After Tony had gone to bed and she’d felt those telltale signs of a migraine coming on, Andrea had sat and replayed the conversation from dinner. It wasn’t a yes and it wasn’t a no. But that was okay, because she wasn’t certain if she wanted to change her mind about having children anyway. It was probably the best possible outcome. Time for both of them to keep thinking. And most importantly, she’d discovered that the door wasn’t completely closed. She wondered if she should have also taken the opportunity to talk about their sex-life. Or more specifically, their lack of a sex-life. But one step at a time. It might have been a bit much to bring it all up at once.

Now though, all thoughts of tonight’s talk were driven from her mind as she stood up and went to the front door, which she opened just enough to peek out and look down the hall.

‘No, you’re a slut! You’re the sluttiest of all of us,’ another woman was shouting. Heather was half-stumbling down the hall from the lift with two other women. All three looked completely trashed and wore towering high heels and skin-tight short skirts. Andrea kept watching as they reached Heather’s front door and Heather started fumbling with her keys, jabbing at the lock and missing. She dropped her keys and one of the other women kicked them out of her reach when she bent over to pick them up, before hooting with laughter at her own hilarious joke. ‘Try and pick them up now, skank!’

Heather tumbled to the floor in a fit of laughter and then Andrea saw the front door open on its own. A young woman stepped out into the hall. ‘Uh, hi Mrs Pickerell,’ Andrea heard her say.

‘Oh,’ said Heather, looking up at her. ‘You’re still here?’

The woman edged out into the hallway. ‘Violet’s asleep. I’ll . . . I’ll get going then.’ She moved hastily down the hallway and into the lift.

At least Heather had booked a babysitter. Andrea was about to close her own door when she heard Heather squeal again.

‘Holy shit,’ she cried, ‘it’s my mini-me! My mini-slut! Mini-slut, how are you, baby?’

Andrea felt the heat rising up her neck. Obviously Violet wasn’t fast asleep as the babysitter had thought. The idea of Heather calling that precious small girl a slut made Andrea feel sick. So much for the perfect mother she’d seen earlier, looking like she was right out of a meme of a 1950s housewife in her checked apron as she baked a cake with her daughter.

She watched as Heather crawled through the doorway on her hands and knees. One of the other women placed a stiletto heel on her bum as she crawled. ‘Giddy up, bitch, mama needs another drink.’