‘Listen, I’ve been a crap mother, no two ways about it. I’m not claiming any brownie points on that score. I never wanted to have a child and, as a result, I’ve probably messed up Alexandra’s life completely.’

I tried to imagine Fleur ever saying the same about me but couldn’t see it. She was far too well armoured in self-esteem to entertain such thoughts. I don’t think it ever occurred to Fleur Bonnier that she’d ever done anything wrong, certainly not in her upbringing of me. To her mind, the only blemish in our relationship is that I’m not sufficiently appreciative of my good fortune in having Fleur Bonnier as a mother.

Ingrid went on, ‘I was stupid. I’d fallen pregnant a couple of times before in my life and had abortions – no problem. With her … well, circumstances meant that that was not an option. And, once I’d taken the pregnancy on board, I started to think … I was in my early forties, last-chance saloon possibly, and the work wasn’t going that well. I had been injured and out of it for a while. So, I wondered whether maybe I should be looking for something else in my life … though God knows why I thought a baby would be the answer. The chances of my having a total personality transplant at that age … well, there’s an old proverb about leopards and spots, isn’t there?

‘So, I’m afraid I brought into the world – and shamefully neglected – this poor lump of a girl who has no desire to be distinguished in any way. No ambition. I just can’t get my head around that. She wants the world to be totally unaware she’s even in it. I tell you there’s no parapet so low that Alexandra wouldn’t hide her head behind it.’

‘Do you think it’s possible,’ I suggested, ‘that she’s turned out so self-effacing because you have such a high profile?’

‘Oh, well done.’ She fixed the eyes on me again. ‘What are you, Ellen – a declutterer or a psychologist?’

‘Sometimes have to be a bit of both.’

She nodded, assessing what I’d said and deciding she approved. Then she sighed. ‘I feel sorry for Alexandra. Sorry that the poor kid ended up with me as a mother. Almost anyone else would have done the job better.’

This wasn’t said with self-pity. Or self-condemnation. Just acceptance of one of life’s inevitabilities.

SIX

‘And the neglected child,’ Ingrid Richards went on, ‘about whose welfare I never worried nearly enough, is now worried about me.’

‘Yes.’

‘I hope she didn’t suggest to you that I might be demented?’

‘She didn’t, no. She was very clear on that point.’

‘Good. I can assure you that all of my marbles are firmly in place. And will be so long as I keep working. But, so long as I have my work and my health …’

‘How is your health?’

‘Much better than it has any right to be.’ To emphasize the point, she took a long swallow of whiskey, nearly draining the glass, stubbed out the remains of her Gauloise and lit another one. ‘I’ve been kippering myself with the fags and the Jameson’s for a long time now. One day I’ll get cancer or have a stroke. Then, if I have the misfortune to survive, I’ll probably have to make adjustments to my lifestyle. Till then, I will continue to live tamely in Brighton … or Hove, to be strictly accurate. “Hove, actually”, as everyone round here rather waggishly puts it. Not quite the heady days of the eighties and the Groucho Club. But on the plus side – or is it a minus – no bombs in Brighton since the biggie that nearly put paid to Thatcher in 1984, no shellfire, and the only invasions are by day-trippers.’