‘Fashion should never be practical,’ she replies sternly, as if telling me a universal truth.

And she’s probably right. But to be honest, I was never much of a fashionista, even when I was younger, and any last attempts at being fashionable ended the moment I got a dog and started living in a construction site in the middle of the countryside, somewhere it rains a lot. Even in summer.

‘Don’t worry. I decided if I’m going to a party in a trendy bar in Soho, I needed a bit of a makeover, so I had Maya pick out my outfit,’ I tell Naomi.

‘Isn’t Maya seventeen?’

‘Soon to be eighteen, as she’s forever telling me.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s cut-offs and a crop-top.’ She pulls a scary expression and I burst out laughing.

‘It’s like I said to my builder: it’s a remodel, not a new-build.’

‘How is Bob the Builder?’ Crunching on the ice from her glass, Naomi raises her eyebrows.

I roll mine. ‘He’s pretty good. Nearly finished. A widower,’ I add. It’s like shoving something on a shelf because you don’t know where to put it.

She almost chokes on her ice cube.

‘He’s a widower?’

I nod.

‘So he’s not married?’

It’s not hard to see where Naomi is going with this.

‘Well, that’s usually what “widower” means.’ To be honest, I feel a bit irritated by her insensitivity.

‘Doesn’t he have a little boy?’

‘Yes, Stanley. He’s seven.’

‘The same age as Ellie.’

And just like that, all thoughts of potential matchmaking go flying out of the window and she suddenly sobers up. She’s no longer the birthday girl getting into the party spirit, or the best friend trying to fix up her girlfriend; she’s a mother imagining her worst fear. I see Naomi’s expression and feel bad for judging her.

‘It was a couple of years ago; it’s been hard, but I think they’re getting through it.’

‘I can’t imagine.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m glad they’ve got each other. Are they close?’

‘Very.’ I can tell what she’s thinking and wish I’d never mentioned it. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spoil your birthday.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She quickly bats me away. ‘It’s life: part and parcel. Good and bad.’ She forces a bright smile. ‘People keep asking me how I feel about turning fifty. Bloody lucky, that’s how I feel. Ageing is a privilege.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Raising my glass, I think of my own mum. She was only thirty-four. She never even got close to fifty. ‘So what’s the plan for tonight?’ I force myself to snap back.

‘Danny said to be at the bar by seven thirty.’

Now it’s my turn to look shocked.

‘Danny?’

She nods, trying – and failing – not to look as pleased as she obviously is. ‘We’re back together. We’re even talking about moving in together.’

‘Naomi, that’s great!’ I cry, then reprimand her. ‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘I wanted to be certain before I said anything. These past few weeks we’ve been doing a lot of talking—’ She breaks off. ‘Thanks to you.’