‘Yes. Well, maybe. Eventually.’ I realize that it’s far too late for me to be coy but I back-pedal a little all the same, since his initial response is not what any girl would describe as encouraging. ‘I want us to talk about it, at least. I want to know whether it’s what you want or something you might ever want.’

‘Right,’ says Adam.

We both fall silent for what feels to be about a week until I clarify, ‘I mean I want to talk about it now.’

‘Oh, oh, OK, right,’ he says again. There’s more silence. After seemingly another week or so Adam asks, ‘And you want to get married because you are thirty?’

The silence has wounded me. The alcohol which initially fired me with enough confidence to broach the subject is now hurtling me towards sulky self-pity. I find I can’t explain my thoughts properly. For weeks I’ve been endlessly pondering why exactly I feel a compulsion to marry Adam. I’ve considered the fact that we are no

‘Everyone else is getting married.’

‘Oh, right, so everybody else is doing it. That’s a great reason to make the biggest commitment of our lives,’ says Adam with obvious sarcasm. He shakes his head and asks, ‘Like who?’

‘Like Pete and Tanya, like Eliza and Greg, like Will and Zoë.’ I reel off the list of names of our friends that have got engaged in the last month.

‘Would you jump off a bridge just because Tanya, Eliza or Zoë did?’ he demands, sounding just like a grade three teacher talking to a child. I ignore him.

‘Like, just about every woman who walks into my shop. I could do the flowers for our wedding,’ I wail.

I’m a little bit shamefaced to admit it but I have spent quite a lot of time day-dreaming about our wedding. I have not planned every last detail – not quite – but I’ve certainly drawn the broad brush-strokes. I’ve picked out a dress, a menu, and I know we’ll be having fat pink peonies as the centrepiece flower to all arrangements.