‘Stain – tackled. Food – ready,’ he says, slapping his hands on his hips.

Ingrid gives a ‘Yay!’ Then she pulls a cage-like chair out from beneath the dining table and gestures for me to sit. ‘Chloe, let’s eat, and you can talk to us as little or as much about Jack as you’d like. Your choice.’

I’m so shocked at this suggestion that I just say, ‘Thanks.’

We get through the burrata starter with politeness, made very easy by the universal language of good food. Giles and Ingrid are equally passionate about eating well and sourcing locally. The cheese is from a deli in Dulwich they were recommended by a work colleague. According to Ingrid, it’s their new favourite place on earth. Bold statement. The tomatoes are from Giles’s dad’s allotment. Pretending to know what the fuck I’m talking about, I ask who’s responsible for the delicious homemade pesto.

‘Sainsbury’s!’ Giles admits.

Plates are cleared and it’s time for the main. Giles has made ravioli. I’m running out of improv so I thank them both for inviting me tonight.

‘I’d like to say it’s done me good getting out the house, but …’

They laugh, heartily. Kindly.

‘So how are you guys?’ I ask. ‘Work going well?’

‘I’m very lucky,’ Ingrid smiles. ‘My work have been incredibly supportive, under the circumstances.’

She speaks as if I’m clued up. But before I have to awkwardly ask what circumstances, Giles explains, with the same concise enthusiasm he used to describe his dad’s tomatoes.

‘We had a miscarriage,’ he says. ‘It was our second round of IVF.’

Ingrid shrugs, leans her head into her left shoulder. ‘Maybe we’ll be third time lucky,’

‘At least we know we can get pregnant.’

They’re saying the clichés, out loud, about themselves. I think of Beth and Fergus, how a similar situation drove them apart. In a thoughtless moment of what I’d thought to be support, I’d once told Beth she might be third time lucky. She’d told me to go fuck myself and only come back when I had something original to say. Now, as I chew this fresh homemade pasta, I wonder how Giles and Ingrid remain – or seem – so strong.

‘I’m forty next year,’ Ingrid says. ‘Hurry up ovaries!’

‘Yeah, forty’s approaching fast for all of us,’ I say, ashamed to bring the conversation back to me, but it seems the safest way to avoid saying the wrong thing. ‘I’m thirty-seven next month …’ and I stop talking. The rest of that sentence would be a waffling mess about how I’m unlikely to find another love of my life anytime soon, if ever, and the prospect of having a family has gone from being a big fat ‘yay’ to an even bigger and fatter ‘nay’ in less than a year now that I’m single.

Oh God. Single.