‘I got you The Economist…’ Nina beamed, waving a stack of magazines, and Jules didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d stopped reading that a long time ago. She wished she had the time. ‘And these…’ She put three of her signature coolers on the tabletop: grated seasonal fruits (strawberries, rhubarb and elderflower this week), mixed with crushed ice and rose-scented water.

‘I love these!’ Jules said, her cheeks warm with pleasure. Flashes of green and grey shot past the window, the distance between the train and London growing ever wider. She took in deeper and deeper breaths, her body flexing, straightening, broadening, no longer curled in on itself as it had been since last night.

‘Only the best for you two,’ Nina winked, but her smile wasn’t quite as wide as usual. Jules could spot an undertone a mile off, but of what she did not know.

Alice? Alice was chewing on her lip and staring out of the window and Nina shared a half-grimace and a shrug with Jules: something to do with the kids, Jules imagined. She took a napkin, some chunks of mango and melon and a small silver fork with a pale ceramic handle and delicate floral etchings that complemented the napkins.

‘These are gorgeous,’ she said, the fork in the air. ‘You’re so lucky you get to do stuff like this.’ She supposed this was the sort of thing you had time for when you were self-employed and – she glanced at Alice, who looked tired and washed-out – didn’t have family or fertility worries.

‘Like what?’

‘You know, coordinating napkins and handles and…’ She gestured over the spread; the table looked fit for a magazine shoot. ‘Making things look nice.’

‘It is my job,’ Nina said lightly as she took a photo.

‘Oh, I know,’ Jules said quickly. ‘I just mean it’s a perk of doing your own thing.’

Nina could have pointed out that since Ted’s firm had invested in La City Pâtisserie, which was on the cusp of launching a string of patisseries nationwide, the free rein she had previously enjoyed to ‘do her own thing’ and ‘make things look nice’ had dwindled significantly, but she let it go. She was used to Jules’s awkwardness, her ability to say the wrong thing even when well-meaning.

‘You do know what I mean?’ Jules said, concern wreathed around her face. Most of it anyway: her forehead remained smooth and wrinkle-free.

‘I do.’ Nina grinned. ‘Botox?’ she asked.

Jules nodded a yes. ‘You’ve always been good at making things look nice,’ she said pleasantly, keen to ensure she hadn’t offended Nina.

‘I have,’ Nina agreed genially, enjoying, as she always did, the flow of conversation between them. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you noticed.’

‘I do. I notice you. I appreciate you.’ Their eyes danced together. One of the benefits of Nina’s years of therapy was the knock-off second-hand therapy the other two had gotten via her. They were getting better at being honest with each other. To a point.