When it was clear the idea wasn’t going away, particularly after I’d taken up the offer for the place on the course, she started throwing out every objection under the sun. A change in career would throw our perfectly ordered life into chaos, she’d said. She’d been making noises about having babies, and made it clear that there was no way that’d be happening if I was earning a nurse’s salary. We wouldn’t be able to carry on paying the rent on our pretty little place in Stoke Newington with me not earning. She became shrill and angry, yelling at me that I was putting her future in jeopardy just because I was having some sort of crisis. And the relationship that had seemed so solid had slowly but inexorably begun to show those tiny cracks, which soon turned into gaping huge chasms.

The one thing I know is that I didn’t blame Alice. In a way, I almost felt that I’d lured her into getting engaged under false pretences. She’d bought into a lifestyle as well as a relationship, and then I’d decided – on what seemed to her like a whim – to take that lifestyle away.

I turn the corner onto Albany Road, still lost in my thoughts.

‘Hi,’ Becky says when she pulls the door open back at the house.

I’ve had all this stuff going through my head and I need to have a shower, gather my thoughts, try and wipe it all away. God I hate Valentine’s Bloody Day.

I don’t know why I find myself upstairs in my room, rummaging through balled-up socks and crumpled boxers, reaching right to the back until my hand finds the small, solid box. There it is – a tangible reminder of the life I left behind. And when I look up at my face reflected in the mirror I realise I look knackered. Also, I really need to get a haircut. I rub my face with both hands, before giving a huge yawn. What I really need is to get a decent night’s sleep.

A couple of hours later, we’re all sprawled on the sofas, so stuffed with Domino’s pizza we can hardly move. Rob isn’t there, of course – Valentine’s Day being one of the big nights in the restaurant biz, with people like Alice and me last year keeping them in business.

‘My God,’ says Becky, rubbing her stomach as if she’s six months pregnant. ‘I swear I’m having a pizza baby.’

‘I’m never eating pizza again.’ Jess leans forward, taking a slice of Hawaiian from the cardboard box. ‘After this bit, I mean. This is my last hurrah.’

‘Pineapple on pizza is beyond disgusting,’ says Emma, looking at Becky for back-up.

Jess sits back and takes an extra big mouthful to prove that she’s wrong, making us all laugh. I watch as she curls her long legs underneath her, sitting tailor-style on the huge soft sofa cushions. And then – realising what I’m doing – I look away. She looks at the pizza, thoughtfully.