Seventeen. Half my lifetime ago. One of our Kit’s school mates told me I haven’t changed one bit. Well, other than gaining a few laughter lines and changing the colour of my hair, I can see what he means. I don’t have that subtle softness from having children, I haven’t transformed into a fitness guru or doubled my weight.

But I am different to who I was at seventeen. So very different.

Back then, I had hope.

Hope was bursting from the seams of my boob tube as I danced Thursday nights away at The Carwash. I was the ‘Dancing Queen’, the ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, the one everybody was ‘Stuck in the Middle’ with. And I know it’s easy with youthful spirit to have a wider outlook, to dream that life can be spectacular, especially on the brink of new beginnings – like university, or even something as simple as getting into a nightclub without fake ID. Those new beginnings change with age. They become so much bigger, and most of the time, less frequent. I think about Beth wanting a baby. Once, she just wanted a Lipsy dress.

What do I want?

‘Wanna dance?’ Si asks.

‘I need another drink first,’ I attempt, but Si’s already dragging me onto the dance floor. For a man of such small build, he’s strong; I find myself twirling, this way and that way, and without much choice, I’m fully supported into a stylish back bend.

‘Wow. You’re a good dancer!’ I exclaim.

‘Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve had plenty of training.’

And he thrusts me out and reins me in, until all I can do is go with the flow and enjoy myself. He’s right. There’s so much love in the room. It mightn’t be the love my heart is aching for, but it’s love all the same.

And who am I to argue with that?

28

The after-wedding blues are like returning from a holiday. Everywhere lacks colour; the pace has slowed down to a yawn. It’s hard to talk about anything unrelated to the joyous event, now only a memory, a piece of history. In short, the world just feels less interesting.

I’m sat outside London Euston station amongst the smokers and vapers.

‘Well, that’s an excuse if ever I heard one,’ I say.

I’ve finally managed to get Beth to answer her bloody phone and she won’t meet me after work because she’s viewing flats. Another one. As well as the Islington terrace, she and Fergus already own a delightful two-bed in Scotland that they rent out on Airbnb. They make a fortune during the Edinburgh Festival every August. And here I am, begging. Well, property wins.

‘It’s not an excuse, babes.’

‘Where’s the flat?’

‘West Hampstead.’

Sounds expensive. I don’t know the area but I know it’s on the Jubilee line.