‘Isn’t that the problem, though? Everyone assumes I’m bloody fine all the time. I’m really not. We were together for nine years, what makes you think I’d just be “fine”?’ I say, exasperated.

‘Sorry, Ol, I should have asked more questions. I assumed you were busy finding yourself with the child-free club stuff.’

‘Maybe I am.’

‘Well, it sounds like you’re spending more time on work than seeing your friends.’

‘That’s not fair, Isla. You know my work and life blur. Plus, you guys never spend any proper time with me any more. You’re always late, or tired, or distracted by other things.’

‘Distracted? By what? My fertility issues? Or perhaps it’s the immense amount of stress being put on my relationship? Wow, thanks Olive.’

‘I don’t mean it like that. And it’s not a competition.’

‘You think we are all self-obsessed, just admit it. The only self-obsessed one here is you,’ Isla says with a piercing look. ‘Time to grow up, Olive.’

‘If that’s how you feel, I think you should go home.’

‘Yeah, I think I should too.’

Isla quickly gathers her bag from the sofa bed in the next room and I hear the door gently slam shut as I stand in the kitchen, boiling the kettle, tapping my fingers on the counter.

‘I think society secretly envies women like me who live precisely the way they want to without buckling to outside pressures or expectations.’

Sarah, 43

29

2014

We had arrived at the airport super early, checked in bags, slowly made our way through security, and Isla was now pacing up and down the perfume aisle in Duty Free, getting more and more anxious.

‘I just hate flying. Ugh, I should know better, I’m a bloody therapist,’ she said, rubbing her arms and then rummaging in her bag. ‘And I’ve forgotten my Rescue Remedy,’ she sighed.

‘Hey, you’ll be fine, we’re all sitting together and we can distract you,’ I said. Every year we’d go away together as a foursome, somewhere hot and sunny, and every time Isla would have a meltdown in the airport because of her fear of flying; it was almost part of the tradition.

‘Just think about the lovely sunshine we’re about to have, Isla!’ Bea said, wearing her big sunhat, testing out a new Gucci scent.

‘And the fact that statistically you’re more likely to become President of the United States than die in a plane crash. Or something,’ Cec added, picking at her nail polish. I give Isla’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Once we were on the flight, and inevitably hit some crazy turbulence, Isla yelped from underneath a scarf she had placed over her head.

‘Here,’ I said, taking Isla’s wrists and spritzing some lavender spray to calm her nerves.

We touched down at Faro airport and hopped in a cab for a forty-five-minute drive to Lagos. Despite having our luggage in tow, we asked the driver to drop us off at the beach and we immediately plonked ourselves down on the sand, feeling its warmth between our toes and the sun on our SPF-covered faces.