I’m okay but listen I’ve got a bit of an emergency and I wondered if you could help – really sorry to ask but there’s literally no one else – my mum is away and the trains are screwed tomorrow and Sonny needs picking up from his dance class at 7 – can you poss do it if I send the address, again sorry to ask

Sure!

Thanks so much – I know he’s 14 but it’s dark and not the greatest area and there was another stabbing just last week

No sweat

I walk up to the French Horse, a dark, brash pub with flags outside and a smoking galley cordoned off with a stretch of vinyl that says Stella Artois. I’ve walked past it plenty of times but written it off as a little too local. I take a picture of it as I approach. Now, how to caption this …

PUB LOLZ! #WOO

No. I am not fifty.

LIVING MY BEST LIFE IN SOHO! #WOO

Nor am I a tourist. Delete delete delete.

MAKING WEDNESDAY MY BITCH

Ooh. That has allure. I post it, and take a quick look at Suzy Brambles. Nothing. That’s two days she’s been off it. What’s the deal? Is she writing a goddamn novel? Maybe her account has been hacked. Maybe her phone has been stolen. Maybe she’s broken a limb. I would just about accept a broken limb. If she were to post, tomorrow say, or the day after, a hospital-bed selfie with her shapely leg in a white cast, I would like it deeply, privately.

‘Jenny!’ My mother has spotted me through the doorway. ‘Come in and meet my friend Linda.’

I walk in and up to the bar. My mother is holding a dainty-small glass of white. She is leaning on the piano like Amadeus Mozart in the film Amadeus. A mad-eyed dog with a bouffant do.

‘Hiya,’ says the woman behind the bar. She has piercings all the way up the sides of both ears – little studs and hoops and chains – and peggy front teeth which show a laissez-faire attitude in this dentistry-savvy age. I suspected this place was run by vagabonds.

‘Wine?’

‘I don’t suppose you do coffee?’

‘Machine’s off.’

‘Wine’s fine.’

My mother laughs. ‘Linda, this is my daughter, Jenny,’ she says.

The woman nods, turns and bends. Her bracelets jangle as she opens the fridge. My mother leans towards me. ‘We used to be lovers,’ she says, not quietly enough. Still, presumably Linda is aware of this fact. If it is a fact. My mother continues: ‘In my youth.’

‘Excellent.’

I walk up to the bar. The woman hands me a small glass of white wine. ‘We only do one size.’

‘This is the perfect size for me.’

‘You can have ten,’ my mother says. ‘You can neck it like a shot.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘An hour and a half,’ says Linda.

‘Grass.’