I laughed. ‘Mum! We’ve been together for nearly two years.’ As she well knew.

‘Two years? How’s he going to mark your anniversary? By flying you to…’ She cast about, trying to find a location adequately exotic. ‘…Bora Bora for the weekend?’

She had a point. Quin liked to visit countries that other people couldn’t pronounce, like Laos, or that the Department of Foreign Affairs advised you to avoid, such as Iraq. (It wouldn’t surprise me if Quin said, ‘Yeah, no, there’s a province in the north of Iraq, absolutely beautiful, looks like Switzerland. I know. Totally peaceful, the entire population are red-haired Rastafarians—some genetic throwback. We should go.’)

Last summer we’d gone on a walking holiday in Transylvania and I suspected his main reason for wanting to go was because of the name.

‘Not Bora Bora,’ I said. ‘But Barcelona.’

‘Oh!’ Margaret was enchanted. ‘Barcelona!’

‘Well!’ Mum sounded horribly smug. ‘I hate to piss in your punchbowl—’

‘Mum!’ A clamour of voices rose. ‘That’s disgusting!’

‘That’s disgusting? You all say far worse! Anyway, Rachel, I hate to piss in your punchbowl—’

‘You don’t,’ I said. ‘You love it.’

‘But you’ll be mugged on the Las Ramblas street. Everyone gets mugged there. Now can we please stop talking about Rachel’s men. The thing is’—her voice wobbled—‘I’ve never had anything nice, ever. I have five sisters and I was always overshadowed. I’ve spent my life wanting a surprise party. This is my one chance to be special, so commit to it!’ She turned to Margaret. ‘What’s the thing you say?’

‘Lean in.’

‘Yeah. Lean. Fucking. In!’

‘I’d lean in a lot better if I had some chocolate,’ Helen said, zipping towards the kitchen.

She looked…actually…a bit pale. I went cold. She wasn’t sick, was she? Like, seriously sick?

When we’d all been younger, Helen had seemed invulnerable—brave, judgemental, deliberately contrary. People—men in particular—were dazzled and maddened by her.

However, in the last eight years, she’d endured three spells of suicidal depression, each culminating in a stay in a psychiatric hospital. She’d been well now for a couple of years but since the first bout, I’d never not been worried about her.

Sometimes my fear was so small it barely registered, but it was always there, like a faint background whirring sound.

Today it wasn’t her mental health I was afraid for—but it had been such a shock when she’d first got sick that I’d got used to jumping to worst-case scenarios.