'Awww ...' Lucy coos.

I feel infinitely sad and already slightly tipsy, a combination that foreshadows disaster. However, I notice Ben also looks like he needs the Heimlich manoeuvre.

'Let's not get ahead of ourselves,' he says to Olivia. 'A dog will do for now. We're concentrating on settling in right now, that's all,' Ben says, to the table.

'Don't put it off when you don't know how long it will take,' Lucy says. 'We were trying for how long, with Miles?'

'Eighteen months,' Matt supplies.

'And that was going at it pretty much every night,' Lucy adds. I suddenly find the issue of whether this is indeed chicory in my salad absolutely engrossing.

'I read an article in the Mail the other day by some fertility specialist,' Lucy continues. 'He said you should have your family completed by thirty-three. How many do you want, Liv?'

'Three. Two girls and a boy.'

Ben exhales, heavily. 'You don't order them from Grattans ...'

'And you're what, thirty-one? You have to get started this instant, right now!' Lucy says, banging the table and giggling.

'Not right now, one hopes,' Simon says drily, and I laugh.

'Stop winding her up, Lucy,' Ben says, with tension in his voice that apparently goes completely unnoticed by Lucy.

'Come on, Ben!' Lucy wheedles. 'If the lady wants it, the lady should get it. t.i.tchies are the best fun!'

I have to look round the room at this for confirmation. She did say 't.i.tchies', right?

'Unless you think you're firing blanks?' Matt adds, quite seriously, to a this-isn't-happening face from Ben.

Wow. Any Matt and Lucy child, I think, must be quite a formula. Matt and Lucy squared.

'He'll come round,' Olivia says, patting Ben's arm.

Ben looks hunted and takes a swig of his drink.

'What about you, Rachel?' Olivia says, and all eyes swivel towards me. 'Do you want kids some day?'

'Uh.' I have a forkful of green leafy matter stalled halfway to my mouth and I plonk it back down on the edge of my plate, so I don't look like one of the gorillas in the mist with the vegetation being observed by five Dian Fosseys. 'It's not top of my agenda. But, yes. Why not? If I find someone to have them with.'

There's an uncomfortable silence: uncomfortable largely due to their matchmaking. I rattle on: 'And I say, don't worry about fertility specialists. That's their job, to tell you to get on and have babies. I'm sure a liver specialist would tell us never to binge drink and heart consultants would say don't cook with b.u.t.ter.'

Another clanging silence, even louder than the first. Ben smiles encouragingly. No wonder: I've taken his place in the s.h.i.t.

'You binge drink?' Matt says, flatly, chasing some rocket round his plate.

'Not uh. I don't down bottles of apple Corky's and urinate on war memorials. I don't regularly stick to two units at one sitting though. That's normal, isn't it?'

'Not if you have children,' Lucy says.

'Of course, sleepless night ... and so on,' I offer.

'And Miles is nearly four now, I don't want him to be around us, drunk.'

'Well, I should think not,' I say. 'At the bottle at his age.'

Lucy takes it straight, blinking rapidly. 'He's weaned and on solids. He's three.'

'Urm, yeah. I meant ...' I trail off.

Lucy turns to Olivia and says: 'Oh my G.o.d, I forgot to tell you we finally got the keys to the villa!'

She starts rummaging in her bag, producing photographs. Lucy hands them to Olivia and Ben and they make noises of interest and approval. It doesn't seem as if the photos are going to circulate any further.

'Wrong crowd for that last gag, I'm afraid,' Simon mutters, topping up my suddenly-nearly-empty wine gla.s.s.

'Did I say a bad thing?' I whisper back.

'Absolutely not. I was waiting for the spotlight to swing round to my sperm motility.' He looks down. 'Disaster averted, boys.'

Suddenly I'm back at school, giggling at the back of the cla.s.sroom. When our laughter subsides, we see the rest of the table are watching us with interest.

28.

It's fair to say that Matt and Lucy win the evening's compet.i.tion, hands down. Every subject work, family, holidays, home seems to come with right and wrong answers. They quickly realise my answers are duds and lose interest in me. I've never been skiing, or fretted about the best miles-per-gallon among station wagons, haven't eaten at places with a Michelin star, don't have strong opinions on each party's tax breaks.

It's not so much an air of self-congratulation as a thick smog. Being this acquisitive seems so exhausting. I wonder how this game ends, if they'll finish up in a retirement home competing for who's got the biggest necklace alarm.

I sincerely hope that Lucy and Matt are among the few people Ben and Olivia know up here, and they are therefore making a special effort. All my interactions with Olivia suggest she's a nice enough person, yet around Lucy she seems to become Lucy-ish. Ben is quiet, maybe even subdued.

After the main course has been served, eaten and cleared away, I excuse myself to the bathroom.

'Use the downstairs one. Before the kitchen, on your left,' Olivia says.

It's as immaculate as the rest of their residence, and I have a pang about my own homelessness. It's not Sale any more. It's not Rupa's palace either.

Mid-handwashing with something fragrant from a white china pump dispenser, I'm surprised to overhear a muted conversation between Ben and Olivia. From the clanking, I gather it's taking place over the dishwasher. Something about the tenor of it tells me they think it's private. I guess they haven't worked out their new home's acoustics yet.

After some debate over which way the plates are stacked, Olivia hisses: 'Rachel's sweet.'

I freeze, while reaching for the hand towel.

Ben responds: 'Yeah, she is.'

Pause.

'And pretty,' Olivia adds. Ben makes an equivocal noise. 'Nondescript was a little harsh.'

I actually suck in air at this. I look at myself in the mirror. Nondescript, slightly bloodshot eyes in a nondescript face. I think: you asked for this. You went looking for it, you begged for it, you knew it was coming and here it is, and guess what? You hate it. I start mindlessly washing my hands a second time.

'I never notice anyone other than you, darling, you know that,' Ben says with exaggerated gallantry, and Olivia snorts.

'Simon's keen,' she says. 'That's going nicely, I think.'

'Yeah, Liv, don't force it, will you?'

'I'm not!'

'Rachel's come out of a long-term relationship, she's going to be a bit fragile.'

'They were engaged?'

'Yeah. Seriously,' I hear Ben continue, 'she was with Rhys ages. She was with him when I knew her.'

'Then maybe a fling is exactly what she needs.'

'Why do women always have to interfere?'

29.

Two courses down, and the booze has really kicked in. Lucy's giggling has got louder, Matt's anecdotes are more risque. Simon's relaxed but he can hold his drink, so he's giving nothing away. He watches me as I pick up my napkin, sit down again and refill my gla.s.s. I feel so hollow, I want to be full of something it may as well be drink.

I catch the tail end of a discussion about the best age to get married. (Is it the age Matt and Lucy were wed, by any chance?) 'Are you anti marriage then?' Lucy asks Simon, covering her mouth decorously as she hiccups.

'You're not anti, you just haven't met the right woman, have you, Simon?' Olivia says.

She glances at me Christ, she's saying this for my benefit.

'I'm not anti marriage per se, I'm anti most marriages,' Simon says. 'I'm anti the reasons people usually get married.'

'True love?' asks Lucy.

'Most people don't get married to the person they love the most, they marry whoever they happen to be with when they turn thirty,' Simon replies. 'Present company excepted, obviously.'

Present company excepted is such an elegantly insulting term, I think, given it clearly means present company especially. It's up there with with all due respect, meaning with no respect whatsoever.

'Listen to this, Simon's saying everyone marries whoever they're with at thirty and love's got nothing to do with it,' Olivia says, tugging on Ben's sleeve as he finishes distributing dessert bowls among us and sits down.

'I didn't say love has nothing to do with it,' Simon folds his arms. 'See, this is the problem discussing this with women. They start shrieking. Do most people think, "this person is my destiny" when they tie the knot, or do they think "I can't be a.r.s.ed to make the effort to see what else is out there now, the hairline's on the wane or the waistline's on the wax, I feel fond, you'll do?"'

'Even if you have got married thinking that, isn't it all about whether you're going to honour your vows?' Ben asks.

'Hey!' Olivia play-slaps his arm.

'Of course I'm not saying I did, I'm saying theoretically here your motives matter less than your intentions.'

'All relationships depend on timing,' I say, careful to look only at Simon.

'Suppose so,' he says.

'Let me get this straight,' Matt says, springing into consultant mode, as if he's been charged too much by a wholesaler for photocopier ink and is hunting for the flaw in the sums. 'What's wrong with settling down without making the effort to "see what else is out there"? How do you know anything better is out there?'

Simon shrugs. 'You don't, if you don't look. I want the life I choose, instead of letting a life choose me. That's all I'm saying. Don't do the "right thing" to reward someone for long service, if you've grown out of them. Aim high.'

Matt's eyes all but disappear as he squints. 'Even if you want kids, clock ticking, you throw a stable relationship away ...?'

'Stable? Stable is for shelving!' Simon says, revelling in his role as agent provocateur. Lucy and Matt look horrified.

'But this means you believe in The One?' Lucy asks, grasping at straws.

'No, dear, I don't. I'm a hardliner. Or as I like to call it, a grown up.'

'Who's this lady you're pursuing if not The One?' Lucy persists.

'You appear to be confusing a marketing concept for romantic comedies with proven scientific phenomena,' Simon says, and I start laughing, despite myself.

'What are you sn.i.g.g.e.ring at, Woodford?' Ben calls, from the other end of the table, forcing me to look at him fully for the first time since 'nondescript'.

'It's Simon he's so laser-sighted, lawyer snarky.' I wave my hand: 'Don't stop. Sorry. You were saying, "The One".'

'She doesn't exist?' Lucy prompts.

Simon sighs. 'There's a percentage of people on the planet you can be reasonably happy with. The One is in fact one of around six thousand. Then it's down to who you cross paths with, and when. The period in the middle where you're in control of your bladder and bowels. Being a member of the point zero zero zero zero whatever per cent club in six billion is still an accolade. Any woman who doesn't understand that has a poor grasp of mathematics.'

'Or a poor grasp of how lucky she is to be in your six thousand club,' I say.

I'm trying to bait Simon. He takes it as collusion.

'Naturally,' he agrees, and winks.

I catch Lucy looking revolted, interpreting the exchange as a betrayal of womankind. I get the feeling that quite a lot of things have been flying over her head at a distance that wouldn't disturb her hairstyle.

'Let's call time of death on your popularity here, shall we, Simon?' Ben says.