“I’ll put on the kettle.”

She went into a kitchen alcove partitioned by a countertop—empty except for a small toaster. I sat on one of the wicker chairs, looking around.

What was I expecting? Signs of derangement? Not exactly, but the neatness and ordinariness of the place surprised me. So did the bareness. Somehow I’d imagined her as a hoarder—of objects as well as memories, injuries. From conversations with my mother, I knew she’d been involved with plenty of interesting people in her time—politicians, diplomats, a minor rock star or two—and I’d assumed I’d find her surrounded by the memorabilia of a life that, even if it hadn’t turned out quite as expected, had certainly been eventful. But the few shelves were almost empty, and the walls had nothing on them at all.

She brought in the tea. I gave her some photographs of my mother, and after looking through them she began reminiscing about her.

“I remember how we became friends. I was at a drinks party just after I got my first job in television. I was complaining that I had no one in London to go shopping with, and she offered to go with me. Just like that! We had a lovely afternoon traipsing around the West End, and then she took me to tea at some posh hotel where we talked about everything under the sun—art, politics, religion, my boyfriend, your father, everything. Even you! I seem to remember she was worried you were taking drugs.”

I laughed, and she flashed a rakish smile:

“Well, who wasn’t, of course? Anyway, for the next few years she was like a second mother to me, my London mother . . . I feel terrible for losing touch with her. I always have. There was a reason—I’m sure you know it. But it’s my fault all the same. I miss her . . .”