‘But you like these best?’

‘I like these best,’ he agrees, pouring the hot water.

‘Is it because you’re romantic, or just because they’re nice gifts for people?’ I say, leaning on the worktop, trying to help him out because I don’t want him to feel I’ve put him on the spot.

‘I’ll tell you why,’ he says, handing me the coffee and looking into my eyes. ‘The universe is so immense that it puts my life into perspective. And the stars are orderly, a constant, millions of years old while we spin around them. When I’m down, the whole world seems dark, but then I look at the stars and I realise I’m nothing but an infinitesimal spark of energy, nothing more than that.’

‘You’ve been unhappy?’ I don’t need a difficult mother for this particular insight.

‘Yes. I was for a while. Something was missing in my life. I thought Gigi might be the answer, but it went deeper than that. Anyway, I’m better now. My life’s good. You make it easy, Fern.’ He goes into the lounge and comes back with two pieces of Perspex, which he slots into the light box side by side. ‘This is for you.’ He puts it on the worktop and plugs it in. He points to the left one. ‘It’s Virgo.’

‘Aww,’ I say, staring at the constellations, touched by the gift of my very own piece of the night sky. Then I start to laugh. ‘David, I’m not a Virgo.’

‘No, but I am.’ He smiles at me and his eyes crease, and his mouth is on mine and it’s such an incredible kiss that I feel I can take on the world.

LOT 28

White ostrich-feather bolero. Cream satin lining. Coast. One size.

Before I can take on the world, I have to take on my mother.

And I’m going to try not to be too fearful or anxious about her response. It’s not only dogs that bark, my mother barks, too. It’s what she does.

After leaving David’s with my light box, feeling pretty buoyant about things, I hear someone calling me on Chalk Farm Road and it’s Lucy, who’s sitting outside Cotton’s looking gorgeous in the Le Smoking-style trouser suit, with gelled-back hair and a white silk evening scarf.

She’s been given a part in an all-female remake of The Great Gatsby and she’s on a high.

She finishes her coffee and as we’re walking home together along the canal, which is so dense with duckweed that it looks as if it’s lined with artificial grass, I apologise for my mother’s habit of banging on her ceiling with the mop.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got used to it,’ Lucy says. ‘She’s a funny old girl, isn’t she?’