She says this, to me, to my face, in real life. I realise I have never heard her speak. Her voice is soft and sonorous and all the things my voice is not. Reality is so discourteous, don’t you think? I have a sudden wild fantasy where Suzy takes me by the hand and we run towards the river, laughing, everyone watching – who are they, these mystical nymphs? – and we strip and jump and swim naked together in the cold but refreshing water. We start to swim away to a far, foreign land.

Art says: ‘Carmen! So glad you could make it too. It has been too long.’ He looks at my mother meaningfully but then I don’t know whether I am just trapped in a maze of meaning right now. Everything is so maxed out with meaning.

Suzy says: ‘Art tells me you’re a journalist. How exciting.’

I am not prepared for this interview. I say: ‘More of a columnist, really.’ She nods. The air around us bristles. ‘So,’ I say, ‘what is it you do?’ The question catches in my throat.

She smiles, looks down, modest. ‘Bits and bobs. Art said you follow one of my accounts on Instagram. That’s kind of you.’

‘What’s your name again?’

‘On there? Suzy Brambles.’

I look as though I am trying to place it. Suzy … Brambles, you say? B-R-A … ‘Oh, yes, I think I do know you on there!’

‘Yes,’ she grins. I grin.

It is all so superlatively congenial. The tension is at critical mass.

I say, ‘I think you might have followed me, too. Until recently.’

‘Did I?’ Her brow buckles, almost convincingly. She is choosing to play this game, and I must play along. I decide that maybe I can turn this whole situation around – from extreme discomfort to blissful solace – when I convince her to start following me again. In fact, I will not leave this place until it is so. I relax a little. In a way, it’s what I’ve wanted for so long: An Audience with Suzy Brambles.

I say: ‘What kind of bits and bobs do you do?’

‘Arty things, mostly. Also I teach French to underprivileged children.’

French. My only B at A-level. Now I do know, categorically, that France has always had it in for me. I wonder if she speaks Frenchly to Art when they’re—

‘You’ve travelled a lot, then?’ my mother says.

‘Not as much as I’d like.’

‘Are you from London?’ I ask.

‘Suzanne could not be more London,’ says Art. ‘We just spent the weekend at one of her mother’s places, in Belgravia.’

Places. I want to whistle. My mother does.

‘And I understand you’re from Lancashire?’ Suzy says.

‘A long time ago.’

‘I’m still there!’ my mother says. ‘I’m just down visiting and helpin’ out.’

Helpin’ out! Dear Christ. Like she is some hokey Texan mom.