‘But she has everything. The husband, the baby, the house. The fucking roll-top bath.’

‘Come on. You’re a grown-up, Ol, you know those things don’t equate to magically having all your shit together. She’s finding adjusting to her new role as a mother really hard. We all have things we are finding hard, and those things might come at different times for each of us. The important thing is, we need to be there for each other. Life isn’t a race. For all you know, she could be jealous of your life, your freedom, your glamorous job.’

‘You’re right.’ I look around at her living room, it’s like Toys ‘R’ Us has exploded everywhere. ‘I cannot believe you keep three small humans alive every day,’ I say, looking around at the stack of toys in every corner of every room. ‘It’s just so … impressive.’ What I really mean to say but don’t is: your life is so alien to me and I don’t understand how you do it.

‘Thanks. These bags under my eyes wish they were going on holiday, though. Ugh, I look haggard.’ She goes over to the big mirror by the dining table and pulls her fingers down her face. ‘I look old as fuck.’

‘Don’t be silly …’ I throw a stuffed rabbit with one creepy eye at her.

‘I suppose I miss having a bit more time for myself, but sometimes I actually think I would get really down in the dumps if I had too much spare time – you know? Too much time to think. Sometimes that is a curse in itself. But maybe that’s just me.’

‘Zadie Smith once said something like being a mother and being busy makes her more creative, not less. Like, the fact that she can’t sit around all day is a good thing.’

‘Yes exactly! So, update me on your life please. How’re things, how’s work? What exciting things are you doing while I sit at home making papier mâché masks, Play-Doh spaghetti and get toys thrown at me?’

‘Well, hunkering down with takeaways most nights is hardly the high life. Oh Bea, I have so much to tell you.’

I am just about to open up about the Jacob break-up, when Amelia gallops in wearing a huge Liverpool FC football shirt and muddy wellies, and hands me a small fresh daisy from the garden. ‘This is for you,’ she says, handing me the crumpled flower in her sweaty palm, ‘because you are very nice and priitttty.’

My face melts into a smile. I gasp overdramatically, ‘Aww, Amelia, thank you, you sweetie.’ I take the flower and give her a big hug, picking her up.

Bea has to take an urgent call in her home office; it’s her nanny, apparently. She says sorry a million times and promises she won’t be long. I walk over and stand at Bea’s deep farmhouse sink with chrome taps, I wash up some of the mugs that are lying there, stained with tea. I look through the big window that overlooks a huge garden, full of swings, a treehouse with fairy-lights and beautiful flowers – chaotic, like everything at Bea’s, but the perfect family tableau. It’s raining outside. The window is smudged with trickling water and my eyes start to well up, making the view even more glazed over. This love and devotion that my friends have for their children, this undying never-ending sense of love, why don’t I want it?