‘Where the fuck did you fuck off to?’ Lola said, standing over my bed an hour later.

‘Sorry, it was making me feel bleak. That book. I know it was meant to be funny, but I just couldn’t bear to hear any more. The way it described jollying your husband along into fancying you like forcing sulky children to eat their vegetables. I didn’t think anyone would notice. Did you only just finish that game?’

‘Yeah,’ she sighed and flopped on to the single bed next to me. She took her phone out of its charger and stared at the screen.

‘Online?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ she said sadly. ‘Why isn’t he outside? This is the first winter sunshine we’ve had in ages, he should be enjoying it, not wanking on WhatsApp to all and sundry.’

There was a knock at the door. Franny peered her head into the room.

‘Everything okay, Nina? We missed you for the end of the knicker game.’

‘Yes, sorry, Franny, had a bit of a headache.’

‘Maybe take a break from the fizz this evening,’ she said, screwing up her face with false concern.

‘Mmm,’ I replied.

‘So, we’re all going to have a little downtime then back downstairs for dinner in an hour.’

‘Great!’ Lola said with what seemed like genuine verve. ‘I can’t believe it’s six o’clock already!’

‘I know,’ Franny said. ‘Time passes so fast at the moment, doesn’t it? I don’t know about you but these days I feel like I wake up on Monday morning then I blink and it’s Friday.’

‘I have the same!’ Lola said. I watched this back-and-forth of empty phrases purpose-built for a female vocabulary to make everyone feel comfortable. Lola was so skilled at it – it never made her feel silly. When there was an awkward pause in conversation in the pub, she could state, ‘There’s nothing like a cold beer,’ without irony. I once heard her say to my mother, ‘Photos are such a great way of capturing memories, aren’t they?’ at a family party and Mum positively shone from the effort of this banality then glared at me, wondering why I had never been capable of the same. I didn’t know whether this was learnt behaviour as little girls, or whether it was in our DNA – passed from generation to generation of women who have entertained husbands’ colleagues and impressed boyfriends’ friends and arranged platter after platter of crudités and dips. The Nothing Like A Cold Beer gene.

‘I think we’re the only single ones here,’ Lola said after Franny left, turning over so she lay on her stomach.

‘Where, this party? Surrey? Earth?’

‘All of the above.’

‘I like being single,’ I said. ‘I’m not sad to be single. I’m sad to be without Max.’

‘Try doing it for over a decade.’

‘What do you think they talk about?’

‘Who?’

‘Lucy and Joe. I’m trying to remember what Joe and I talked about when we were together, and I can’t imagine him and Lucy having the same conversations.’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen them talking together all that much.’

‘I have, but when I do, it’s always about practical things. What time they’re leaving, where they parked the car. When they should set off in the morning to get to someone’s parents’ house. It’s like their bond is reliant on the organization of things.’

‘Maybe that’s what they both want.’

‘Joe and I never talked about the organization of things. Or if we did it was just me telling him off for being useless. He must have been so unhappy with me if this is what he wanted.’

‘He probably didn’t know what he wanted until he was told it was what he wanted.’ Both of our phones were letting off loud dings. It was the LUJOE HENS! group, sending photos from the afternoon’s activities and desperately trying to erect a castle of in-jokes and catchphrases from the paltry few bricks of this weekend’s experience.

‘Why are they still messaging each other?’ I asked. ‘We are all under the same roof, we don’t need to message each other any more. We can just go into a room and say what we need to say.’ Lola wasn’t listening, she was hypnotized by her phone screen. ‘I think I should take your phone from you.’

‘Do you think something might have happened to his phone, some technical glitch which means it shows that he’s online on WhatsApp all day, but actually he isn’t? Do you think that could be possible?’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I don’t think that could be possible.’

Dinner had a dress code of dresses and heels which I, unsurprisingly, resented. I wore the plainest black dress I owned as a small act of protest and Lola forced some red lipstick on me which made me look like a vaudeville performer.

‘I’ve never seen you look so glam!’ Lucy said as we entered the dining room to take our seats for dinner. ‘You should wear lippy more, it looks so good on you.’ Lucy was wearing a white minidress with a rah-rah skirt of white tulle, just in case we forgot the reason twenty-five women in their thirties were gathered in a rented house for the weekend.

‘Everyone in their seats!’ Franny shouted. She was wearing an apron over her dress to mark herself as head chef and head bridesmaid. ‘I’ve done a placement,’ she said, in a French accent.

‘A what?’ I asked Lola.

‘It means a table plan,’ she said.

‘You’re like my Google Translate for Middle England.’ I found my name, next to a pregnant woman named Claire. Lola was sitting opposite me, next to pregnant Ruth.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Claire said. ‘How do you know Lucy?’

‘I know Joe,’ I said. ‘From university. How do you know her?’

‘We used to work at the same PR agency,’ she said.

‘Right,’ I said. I had nothing left to ask. I glanced over at Lola, already merrily chatting away to Ruth about where to visit in Florence. I offered a glass of wine to Claire, who declined while rubbing her stomach. I poured myself an extra-large one for the both of us.

‘Right, we’ve got some Middle Eastern sharing platters to begin with,’ Franny said, ushering in some hen-do-participants-turned-handmaidens who carried large plates. Nothing made my heart sink more than a person telling me they’ve made Middle Eastern sharing platters, code for: heated-up supermarket falafel and a can of chickpeas blended with some bland oil and repurposed as homemade hummus. ‘So it’s very relaxed. Everyone just tuck in.’ My section of the table politely divided up the plate between us, leaving us with a grand total of two falafel balls, a tablespoon of tabbouleh and a teaspoon of tzatziki each.

‘Do you have children?’ Claire asked.

‘No,’ I said.

Claire nodded. ‘Would you like them?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if the process of getting there looks especially appealing at the moment.’

‘Does your partner want children?’

Partner. I noticed people often assumed this was a word I used when they spoke to me. I think my lack of make-up suggested I was more humourless than I am.

‘I don’t have a partner.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said.

‘I did have a partner. Well, a boyfriend, until about six weeks ago. Then he disappeared.’ I looked over at Lola’s wine glass. It was diminishing as rapidly as mine.

‘Where did he go?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. He just stopped talking to me.’

Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Could something have happened to him?’

‘No, no, he’s definitely still alive,’ I said. ‘Lola and I collected sufficient intelligence to prove he’s alive.’

Lola’s head turned towards me on hearing her name. ‘What’s this?’

‘I’m just saying that we have reason to believe Max is alive,’ I said across the table.

‘Oh, he’s definitely alive, yeah.’

‘Who’s Max?’ Ruth asked.

‘Man who ghosted Nina.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard about this ghosting,’ said Ruth excitedly. ‘It happened to my sister recently.’

‘Yeah,’ Lola said. ‘London is basically one big haunted house fairground ride for me now.’

‘Are you both single?’ Ruth asked.

‘Yes,’ we said in unison.

‘And are you both putting yourself out there?’

Lola topped up her wine glass. ‘Yes. It’s all I’ve been doing. I hate that phrase, like I’m a worm on a hook.’

‘If I were you,’ Claire chimed in, ‘I would just enjoy being single and relax. There’s no rush for starting a family.’ I don’t think there’s anything I found more galling than an expectant mother of three in a long-term relationship telling single women in their thirties to relax about starting a family. ‘I mean, my God, enjoy your freedom!’

‘What are your kids called?’ I asked.

‘Arlo and Alfie,’ she said.

‘I have two godsons called Arlo,’ Lola said. ‘Can you believe that? From two different mothers.’ I have never loved her more.

‘Yes, it’s very popular now, it was hardly known when we chose it,’ Claire said. ‘It was between that and Otto.’

‘Otto’s on my list!’ Lola said, retrieving her phone from her pocket. I knew her baby-name list off by heart. ‘Let me read it to you, hang on.’ She unlocked her phone screen and tapped. ‘Nina.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He’s still online.’

‘Who? Max?’ Ruth asked.

‘No, this is a man I’m seeing who is always online on WhatsApp.’

‘So?’