‘You know, I just think it’s only a day for us really – we can both celebrate with Liam and Nick another night and it will be no big deal, but for Mike it will be massive. Huge,’ Vicky says into the phone.

‘Yeah …’ I say. I’ve been trying out a fancy new sheet face mask for work up in our bathroom, so I was crouched on the tiled floor catching up on RuPaul’s Drag Race on my laptop (which is perched on the loo) when she called. I’ve warned her about only being able to move my mouth a bit with this on my face and as a result she’s basically talked at me for the last five minutes.

‘You think I’m mothering too much?’ She jumps in.

‘No, not at all. You’re right.’

‘Is it presumptuous to think he’d want to spend it with us, though?’ she asks before getting distracted by one of the kids and starts hissing away from the phone – God knows why she decided to phone while she was cooking dinner – especially with Nick away. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ she says, returning her attention. ‘Do you think it is?’

‘I don’t think so …’

I should’ve been the one suggesting this. I know more than most what that shoddily commercial day of love can do to someone who’s had their heart broken, or if they’re just bored of spending the night alone. Valentine’s Day and I have such a complicated history. I’ve spent so long hating it. I was single for years and it was incredibly depressing to see everyone coupling up and throwing around romantic gestures like their worth as a human depended on how OTT they could be. Don’t get me wrong, I always had one or two offers floating around. Those were usually from an ex who didn’t fancy being alone either and wondered if I’d keep their bed warm for the night. I never did. OK, only the one time but it ended up being good closure because the whole thing was so ridiculous. As if a Thai takeaway was going to win me over after confessing to playing around while we were together … I grabbed that pad Thai and left! Thankfully the following year I had Liam to spend it with.

Liam.