Is it bad that putting on some boots, leaving the flat to walk twenty steps and ringing the doorbell to Giles and Ingrid’s flat feels like a monumental effort?

Maybe I won’t put boots on.

I’m not really going out.

This afternoon I’d bumped into Ingrid in the Sainsbury’s Local. I’d only nipped in for loo roll and I was in the queue for the till when she snapped me out of a trance by singing, ‘Yoo-hoo!’, which was a first. I didn’t think anybody said that in real life, especially below the age of seventy-five or not from the doorstep of a thatched cottage. I’d waved, of course. Said, ‘Hiya!’ Ingrid had waved back with an aubergine and then pointed to it and given me a thumbs up.

‘For tonight!’ she’d shouted with a crazed excitement, as if the aubergine was a bag of Ecstasy pills.

Beside me, the floor-to-ceiling wine fridge had buzzed. I’d grabbed a bottle.

‘This too!’ I’d shouted back.

‘Oh, no need, Chloe. We have plenty.’

‘Don’t be soft. I’m not gonna come empty-handed.’

‘Giles is making fresh pasta!’

God, they’re making a spectacular effort. I’d lifted the bottle to see what thoughtless choice I’d made. Blossom Hill. On offer, a quid off. I should’ve at least swapped it for an Oyster Bay but I’d suddenly been at the front of the queue and the fella behind had been giving me a gentle nudge. I was holding everyone up.

Ugh. It feels so unnecessary to put on my boots and tie the laces just to go upstairs. I’m wearing black tights and an oversized jumper dress with a knitted leopard print; comfy and cosy, edging on smart. Slouch socks will work. Oh, come on. I can’t.

When Ingrid answers the door, her makeup-free skin gleaming like a sunbeam, her natural smile straight off the billboard for a new holistic anti-ageing cream, she goes straight in for a hearty hug. A proper squeeze, in all the right places. I melt into her cashmere jumper. I want to stay here. Permanently.

‘Chloe, come on, come in. Take off your boots, make yourself at home.’

I bend down to unlace my just-laced boots. Blood rushes to my head and I’m flustered with the effort. God help me if I ever find myself cooking aubergines and fresh pasta for a guest.

‘White or red?’ Giles calls from the kitchen.

‘White, please,’ I reply.