I hear footsteps coming towards me. Gill, the editor-in-chief, saunters past my desk in thigh-high pleather boots over jeans. She throws a newspaper clipping onto my desk, hands on hips.

‘I think there’s something in this. Maybe we should cover it. You up for it?’

I look down and see a picture of a girl in a red jumper holding a weird-looking dog – with a bold headline: ‘MILLENNIALS CHOOSE PETS OVER CHILDREN’.

I laugh. ‘Wow – that’s quite an assumption.’

‘I think it’s true, though. Millennials are cash poor and fucked over. Poor sods. Probably can’t afford to do the whole kid thing until they’re in their forties, or even older, and most of them aren’t home-owners, at least in London. But … they could have a pet in the meantime and feel like they are moving towards something. Maybe you could interview some people about it? I reckon it’ll get a lot of clicks online and retweets.’

‘Do you think people might get offended that we’re sort of suggesting that Millennials are too immature to have kids?’

‘Sure! Ruffle some feathers with it.’

‘OK,’ I say, picking up the newspaper to look more closely.

‘Great! Have a good weekend, Ol.’ She lingers, probably waiting for me to ask her what her plans are. She tells me anyway: ‘I’m off to a sex club this weekend.’

Too much information, Gill.

‘Lovely! Have fun!’ I say, forcing a smile before logging back into my computer. I don’t quite feel like finishing my carrot cake any more.

I have a couple of gins-in-a-tin from M&S on the train to Bea’s, trying not to slurp too loudly. I feel a bit wobbly when I step off the train – I’ve always been a bit of a lightweight. Bea lives in Surrey and her house overlooks some beautiful countryside. I love walking from the train station to Bea’s because you have to go through a big park to get there, and it’s gorgeous: ducks on the pond, kids flying kites, and today it has an extra-special glow because the daffodils are out. I look up at the clouds. Even though it’s a short train ride, I suddenly feel far away from London’s rush.

I always feel so relaxed in Bea’s fun, chaotic home – it is the most higgledy-piggledy, disorganized, yet joyful space. There is truly nowhere like it. It is difficult not to trip over all of the unhung framed artwork that leans against the hallway walls, and the mini-sculptures that lie in the middle of rooms. I always stub my toe on a random trophy that holds the kitchen door open. I associate Bea’s life with growing up, finding myself through art and books, feeling that youthful sense of excitement, escapism and exploration. Her parents were as wild and carefree as she is now, and they used to let us run riot around their family home when we were kids. Bea’s parents, Sonya and Mikeal, were a big deal in the theatre business, and they always had famous dancers and actors seated round their dinner table. They had huge oil paintings of iconic ballerinas and original poster artwork from shows like Les Mis. Bookshelves heaving with novels and scripts. Bea ended up working as a gallery curator near Mayfair, a job she got through a family friend, and she’s now freelance and works a lot from home or consults over Skype. I still find it bizarre that this is now Bea’s life. I live in a ‘for now’ flat. She lives in a ‘for life’ home. For so long I had no idea she even wanted kids – or perhaps I’d just never thought to interrogate it – let alone that she’d become a mum of three so young. It’s not that she hid her feelings or dreams from me over the years, just that we never really thought to discuss it too much when we were young. I remember the day everything changed; the hopeful pregnancy tests and then the announcement of her first child, Andrew. I was in a state of shock, and now: she has three! Three kids. To me it seems insane.