I didn’t particularly want to introduce them. It never went well, when my mother came down. Lingering ignominies included a book launch (with the Pope scholar) where Mother necked so much free wine that she read all the bookshop staff’s palms, unasked, and toppled head first down a spiral staircase. I was beyond mortified. (A psychic, Art howled, when I told him, who can’t see a staircase coming! I said: It was obscured in the floor! God knows why I defended her.) When Kelly’s mother came down, she made her pies and cleaned her house. She was the same woman every time you saw her. She had her feet on the ground and her grandson on speed-dial.

But Art begged to meet my mother, and my mother begged back – out of curiosity too, I think.

We met in an Italian place. She and Art hit it off with Campari spritzers and talk of Italy. Wasn’t pappardelle the true pasta lover’s choice? Weren’t people who used the phrase ‘a mean spag bog’ the perfect morons? I sat on the other side of the table, marvelling. I’d thought I’d have to smooth things, you see, like I did with my old friend and her father, whom she hated. That was a tough gig. (When he died she unfriended me, so my purpose had been clear.)

Anyway. Art. My mother. I thought I’d spend the night passing the metaphorical salt. But no, my mother and Art were off. So much so that I found it hard to get a word in. They shared a sharing platter. They matched each other drink for drink. They liked the same music, the same flowers, the same shitty reality-TV shows. It was like watching twins reunited. A part of me thought – still thinks, age-gap notwithstanding – they’d make a better couple.

At the end of the meal, Art said: ‘Tell me a story about Jenny when she was younger.’

‘She was possessed, one time, in Reading.’

Art spat out his drink. ‘Were you?’

I said: ‘There was fuck all else to do in Reading.’

(I actually did think I had a demon, years later, but it was after I’d watched Paranormal Activity and I think directly related.)

My mother said: ‘Jenny’s never respected my gift.’

Art said: ‘What else do you do? Tea leaves? Crystal ball?’

My mother laughed. ‘You can find out everything about my services on my new website, Medium at Large.’

I said: ‘Never knowingly under-advertised.’

‘But really it’s whatever people want, dead or alive,’ my mother continued. ‘I just get messages. Things like cards can help build a clearer picture. A story, if you like.’

‘Human beings do so fall for a narrative,’ I said, pouring myself more wine.