‘Fucking hell, really?’ he says, staring at Bea through the rear-view mirror and spouting off again.

We stay quiet after that. The onslaught goes on and on, until (thank god) we eventually pull up next to The Book Club bar-side entrance and hop out, utterly relieved that the journey is over. Bea slams the car door.

‘Good riddance. Jeez, is it possible to go anywhere in peace in this city? Everywhere you go, someone is there, waiting, ready to make you feel awkward with their opinions. So. Many. Opinions.’

‘Agreed … Anyway, remember, you are Child-Free tonight. You have no kids! No mention of them, OK?’ I prod her arm.

Colin is waiting, leaning on the brick wall outside the club in a leather jacket, sucking on his vape. He thinks he is James Dean.

‘Hey bitches!’ Colin says before air-kissing us.

‘Excited?’ I ask, linking arms with him and Bea. They both nod, although they look a bit uneasy, too.

‘I mean, excited to see you guys, not sure what this whole shebang is gonna be like.’

‘God I know … I’m glad you’re here with me,’ I say, shrugging, but feeling a tug of excitement in my stomach.

We knock on a big black door. A tall woman lets us in, crouching slightly, and says the main doors will open in five minutes. She tells us we can wait in the central bar. We walk down the carpeted staircase and order three wines and a packet of nuts.

When the main doors finally open, a woman with a clipboard ticks our names off and ushers us quickly down some more stairs. The basement room looks pretty, with thin draped reddish curtains. It is dimly lit with fairy lights, smells slightly of stale beer, and has chairs laid out in a horseshoe shape, with a lone microphone standing in the middle. It just looks like another innocent open-mic night. Eventually people start to trickle in, and the room starts to fill up. I look around as more and more women of all different ages pile into the room one after another, laughing all around us. It’s mainly women, and only a handful of men.

‘If I pick up a date or take someone home from this night it’ll be the weirdest fucking thing,’ Colin whispers to me. Trust Colin to be eyeing up the dating pool in the room. ‘But then again, at least we’d both know where we stand on the whole kids thing!’

In the corner of the room we spot a tray of ice-cold G&Ts on the side of the bar with edible flowers floating in them, next to a little sign that says: ‘Take one and pass one to a new friend!’ We neck our wines and grab a floral G&T. Everyone here seems to know each other, and it is slightly intimidating to be the only visible newbies in the room. I then notice the host, Iris, walking down the stairs wearing a turquoise kaftan. I recognize her from the website, her stylized portrait photos. I notice books are on sale on a table by the door, including signed copies of Selfish, Shallow and Self-Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids by the author Meghan Daum, on special discount.