I knew my duty as a mother, though, and made no comment on her appearance. To praise it would have been recognized as duplicity, and to criticize it would have just confirmed her view of me as a fashion basket-case. I was quite glad I was still in my SpaceWoman blue polo shirt and leggings. Wearing my work clothes offered no opportunities for adverse comment on my sartorial choices.

‘Have you eaten?’ Jools asked.

‘No.’ I couldn’t remember when any food had last passed my lips. Breakfast, maybe?

‘Well, I don’t cook,’ said my daughter, stabbing another knifepoint into a traditional mother’s heart, ‘and I haven’t got the energy to go out, so I’ll order a Just Eat.’

‘Fine.’ I was still slightly shaken by the information that she didn’t cook. I had taught her enough recipes during her teens to survive in a kitchen. Now apparently unnecessary. Another feature of her throwaway lifestyle.

‘I fancy Mexican,’ she said. ‘You all right with that?’

‘Sounds good.’ I couldn’t claim to have eaten much Mexican, but what I’d had I’d liked. ‘You order for me.’

She did the business. For the first time, I took in the flat’s interior. Starkly minimal but well done. Furniture a bit bony for my taste but more comfortable than it looked.

‘Oh, incidentally, Jools, I wasn’t expecting to be in London, so I haven’t got any overnight stuff. Can you find me something to sleep in … and maybe a pair of clean knickers for the morning?’

‘Sure, Ellen. No prob.’

‘And what – will I sleep in the spare room?’

‘No, you sleep in my room. I’ll be in here.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. This thing we’re sitting on opens out. It’s a sofa bed.’

‘So, what about the spare room? What happens there? Have you got a lodger?’

‘No.’ And then my daughter added gnomically, ‘I don’t use the spare room as a spare room.’

The food was good. Jools knew her way around a Mexican menu much better than I did. We were both so hungry that we hardly spoke till we’d finished the last refried bean. We’d finished the bottle of Cabinet Sauvignon, too, and Jools suggested moving on to gin. Pink gin with Fever-Tree tonic. As I said, I rarely drink spirits and felt that my daughter had probably had enough already that evening, but there was no way I was going to break the atmosphere between us by going into bossy mother mode.

Mm. I’d forgotten just how nice a gin and tonic could be. I felt more relaxed with my daughter than I had … well, since her father died.

Did I dare mention Oliver’s name, I wondered. I didn’t want to threaten this unprecedented moment of harmony, but I desperately needed to talk to Jools about him. And I think she needed to talk about him too.

I had no desire to be devious, but I still approached the subject in a roundabout way. ‘At the weekend, Ben was talking about an animation project he’s doing as part of his course.’