‘Where’s Jacob by the way?’ Isla asks innocently.

I suddenly feel really hot. I have got used to ignoring it, bottling it up. I’ve now started to dread one of the girls actually asking me any real questions about what happened. Because I know I’ll be forced to look in the mirror.

‘That’s kinda what I’ve been wanting to tell you about.’

‘Oh?’

‘We actually broke up a while ago.’

‘Fuck …’ Her eyes dart around, not knowing what to say. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK. Well, it’s not. But everyone has so much else going on …’

‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do, Ol?’

‘Not really. Just the occasional chat and hug is good,’ I say, sucking on my vape.

‘Ugh, Olive, I’ve been so distant lately.’

‘I understand,’ I say, exhaling my flavoured vapour.

‘I’ve been so focused on one thing. You know, I’ve just had the worst cramps all night and haven’t really told anyone. I just feel awful.’

‘You should go home if you don’t feel well. I can break it gently to Cec.’

‘Do you mind? Sorry, I just suddenly don’t feel good at all.’

‘It’s totally fine,’ I say.

‘Can we carry on this conversation asap? I hope you’re OK, Ol.’

We hug and kiss each other on the cheek. And, just like that, she leaves. I’m left standing alone. A million things unsaid stretching between us. Once, Isla wouldn’t have just left – she’d have tried harder. She would have sat on my bed and chatted it through with me. But we have different things going on now.

I go back inside and tune in momentarily to the background noise of everyone milling around. When did Cec become friends with these awful people? There is a man with a giant moustache who is bragging about how his darling son just got into their private school of choice.

‘It is £30,000 a year, so of course they made room for him! Ha ha ha! You can get whatever you want with the right amount of cash, am I right?’ He cackles smugly. I notice his logo’d T-shirt reads: ‘I LIKE TO PARTY. EVERYBODY DOES’. Then he starts slagging off state schools. I shudder at the thought of ever having to dig around for ‘The Perfect School’ for ‘The Perfect Child’. The competing. The pompous rich people. The catchment areas. The pettiness. The potential for crippling disappointment. The constant Keeping Up With The Joneses. The Insta-Mums with their perfect marriages and perfect houses and perfect post-baby bodies. Yuck.

I really want to get out, or maybe even do an Irish goodbye, but an old school friend, Rose, has spotted me through the milling crowd and is making a beeline for me. Oh god, I really need to devise an exit strategy, quick. I should have just left with Isla.

‘Olive!’ She reaches out to hug me. ‘It’s been years, how are you! I thought you’d be here.’ She sort of falls into me, instead of a hug – Rose has clearly had a few rosés.