‘Mike and I have had a massive bust-up. This horrible pressure to get pregnant is really getting to us, clearly. We aren’t in a good place.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I give her a squeeze. She feels smaller than usual.

I know she was annoyed with me after the CFBC night and that phone call with Bea and – although she is here, needing me – I can feel a simmering tension still there. An invisible barrier between us. But her arriving here speaks volumes about our friendship. At the end of the day, she knows I will always give her a roof if she ever needs it, even if things feel far from resolved.

‘Our lives have turned into apps and spreadsheets and calendars and meticulous planning and we just aren’t getting on at the moment,’ she continues.

‘Does he know you’re here?’

‘Yeah, I didn’t storm out or anything. Can I stay?’

‘Of course, stay as long as you need to. I’ll get the sofa bed out.’

After a few nights of Isla staying, though, she is starting to drive me up the wall. She’s cooked for me every night, which is nice, but she’s taking over my space. I can’t boot her out, but this has made me realize how much I like living alone now. Funny how you can get used to things when they are forced upon you.

‘I’m off out tonight,’ I say to Isla as I grab my keys from the hallway table.

‘Oh cool – a date?’

Why do people in couples always assume that newly single people are constantly dating?

‘Nah, not ready for that kind of shit yet. I’m doing an improv class.’

‘Really! You’re so great, Ol, trying new things. Can’t wait to hear how that goes,’ Isla says from the sofa, swinging around the remote control.

‘Yeah, we’ll see! Have a nice evening.’

‘Thanks again for having me, Ol,’ Isla says sweetly.

‘No problemo!’

The improv class is above a pub called The Chesterfield in Islington. I’d been there before with Zeta for a pint. It’s one of those recently revamped hipster pubs with pastel-coloured walls that serves pretentious craft beers with long names. Accidentally Wes Anderson. Anyway, perhaps this class is exactly what I need. I can disappear into being someone else and wear zero make-up and baggy clothes whilst doing it.

I walk into The Chesterfield and a man called Areeq with a long, very dark beard and a turban greets me. He immediately makes me feel welcome, and ticks my name off a list. He tells me to go up the stairs to the top floor. I make my way up them, feeling as though they could crumble beneath me at any moment. What am I doing? Going deeper into a darkened basement? Am I about to get murdered by wannabe comedians? I walk in and gasp.

A woman with grey curly hair turns around. I cannot believe who is in there, in the centre of the room. It’s – Iris. I almost leap onto her.