‘I need to face facts, don’t I? I don’t want to, but I’ve got to, or I’m gonna drive meself mad.’ I choke up; the back of my throat is dry, aching. I drink some more. ‘Fuck. Why? People have unplanned babies all the time, so why didn’t it just happen for us, for me, now? I thought if I can’t have you, then at least – at least – I can have that. God. Sounds like a shit consolation prize, doesn’t it?’

I want to hang up. This conversation is nothing like one I’d ever have had with Jack. We would finish each other’s sentences or talk over each other. We disagreed and fought and laughed. Once, in a posh burger bar in Liverpool, I prodded Jack with my foot mid-chat and the next thing, we were having a thumb war. A fucking thumb war! We were every bit that annoying couple who were just having the best time in each other’s company. And we didn’t even need to go out to date. We had just as much fun at home, in PJs and bare feet and hair that desperately needed a wash. If there was a packet of KitKats in the cupboard, we’d devour the lot.

I’ve been quiet for a while, longer than I would be in a real two-way phone conversation.

‘Okay … okay … That’s fine …’ I act my arse off. ‘Bye bye!’

‘Would you like to order a drink for …?’ The waitress has appeared so quickly she’s just missing a puff of smoke. She gestures to the empty seat opposite me.

‘No,’ I say, my breeziness wearing thin.

‘Perhaps some water?’

‘Please.’

And she pours some still bottled water out for two.

‘I’ll come back when you’re ready,’ she says, nodding to Jack’s place. Ping! She’s gone.

I stare at the water that won’t be drunk. I’m so grateful for my wine, and for a small moment, I’m glad to not be pregnant. Oh, the power of alcohol. I order a bottle. One large glass down and one entire fake phone conversation completed, and I feel slightly better. Fewer people are looking at me; the mood has softened. The music is louder. The bottle arrives.

‘Another glass?’ I’m asked.

‘Sure!’

So now there are two glasses of water, two glasses of wine. The room feels busier. I have to move my chair further in to allow the fella behind to get into his seat. I ask for a bread basket. Jack bloody loved a bread basket. When it arrives, the focaccia is warm, as delicate as cake. It goes down a treat with my wine. For the first time in weeks – five weeks and three days to be precise – I am tasting food in all its glory.