‘I like his energy. It complements yours. And mine.’

I sat back. ‘Are you making a play for him? Because if you are, this situation is veering horribly close to cliché.’

‘Pahaha! Making a play – what a notion.’

‘Because you actually described yourself earlier as a “gymslip mum”. You actually used those words.’

‘It’s as simple as this: I think he’s good for you.’

‘I’m good as I am. I don’t need anyone to make me better.’

‘I know that. But I also know—’

‘What?’

‘How it gets, sometimes.’

In my head I thought she might mean ‘lonely’, but I didn’t want to push it, and anyway Art was coming back. And how could she be lonely, this woman who professed to be constantly harangued and harassed by the voices of spirits, which invaded her thoughts like rampant toddlers, or so she said. I once asked her: How do you switch off? She winked and raised her gin glass to me.

She put her hand on my arm. ‘But you must comb through his teenage years with him. Don’t let him be evasive. Don’t let his own … toxic experiences stop him … experiencing things with you.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need relationship advice from someone who hasn’t had a relationship since the nineties.’

‘Well what do you call this?’

‘What?’ I said, confused.

She batted her hand back and forth between us.

‘Me and you? Hah! I mean a proper relationship. A romantic relationship.’

‘Romantic. God help you.’

But she did have a few relationships, years ago – relationships in which she invested enough to be jealous. Are you sitting comfortably? I’ll begin anyway.

A long time ago, back in the days when love was still analogue, my mother knew a man named Roger. Roger the Theatre Producer, to give him his full title. And you really must, with men like that, or there’s simply no point to them. Like most of my mother’s men, Roger was married and lived in London, but he travelled a lot. The first night he stayed I came downstairs feigning a headache, a thirst, I was feverish (with curiosity). I was thirteen.

She was in the kitchen fixing something long and cool. He was short and hot.

He started at the sight of me, white-gowned in the doorway. Oh, hello! You must be Jenny.

I nodded and went to sit at the end of the sofa, beside the coiled cobra lamp that was my mother’s most beloved possession. I smiled at Roger expectantly. I had things to learn. I liked the way his arms looked in his short-sleeved shirt. I was at an age when I still trusted muscles.

How old are you? I asked.

Forty.