I haven’t thought of myself as single. I guess I’d been so busy with being grief-stricken that I hadn’t labelled myself. We weren’t married, so I’m not a widow. Why isn’t there a name for the partner left behind?

Unless it’s simply ‘alone’.

‘Chloe, are you alright?’ Giles asks. He sounds genuinely concerned.

‘God, I’m dead sorry. Lost in me thoughts. I’m really sorry about your miscarriage. You’re both amazing and you’ll make amazing parents one day. And thanks for being so honest, you know, you didn’t have to tell me that, it’s so private. Me best friend’s had fertility struggles, and God, she’d be so mad I told you that. Anyway, you’re both strong. Positive. Stay that way. So, yeah …’ See? Wafflehead. Waffle Queen. Where are the waffles? Chloe’s mouth …

‘Oh, no. We’re not strong!’ Ingrid laughs. ‘We’re a mess, aren’t we, Giles?’

‘A total mess! Monumental.’

‘And the arguments it’s caused! Right, Giles?’

‘I’ve raised my voice more in the last few weeks than ever in my whole life. Ingrid’s been wondering who the hell she married, haven’t you? Who knew I could shout like that?’

‘It’s made me really hate you!’ She’s still laughing.

‘All these irrational outbursts,’ Giles says, splayed hands winding around helping him to get the words off his chest. ‘Blaming you, blaming me, back to blaming you. And that time I got mad about my brother posting a photo of his baby on Instagram, like he was doing it to annoy me! I broke a mug, didn’t I, Ingrid? Then blamed you again. I cooled off by walking to the Sainsbury’s Local and buying some superglue. I’m just so grateful we live in such an old house with thick walls. Poor old Neil downstairs would be putting in a complaint to Neighbourhood Watch!’

I laugh. It’s not funny, but Ingrid’s laughter is infectious.

‘Neil?’ I say, catching a breath. ‘I’ve never met him, you know. I’ve heard him – and the wheels on his suitcases – but never actually met him.’

‘Oh, he’ll be along shortly,’ Giles tell me. ‘He likes to pop up for a drink on a Saturday evening. Our doors are always open for our neighbours. Pudding?’

Ingrid howls.

‘We’ve been together for almost a decade and it still makes me laugh when Giles says “pudding” for dessert. It’s such a silly word! Pud-ding, pud-ding, pud-ding!’

Giles stands with a satisfying, ‘ahhhh’, as if he feels light, like a fairy in flight – although he’s eaten all his pasta – and starts to clear the plates. He offers me a choice of ice cream or lemon meringue or a bit of both, apologising for not baking something from scratch. Ingrid gasps and reminds Giles of the cheeseboard.

‘Blimey!’ Giles says. ‘Can’t believe I forgot about that.’