‘Annabel,’ she corrects me, squeezing my upper arms in greeting and at the same time glancing over my shoulder to look at David. She has a radar for good-looking men.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask warily.

‘I’ve come to stay with you for a while. I’ve left my case at the flat. You really are neglecting it; it smells strongly of stale wine.’

‘Does it?’ How embarrassing. I avoid catching David’s eye. I can’t hide who I am when she’s with me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would have cleaned up.’

Still looking unsubtly at David, she says, ‘I didn’t want to put you to any trouble.’

I’m trying to interpret the words ‘for a while’. In visitor language, the scale goes like this: a night, a couple of nights, a few days, a week or so … “A while” means indefinitely. If she’d said a week or so, my heart would still have stopped. As it is, I’m experiencing all the symptoms of shock: rapid pulse, dry mouth. If I had to have one of my parents living with me, I’d prefer my father, who’s much less high-maintenance. ‘Come and sit down,’ I say when I can finally speak.

She sits next to David and gives him a brave and challenging pout. Her dress gapes gently, showing cleavage, her hair curves around her chin, and she looks poised and very beautiful.

David introduces himself. ‘David Westwood.’

‘Any relation to Vivienne?’ she asks, sandwiching his beautiful tanned hand in her small, elegant ones.

‘That’s funny, it’s exactly what Fern said when we first met.’

My mother doesn’t find it at all funny. She looks at me accusingly, as if I’ve stolen her punchline. ‘And are you?’ she asks him firmly.

‘No,’ he replies equally firmly.

My mother responds to this by tapping him on his bare arm. I’ve seen her do this before – she pets men playfully. Not all men, obviously. Just the lovely ones. I hate her for manhandling my man. Or woman-handling my colleague. ‘Won’t Dad mind being on his own?’ I ask treacherously, just to remind her that she’s got a man of her own at home.

She avoids the question. ‘Remember whose flat it is, Fern,’ she says sharply. She turns back to David. ‘Fern lives in our flat, you see. Jonathan used to spend the week in London and come to our place in Berkhamsted at weekends. Now he’s retired he finds himself with too little to do. We have staff,’ she adds unnecessarily.

It’s embarrassing that my mother thinks this kind of talk impresses people.

‘Fire them,’ David says logically, folding his arms, ‘and get your husband to do the work. It’ll stop him from getting bored.’