‘It just feels wrong that we’ve lived together for years and you’re abandoning me for someone you’ve known for five minutes,’ she says, shaking her head.

‘It’s not like that,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Things are serious with Connor and we want to build a life together. I’m thirty-two years old, for God’s sake. I can’t put my life on hold so I can carry on having girlie sleepovers with you. We’re not students any more, Lottie.’

‘I’m aware of that, thanks, Vanessa,’ she says, her voice hardening. ‘I think my fifty-hour working week and pension scheme will attest to that, you patronizing cow.’

‘Oh great, we’re resorting to cheap insults,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘It’s crazy that you’re making me feel guilty for wanting to move on.’

‘Move on?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘With some dickhead you’ve only just met.’

‘Dickhead?’ I cry, my voice cracking with upset. ‘How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are? Just because you can’t find anyone to put up with your childish crap, you want to make sure no one else finds happiness either.’

I know by the darkened expression on Lottie’s face that I’ve crossed a line.

‘Childish crap?’ she cries, jumping up so forcefully her phone clatters to the floor. ‘Do you know something, Vanessa? There have been times over the years when I have been dog tired after a gruelling week at work, dealing with kids who’ve seen their parents die in front of them, and I’ve come home to find you sobbing about some bloke, or something Georgie has said or done that you didn’t like, or the fact it’s your mum’s birthday, and I have sat and listened and poured wine and been there for you. How’s that for childish crap? And I’ve done that because I was brought up to never let friends down.’

‘Oh, Lottie, don’t be so dramatic,’ I cry as she rushes into her bedroom and returns wearing her heavy wool coat. ‘You know how much I value our friendship and I always will, it’s just that Connor and I –’

‘Come first,’ she snaps as she hurries down the stairs. ‘I get that. Though it’ll be a different story when you’re crying your eyes out over him in a couple of weeks. Anyway, forget it. It doesn’t matter. I’m going out.’

‘You can’t go out, you’ve got wet hair. You’ll freeze,’ I say, following her down the stairs, but as we reach the door the bell rings and, with a heavy heart, I remember the takeaway.

Lottie opens the door to a skinny, bearded Deliveroo cyclist holding a bag of delicious-smelling Chinese food.

‘Lottie, wait,’ I say as she squeezes past the man. ‘At least let’s eat and talk about this.’