Aidan and I are actually going out tonight.

Perhaps, after his boss leaves, we can sit down and talk about us and regain some of that old magic.

I feel butterflies rise in my stomach. In so many silly little ways this feels just like our first date. I was so nervous back then. I didn’t dare believe that Aidan, tall, brooding and gorgeous, wanted to go out with me. Even though I was a lot slimmer then, and even though I had a promising career, a wardrobe of fascinating clothes and a repertoire of witty and intellectually stimulating one-liners tucked up my sleeve, I also had the utter lack of self-confidence so common in twenty-one-year-olds, especially Irish twenty-one-year-olds.

My friend had introduced us a few weeks before at a work mixer. Aidan was at that stage working in advertising and while his jokes about column inches and the size of his packages weren’t as funny as he tried to have me believe, I found myself laughing anyway. There was something about him that pulled me in from the start.

There followed at least half a dozen phone calls whereby we both tried to ascertain from my friend whether the other was interested or not. When it was firmly established that both parties were raring to go, we set about arranging a night out.

Now usually I had a strict policy whereby the first date should always be a trip to the cinema. This would mean that pressure would be off for conversation, and afterwards we could always break the ice by talking about the film. If it was going well ( i.e. he hadn’t stolen half my popcorn or dared to drink from my cup) we would retire to a wee bar down the road and chat for a few hours.

But with Aidan something stupid in me made me opt for a dinner date. As I’ve already said, I don’t normally like dinner with strangers, but I wanted so desperately to come across as a sophisticated young thing that I guessed inviting him to a screening of The Bodyguard would seem terribly naff .

We arrived at the restaurant and took our seats. Already my mind was ticking over. Yes, I would love a nice glass of wine, but if I ordered a bottle would I look like a desperate drunk – even though it was obviously cheaper than paying by the glass? Garlic Potatoes were my favourite but would I be wise to order them on a date? What if our kiss was a smelly mess and he never wanted to see me again? Lord knows, even though we hadn’t actually had our date at that stage, I knew with 99% certainty that I would want to see him again.

You see, when I met Aidan, I had one of those heart-stopping moments of clarity I’d only ever read about before. I just knew something was going to happen. I didn’t know, admittedly, if that something would be that we slept together and he dumped me like a shitty sandwich, I only knew that something was meant to be. I don’t want to say it was love at first sight, so I’ll stick to saying, in this instance, it was ‘like’ at first sight.

In the end, I threw caution to the wind and ordered the bottle of wine. We shared it, then another, before we walked tipsily home to my flat. He kissed me, gently and tenderly – but with enough passion that I knew he felt for me just as I did for him – and then we said goodnight. If something really was going to be that good, it was worth waiting for.

Sighing, I realise it has been four months since we’ve shared anything “worth waiting for”. Perhaps tonight could be the night? When Louise comes and stands by my desk she finds my eyes closed, sighing in a dirty little daydream.

“Are you okay?” she asks, plonking herself on the corner of my desk and feigning fake concern.

I sense she smells scandal and is afraid of missing one iota of gossip.

“It’s just you look very flushed.”

I can see already that she assumes I am with child. Louise, you see, tends to assume this about once a month because, as far as she is concerned I’ve already sprogged once, so I’m now a walking liability to the office’s full quota of staff.

After assuring her that I'm most certainly not with child, despite the copious amount of mother and baby magazines littering my desk, I note that she is not moving.
Usually with Louise, she says hello, asks how I am and clears off before waiting to hear the answer. But today is different. Today she is sitting on my desk, looking to all intents and purposes as if some kind of a thought is forming in her head – which, if you know Louise, is so very unlike her.
I'm almost afraid to ask, so I sit there . . . waiting, until I can take it no more. "Can I help you?"
"I'm in trouble," she replies and suddenly I wonder if she could be pregnant herself. She looks around my desk and picks up a sample of nipple-protectors, starts playing with them between her fingers, and continues. "Really big trouble and I figured you could help me."

Suddenly I feel important. I feel useful. I could help her. We could shop for baby things together. I could tell her when to expect her first fluttering kicks, how to do her pelvic-floor exercises and what pain-relief is best in labour. Unless, of course, she wants me to be her birth partner, which would be gross. Miracle of birth or not, I'm not up for dealing with that hysterical hyena in the throes of labour. Not for all the tea in China. No, sireee. Not me.

But, hey, every baby is a miracle, every pregnancy a joy, every birth an experience to be treasured (or recalled to terrified expectant mums with a degree of glee).
"I need you to lose weight," Louise says, cutting through my thoughts and leaving me, perhaps for the first time ever, speechless.