Far from Fred leaving, instead the women all swapped sentiments of support, which took such a long time that eventually someone came to steer Fred away. She apologised – to them, and to us – and we apologised for hogging the starlet. All the while Molly and Cora were still trying to work out which way was up on an oil portrait of a vulva. ‘Christ, I’m just going to show them,’ Faith said, before disappearing, leaving me, Lily and Betty to push our way through to the exit. I took another glance behind us to where Fred was fencing questions and, I guessed, charming the arse off anyone who dared to talk to her. She really is something … And then I forced myself to look away.

‘Where’s the table booked for?’ Lily asked when we’d battled our way to the pavement.

‘Black and White.’

‘Ooh.’ Betty nudged me. ‘Trying to impress us, are you?’

‘Rumbled. I’m trying to get you into bed.’

‘You only need to ask.’ Faith came to a stop behind us. ‘Politely. I have some standards.’

‘Can I order pudding?’ Molly shouted over Faith.

Cora nudged her. ‘You haven’t even eaten yet.’

‘I’m more in a sweet place, do you know? How sometimes you enjoy more food than others?’

‘I don’t know, right now I enjoy all food. As you can tell.’ Cora pinched at her waist.

Three of us opened our mouths to answer but Betty was first to the punch. ‘You shut your filthy mouth, woman.’

‘You’re trash-talking our friend there,’ I added. ‘And there’ll be none of that.’

‘Are we getting a taxi?’

‘You lazy sod, think of the steps.’

‘So, tell me more about Fred. Is she …’

One conversation bled into another and somehow, someone decided we would walk to the restaurant. Our chatter came with undertones of heels on concrete, stifled laughter and loud cursing. By the time we arrived at the door, we were twenty minutes late for the reservation.

Faith huffed. ‘Molly, you just had to stop and take a picture of the bloody sunset.’

‘Well, it was beautiful!’

‘It really was,’ Lily agreed. ‘You know what else is beautiful?’

‘Food,’ Betty answered and Lily clicked her fingers.

‘Right you are.’

I was fumbling with my phone to avoid the judgemental stares of the front of house – a patient man who had promised us a table if we could only wait in an orderly fashion, outside. When my mobile pinged with an alert – Instagram – I felt grateful for a legitimate excuse to keep looking away.

‘Oh my gosh, Edi.’ Molly’s outburst caught me unawares and I flinched. She was craning over my shoulder. ‘Do you have your phone set up to alert you when I post?’

‘Do I?’ I thumbed into the app. ‘Christ, when did I …’

But the question died out when the screen unfolded to show Molly’s picture: