Lisa’s common sense is as invaluable as her frequent cry of ‘I told you so’ is irritating. Lisa loves a plan. Even back in college she kept meticulous spreadsheets on everything – from her savings account (including target figures, short-term and for twenty years on) to number of sexual partners (she ranked performance and cross-checked against income – more of this to follow).

I’ve always hovered somewhere between total awe and absolute horror at Lisa’s level of control in every single aspect of her life. Lisa studied secretarial skills and

Lisa is not a natural beauty; she is a girl who makes the best of herself. Even fourteen years ago when she didn’t have a spare penny to toss she always looked a million dollars. She works out, she’s always immaculately dressed and I’ve never, ever seen her without makeup. Reportedly she didn’t relax this rule even when she was fully dilated and the midwife was asking her to push.

Lisa’s plan was to get a job in the City, as a PA. In the financial district there are about thirty men to every woman and every last one of them earns a salary the length of a telephone number. Lisa wanted one of them. There were times I worried she wanted any one of them – which isn’t a nice thing to think about a pal – but there were occasions when I really had to question her quality control. She didn’t seem too fussed if the guy was dark, blond, tall, short, fat, thin, funny or a git. She just wanted a large stone from Tiffany and ultimately a large house in Esher. There were loads of details in between about where they’d honeymoon and which restaurants they’d go to and stuff, but I used to tune out when Lisa itemized every single strategic particular in operation ‘Bag a Rich Guy’. It was bad enough that Jess and I, acting as wingmen, had to trail all the way out to Docklands to visit noisy bar after noisy bar, night after night (just to be hit upon or patronized by turn).