The Cows. Dawn O’Porter

were going to meet someone on the Internet but ended up with someone at the bar?’ He looks more intrigued than judgmental, but Sophie still looks nervous.

      ‘Yes. I went up to the wrong guy. By the time I realised it was the wrong guy we were already getting along really well, so I just stayed there with him.’

      ‘And what about the other guy?’ Carl asked.

      ‘He left with someone that looked like a prostitute, so he looked pretty happy,’ I say, looking at Sophie, as if to say, ‘You might lie about real life, but I don’t.’ I can see this terrifies her; she’s wondering how to separate herself from my debauchery.

      ‘God, we are so different,’ is what she goes with, causing me to spit out about £2.50’s worth of wine all over the solid white glossy kitchen table that seats twelve people.

      ‘Tara, careful,’ she says, getting up to fetch a cloth, with which she mops up my mess. I feel like I’m fifteen and sitting at a table with my friend’s parents who think I’m a bad influence.

      ‘Sophie, we are not that different. Are we?’ I say, not willing to take any further unnecessary humiliation this weekend; I think I’ve hit my peak after Jason and Wankgate. She stops wiping and looks at me. Carl is behind her, and she looks deeply into my eyes as if to say, ‘Please, just go with this.’ But why should I? Why should I sit here and be made to sound like some old slapper when she was basically ‘Miss Trollop of Walthamstow’ from 1998 through to 2010? Just as I am about to say something brilliantly clever and collected to set the record straight, Annie runs into the kitchen.

      ‘Mummy, I think I’m going to be sick,’ she says, looking as green as the garden behind her. And then, like an earthquake shattering a dam, she projectile vomits all over Sophie and Carl’s perfectly pristine floor.