‘I’m … sorry,’ I say, surprised and deflated.

‘Maybe it’s me being selfish, or maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s neither of us? But it’s all-encompassing and it’s painful and I’m just really trying to make this reality happen for me.’ She gestures towards her lower body.

I don’t know what to say.

‘I don’t mean to make you feel bad, but it’s just the truth. I don’t want to be around someone who speaks so openly and cynically about motherhood right now.’

I’m glad she is being honest but, also, it feels like a sharp little dagger being sliced into me multiple times.

‘I’m so sorry. For what you are going through, and the things that you feel are out of your control. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.’

Fuck, I should have said sorry for upsetting you. Not if. Semantics, Olive.

‘It’s fine. I’m just feeling shit about everything. And the worst thing? I know this is probably jealousy, or something. But you don’t care – you don’t need this to feel complete. I do. You might never have to go through all of this shit.’

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

‘I feel like it’ll never happen for me. And I don’t want you to feel like you’re treading on eggshells because of me. You’re allowed to do what you need to do. So, I just need a break.’

I’ve never had a friend ‘need a break’ from me before.

‘OK. I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘Yeah. Well. I dunno. I know you’re not actually trying to hurt me. I know that one person’s choice isn’t a personal attack on someone else. I just need to protect myself right now, OK? I have to go.’ Isla readjusts the handbag on her shoulder and leaves the store. I just stand there, and then accidentally drop my packet of bagels. We are so close to the exit that the bagels trigger the store alarm to go off again, loudly. My face turns bright red and the security guard follows me to the till.

One thing is for sure, Marcus has taught me how to sort my shit out. My flat is much tidier now, with home-made food in the fridge. He made pastry from scratch the other night and baked a lemon tart. There is a huge vegetable lasagne in the freezer with a handwritten sticker on it. He bought me a new fluffy rug for the living room. Marigolds under the sink. He bought me two massive cheese-plants and told me to talk to them so they grow. I never thought a fairy godmother would be a forty-something man with a beard.

‘Do you think I like Marcus because he like … “fathers” me a bit?’ I ask Zeta on the phone that night as I lie hanging upside down off my bed.

‘Calm down, Sigmund. You might just like him because he’s a proper adult, not a dick, and has experienced a bit more of life than you,’ Zeta replies, with a hoover blaring in the background. She turns the hoover off.