I’m sweating slightly on the Tube on the way to our usual dinner place, Jono’s, a family-run Italian restaurant in Clerkenwell. We stumbled across it one drunken night years ago at uni, and it quickly became our go-to. We always have the same table, a big corner booth looking onto the street. The atmosphere is warm, busy and friendly. We love Jono, the owner, who is always there with a massive smile on his face. He knows us so well now after a decade of the same orders: spaghetti alle vongole (Bea), risotto ai gamberi (Cecily), gnocchi (Isla) and capricciosa pizza (me). We have had countless heart-to-hearts inside, plus countless arguments, countless tears and laughing fits. There are so many trendy new hipster restaurants opening all the time in London, but Jono’s will always have our heart. If I’m ever late I know the girls will have ordered my drink (a glass of Fatalone, large), and it will be waiting for me when I get there. The others are never late. Compared to my friends, I guess I do feel a bit … behind. I think it’s a metaphor for my life.

I rush through the streets of Holborn, panting a bit and stomping past slow tourists who mindlessly dawdle along with no sense of direction. I try not to get run over by an angry cab driver with a cigar hanging out of his mouth who very nearly turns my entire left leg into a squashed pancake. Then a bus goes past me very slowly, wafting toxic fumes up my nose and splashing through a giant puddle which sprays dirty water onto my Converse. ‘Arseholes!’ I shout. Then, an old woman goes over my foot with her wheelie suitcase, leaving a line of dirt on my shoe.

As I approach the familiar doorway to Jono’s, I realize my heart is pounding slightly and my skin prickling – that old underlying anxiety flaring up. It hits me that I haven’t seen the girls in a while, and it feels weird. I breathe in through my nose, and out through my mouth a few times. Everyone has just seemed slightly less available, a creeping sense of busyness and life admin and to-do lists, of time being squeezed.

When I arrive, the three of them are sat there, and something immediately feels off. Jono is pouring some tap water into their glasses. They all look like someone’s died. Has someone died?

‘Hi guys,’ I say, panting and whipping off my coat. ‘Only fifteen minutes late this time, I’m getting better! Sorry. Everything OK?’

‘Hey Ol …’ They all give me big smiles as I go around the table kissing them, saying how lovely it is to see me. I can’t help but notice how tired they all look.

‘Everything’s fine. It’s just … we’re not quite on top form tonight, Ol,’ Isla says.

‘What’s up?’ I say, putting my coat over the back of my chair, and sitting down.

‘Well …’ Bea takes in a deep breath. ‘Cec is obviously about to give birth any day now, I’m absolutely knackered from being up all night with a vomiting child and Isla has really bad cramps … we’re not a fun bunch, I’m afraid!’