Friday 17 February

8pm. What am I doing? Swore years ago would never go to another of Magda's humiliating Smug Married dinner parties. Is ridiculous now, just because am pregnant to think will... gaah! telephone.

8.02pm. Was Magda, glacial. "Bridget! Haven't you even set off? We're waiting to sit down." Right. Am leaving... gaah! telephone!

8.15pm. "Bridge, you've got to come to the Electric." - Shazzer - "Jude's having an IVF meltdown."

"I can't. I was supposed to be at Magda's 15 minutes ago."

"Fine, hang out with your Smug Married having it all friends: side-switching pregnant turncoat!"

Midnight. Nightmare evening. When did Tuscan/Gloucestershire farmhouse kitchen become passé amongst those who can afford to give their houses "new looks"? Had always assumed that the heavy beams, hanging copper pans and terracotta tiles were a timeless embodiment of the primeval kitchen not a mere fashion fad, but Magda's London kitchen, which once gave the impression of being carved out of an Umbrian hillside, now had the white polished concrete floor, see-through table, acid-hued Eames chairs, and long haired white sheepskin rugs of a Seventies shag-pad.

Was immediately set-upon by gaggle of Woneys and Poos laying hands on me as if they were African tribeswomen or ancient midwives with bats and lizard's tongues in their hair. What is it about being pregnant which makes people think that they can not only say anything they like to you but also put their hands all over your stomach as if it is some sort of universal possession over which you have no more claim than they do?

"It's a boy," said Poo, bossily. "I can tell by the shape of her breasts."

"No it's not," snapped Woney, "It's a girl. She's carrying low."

"Aren't you the one who got varicose veins in her labia?" I felt like inquiring sweetly.

"Have you put him down for any schools yet? Oh, though of course it's going to be difficult with the fees if you're on your own, isn't it?"

Face was clenched in rictus grin as we made our way to the table. What was I thinking, coming back into this lions' den of smugness? Looked round wondering what it was that divided the likes of me, Jude and Shaz from the Magdas, Poos and Woneys of this world, who all made a simultaneous rush for it - like in a game of musical chairs - right around the 30 bell and married someone solvent? Were we hopeless romantics, ruthless career women, or, as have always feared just hopelessly unattractive?

Was seated, horrifyingly between Johnny Palmer and Woney's jowly husband Cosmo, bogeyman of so many past nightmare occasions, with his: "When are we going to get you sprogged up old girl? Time's running out!"

"So! Bridget!" he roared. "Unmarried mother eh? Have we found out who the father is yet?" then burst into loud guffaws as if he'd just said something funny.

Fighting the urge to bring up the time when he tried to put his tongue down my throat two months after he'd married Woney, I suddenly realised six pairs of eyes were focused slaveringly on me.

"I imagine this sort of thing goes on all the time, does it, in your sort of literary circles?" said Johnny eagerly.

It was like when I used to think Cosmo was trying to humiliate me by yelling "So! How's yer love life?" then suddenly realised they were all just looking for vicarious thrills.

"Oh it absolutely does," smirked Anthony Brock. "Remember that Hugo chap who worked for the Bloomsbury Press? Sister married some fellow who had an affair. Woman got pregnant and had the bloody sproglet on her own! Nobody batted an eyelid! Lucky blighter. Gorgeous bit of totty! If I had a secretary like that I'd definitely roger her."

"Well! Shall we clear the plates!" said Woney in a high-strangled voice, jumping to her feet and knocking over claret glass with her arse.

"Let the caterers do it," said Magda, drunk. "You know," she said too loudly. "The other night, Bridget's friends were talking about how different it would have been if they could have frozen their eggs at 25."

"Now, darling..." interrupted Jeremy in a scarily controlling voice.

"No, come on," said Magda. "It's alright for you chaps, isn't it? Out in the city all day, lunches, top of your professions, nice offices, nice homes, all nicely run for you. You've earned the money, you control the purse strings. I used to be managing director of a company, remember. I couldn't get back into the workplace now if..."

"Sweetheart," said Jeremy, threateningly.

"Come on Woney, Poo," Magda ploughed on. "How many of you, if you'd known how it would turn out would have got your eggs frozen and waited, built your career and your own income instead of having to ask before you buy a pair of sunglasses..."

"...and getting your only intellectual stimulation from doing your children's homework" finished Poo, darkly.

Couldn't help but remember them as exultantly smug newlyweds, talking euphorically about Tuscan group holidays, Gloucestershire barns and Emma Bridgewater pottery and making Jude, Shaz and me feel like tragic sadacts.

"But you see, we wouldn't have needed to freeze our eggs," said Woney nastily.

"How do you mean?" said Magda.

"We'd found our partners. The people who need to get their eggs frozen are the sort of women who end up desperate in their thirties because they can't get a man."

"Like Bridget!" burst out Cosmo in a barrage of guffaws which at least was so crass that it deflected the appallingness of what Woney was insinuating.

Just then the doorbell rang and Jeremy practically fell over his Eames chair to answer it. "The sensible ones are the new generation who have them early, like my niece Honour," said Poo, eating tiramisu straight out of the bowl.

"Or Britney Spears," finished Magda. "And then get rid of the man and get on with their career."

"Sorry I'm late, stuck in a headlock with the Turkish ambassador," said a familiar terse, posh voice.