Instead, I reply, ‘No. And she wasn’t at school long. She left before her A levels to be a hairdresser. But she’s going out with the guy on the next stall to me and we’ve kind of got reacquainted.’ When she doesn’t react to the mention of the stall, I start to get really worried. ‘Why don’t you go to yoga with Dad?’ I ask.

She takes her napkin off her knee and folds it carefully, smoothing it with the flat of her hand. Her eyes meet mine, briefly. ‘He doesn’t want me there. He says we should have separate interests.’

Yikes. When I was young, she and I did everything together, we were a unit, inseparable, and my father was the outsider, the man who appeared at the table for supper, who I kissed goodnight and who was off to work before breakfast.

And then when I left home, my parents became the unit and I was the outsider, listening to stories about where they’d been and whom they’d met. Their marriage had always seemed solid to me; the one thing in life I didn’t have to wonder about.

And now my father thinks they should have separate interests. That’s never good.

My mother’s eyes meet mine. I smile reassuringly and hope I don’t look as worried as I feel.

As a result of the lunch with my mother, I get to Gigi’s later than I’d intended. The pastel timber houses, very New England, have been built around a gravel pit that’s been requisitioned as a lake.

I drive into the estate and the gatekeeper points out the faded aqua-green house as he raises the barrier, but I’d have recognised it anyway because of the number of cars parked around it.

I find myself a parking space near a gravel border with large decorative rocks and stones spaced artistically around long fronds of grasses and ferns. I study the house. A couple of children’s scooters lie abandoned by the front door.

Leaving my bag in the boot for now, in case I change my mind and want to make a quick exit, I get out of the car. I can hear children squealing with excitement somewhere behind the high fence and I walk up to the house. The door is ajar, but I ring the bell anyway.

‘It’s open!’ David calls and in I go.

He’s wearing a blue floral shirt and red surfer shorts, which takes me back to the first day I saw him. ‘Come on in, Fern.’ His voice is a bit hoarse. ‘You look different.’

A combination of excitement and nerves makes me babble. ‘It’s the hair, probably. And I’ve got different clothes on. Well, of course I have – I mean, I’m wearing a different look.’

‘Oh. Who are you supposed to be today, then?’ he asks as if it’s fancy dress.