Alexa stared at the screen. Ben was still typing and stopping. Decisively, Alexa put her phone on the table, face down, then got up and walked across the kitchen to the fridge. In the side door there was half a bottle of white wine, which she was fairly sure was Ellen’s (she’d only ever seen Jack drinking beer). Alexa fetched a tumbler from the cupboard and poured herself a generous glass of the Sauvignon Blanc. It didn’t smell too much like vinegar; it would do.

She returned to the table and flipped her phone over, jabbing at its homescreen button to see if Ben had bitten the bullet. He had not, but Ellen had replied. She couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed.

Heyyyyyyyy!

We’re doing drinks here then pub i think

Is someone at Two Wheels Goods bday

So they have the corporate card

Ding ding dingggg

What you up to?

Wanna join?

Alexa weighed up her options. Maybe she did want to go and meet Ellen. Though she’d made a few of the Kingsland Road nights out with The Flowdown, she’d never been to one of their Friday night office drinks parties. For her, office drinks – like the regular pilgrimages to Gordon’s – were to be avoided, except at Christmas, when they all finished early and there was no excuse. Someone would run out for a few bottles of supermarket Prosecco and they’d dole out a small portion in the triangular paper cups from the watercooler while people said how ‘nice’ it all was.

On the other hand, she’d just got home from town and getting back into Farringdon was a faff for a few drinks; she’d have to change, and it would take forty-five minutes to get there, and maybe they’d be finishing by then. Sometimes, Alexa felt exhausted by the promise of Friday evenings in London: the city’s bright lights, modern spires and millions of people offered an odyssey of possibilities, and yet Alexa too often found herself at this kitchen table, staring into the black mirror of her phone screen, wondering what she was doing wrong.

Aware Ellen wouldn’t mind either way – it was almost 8 p.m., so she was definitely several drinks in – Alexa’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as she considered her response, frustrated by her own indecision. As she held her phone, it vibrated again: Ben.

Got a real hankering for one of those sweet frozen pizza bases

Wait … what? She felt faintly panicked. He was typing again. A pizza emoji. He was asking her on a spontaneous date.

She wasn’t ready to reply. Closing WhatsApp, a drumming in the pit of her stomach, Alexa opened the Notes function on her phone. She often did this: tested her replies before she committed to sending something. The WhatsApp interface – the blinking cursor, the fact that the other person could see that you were typing – was all very exposing.