I had agreed to have Saturday lunch with her in the café at Goodwood Hotel and Health Spa, where her morning had been spent in variegated Lycra having a gentle gym workout. She calculated that this justified a boozy lunch. As ever, she wanted me to match her, Chardonnay glass for Chardonnay glass and, as ever, I had to remind her of the importance of keeping my driving licence. It was a conversational square dance whose steps we had shuffled through many times before.

‘Have you heard from Jools recently?’ Fleur asked.

‘Not for ten days or so, no.’

‘I had a call from her last night.’ There was smugness in the statement. Fleur prided herself on her closeness to her granddaughter, with the implication that I wasn’t as close to my daughter. Which was quite possibly true. Family tragedy had made Jools shut up like a clam. I couldn’t get her to have a serious conversation with me. She was much happier engaging in shallow banter with her grandmother. Together, the pair of them giggled like schoolgirls, Fleur claiming empathy with the younger generation. And again, there was the implication that I was something of a sourpuss, not showing any interest in the world of disposable fashion which my daughter inhabited.

Though we’d never talked about the subject, Jools knew I disapproved. I’m afraid – though I don’t know why I should apologize for it – that doing what I do has only strengthened my green principles. And I find it hard to forget the statistic that 300,000 tonnes of garments are burnt or buried in the UK every year. Most of it the kind of clothes that Jools prizes and writes about.

‘She was telling me about an influencer she’d met,’ Fleur went on. ‘Do you know what an “influencer” is, Ellen?’

‘Yes,’ I said wearily. ‘Influencers are people who have a large social media presence and are paid to endorse various products.’

‘Yes.’ Fleur’s tone was a little miffed. She had looked forward to enlightening my ignorance on the subject of influencers. ‘I think it’s only a matter of time before your Jools becomes an influencer herself, you know. She seems to have so many contacts in the fashion world.’

‘I’m sure it’s something she would love to be,’ I said, trying not to sound snide. It was true. There was nothing Jools would like more than having a worshipping following of young women, following her fashion tips on social media.

‘Hm.’ Fleur looked at me beadily over the edge of her wine glass as she changed the subject. ‘And how’s Ben?’

‘He’s fine,’ I said, ready for the usual insinuating criticism of my son.

‘You hear from him more often than you hear from Jools, don’t you?’

I shrugged. ‘He keeps in touch. Texts mostly. Then the occasional long phone call. As I say, he’s fine.’

‘Good.’ But, of course, Fleur wasn’t going to leave it at that, was she? ‘Still got the girlfriend, has he?’