When I don’t greet her, she looks up grudgingly.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she says, as if we’ve been playing a long-drawn-out game of hide-and-seek.

‘Good evening,’ I say patiently. ‘How’s your day been?’

She seems to be examining the question for sarcasm or other signs of subordination but she decides to treat it at face value.

‘Hideous,’ she says. ‘You’ve made me like this.’

‘How so?’

‘I had lunch with Ruth Bennett.’

Intriguing. ‘How is she?’ I ask innocently.

‘She asked after you. She wanted to know what you were doing. Of course, I had to tell her about the market and it makes me feel this big,’ she says, thrusting her thumb and forefinger into my face. I retreat into the armour of my leather jacket.

‘And then she asked about Jonathan. Of course, he got his side of the story in first, so there was no possible chance of her having any sympathy for me, was there? She thinks I should go home before some other woman insinuates herself into his life.’

I bite my tongue to stop myself from agreeing with Ruth. Anyone who’s seen my parents together automatically has a soft spot for my father because he does act as if he’s slightly henpecked and it makes them want to spring to his defence even if he’s in the wrong, which he quite often is. But instead of pointing out his mistakes quietly, my mother will speak to him sharply and suddenly – he’s the good guy even if the misdemeanour actually was his fault.

My mother looks at me dolefully. ‘You don’t think another woman has insinuated herself into his life already, do you?’

To be honest, I do think it’s weird that he hasn’t come looking for her.

And it’s worrying that he seems quite happy without her. Every now and then I find myself wondering what his yoga teacher looks like. That’s the first thing I would have checked out.

My mother’s still waiting for an answer and the right answer here is: of course not; why would he look elsewhere when he’s got you?

But the honest answer is: in the circumstances, maybe.

‘Have you asked him?’

‘Of course not! I’m not that needy!’

‘I bought some cold chicken and a salad for supper,’ I tell her, putting them on the worktop.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she says stiffly.

Suddenly, I’m not, either, and I put them in the fridge.

Somebody comes down the outside steps and rings the doorbell, and I hurry to answer it, glad of the diversion. It’s Cato, with a black bin liner of clothes over his shoulder – I assume they’re clothes. From his general tweediness they could just as easily be pheasants.

‘Who is it?’ my mother asks, coming to see and preparing to disapprove, probably thinking it’s Lucy from upstairs.