. I wouldn’t mind, but every time we’ve been up to Scotland, it’s pissed it down. I mean, I don’t want any child of mine catching pneumonia.’

‘She means well, Beth,’ Fergus says, his eyes glued to his phone.

‘So stay in this Friday.’