My hand grips my glass. I look at the folds of skin around the stem. In my teens, two separate psychics (friends of hers) told me I’d have four children because I had four creases on the side of my hand. Hilarious. And what did she want for me? A career as a doctor or a lawyer or, as she put it, ‘even a fucking accountant would do, Jenny.’ What was it she said? ‘An English degree will only deepen your female disadvantage. You’ll end up a teacher, or something else entirely that you’ll get into quickly, untrained. Something lowly. Women are expected to nurture and teach. We are the so-called architects of society. You know what I say? Fuck that. I’m shit at relationships and I’m proud of that. I am an ideas woman. An entrepreneur. And I didn’t work my arse off for fifteen years for you to become a cardie-wearing woodland creature.’

(Becoming a cardie-wearing woodland creature was my rebellion, you understand.)

I text Kelly:

Hey

She texts back:

SHE LIVES!

Get this for a curveball: my mother has come to stay

I knew there had to be some crisis or other

It is a crisis indeed

Is she dying?

Possibly. Will ask

‘Are you dying?’ I say. ‘Is this a situation that’s going to end in me wet-wiping your backside and reading you passages from The Little Book of Calm?’

‘No,’ she says, and then she sighs. ‘I want to help. I see you’re not yourself. And I can help. Beverly’s staying in my place and paying me rent.’ She sips her champagne. ‘And I might as well tell you, darling. I’ve enrolled on a course to train as a death doula.’

‘A death doula? What the fuck is that?’

‘Someone who guides a person out of this life and into the next.’

‘Right-oh.’

‘I already have transferable skills. I can offer the full package, so to speak. My client list is … well, it’s healthy, but it could be healthier, darling, you know. It’s almost as though the unhealthy might be key to my future success, if that’s not too tasteless a thing to say. I didn’t come this far to plateau. There’s a thirty-day training course starting next week in Balham. So you see, your text arrived at the perfect time. I’ve been meaning to get down and now … well, I’m like you all those years ago, aren’t I, your regular Dick Whittington.’

‘You can’t stay here for a month.’

‘I know! What a notion. I’m sure you have plans, help with money, all that sort of thing. Who are you texting?’

‘Kelly.’

‘How is she?’

‘Fine, I think.’

‘She must still be so grateful to you, even all these years down the line. He must be a teenager now.’

‘He is.’