‘It’s not Rich, is it?’

She shakes her head. A waiter appears and asks what we want to drink.

‘I’ll have a glass of the Montepulciano d’Abruzzo,’ I say, handing him back the menu.

‘Lemonade, please,’ says Soph.

I raise my eyebrows.

‘That’s what’s wrong.’ Sophie gives a gusty sigh. ‘I’m doing all the right things. I even did that bloody headstand again in bed last month after we had sex, because I read a thing on Mumsnet that said it can help you get pregnant.’

‘Oh my God. You’re not?’ I pick up the wrong end of the stick completely. ‘Is that why you’re drinking lemonade?’

Sophie pleats the tablecloth with her fingers and looks at me. For a moment, her habitual cool and measured manner are replaced with an expression of genuine concern.

‘You know, I just thought maybe it’d save time if I got pregnant now, and we’d be married in autumn, and then I could take maternity leave in the next tax year.’

I realise my mistake and blush. She’s not pregnant after all. ‘Oh my God Soph, you can’t organise your life like that. Babies don’t just come on demand . . . I don’t think.’

‘It’s not organising,’ she says, sounding slightly cross. ‘It’s more like multi-tasking.’

The waiter reappears with our drinks, and she sticks a paper straw in hers, sucking it gloomily. ‘It’s the first thing in my life that hasn’t been under my control.’

God, I think about my chaotic life. The weeks between one payday and the next. The fact I’m utterly besotted with a man who thinks I’m well and truly in the friend zone. The fact that it’s been ages since I saw my mother who was last sighted stacking essential oil equipment on the kitchen table and announcing that it was going to make her a fortune, and that I’m living in a subsidised house-share and if Becky decided to pull the rug out from under me I’d be screwed. ‘I don’t think I have anything in my life that is under my control.’

Sophie smiles ruefully at this. ‘I suppose I should get a grip and stop complaining, really, shouldn’t I?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s not that easy, though, is it?’ I say. ‘It’s weird. Remember when we were little kids, and we thought being grown up meant having all the answers? Now we’re almost thirty, and I feel like I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

‘Me neither,’ says Sophie. She pushes back her chair. ‘I must just run to the loo. If he comes while I’m gone, tell him I want the carbonara with some green salad on the side. No dressing.’

I watch her making her way across the room. With her long ponytail of blonde hair, height and long, long legs, she’s always attracted attention. The waiter watches her with unashamed admiration before coming over to our table when I meet his eye.

‘Your friend, she is very beautiful lady.’

I agree.