‘So far as I know, yes. Tracey. Seems to be working very well.’

‘Good,’ she said again, before moving into carping mode. ‘And you still haven’t met her?’

‘No.’

‘Seems strange, doesn’t it? Not introducing his girlfriend to his mother?’

‘I think that’s up to Ben, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. Still seems strange to me.’

In spite of myself, I was getting riled. The temptation to remind Fleur how few of her lovers she’d introduced to her daughter welled up in me. I was in my teens before she introduced my father (not an encounter that prompted any bonding instinct – or even interest – in me). But I resisted the urge to strike back at her.

Perhaps it got to me because there was an element of truth in the insinuation. I was disappointed by the fact that Ben hadn’t suggested introducing Tracey to me. But stronger than that feeling was relief that my son was in a relationship that seemed to be working. He’d had a fairly chequered history with women. Never had any difficulty in attracting them. When he was on form, Ben was charismatic, he could charm the birds from the trees. But he wasn’t good at sustaining relationships. They always started well, but ended in break-up, pain, and anguish.

In contrast to the distance between me and Jools, I had always been effortlessly close to Ben. He was easy to love. Just like his father. Sadly, he had inherited other, less benign, characteristics from his father. I know I’m sometimes overprotective of Ben, but I have my reasons for that.

‘Seems strange to me,’ Fleur repeated, ‘that Ben doesn’t want to introduce his girlfriend to his mother. Or his grandmother. This Tracey …’ she mused, preparing to slide the knife in once again, ‘… do you think he’s ashamed of her?’

I managed to finish the lunch without losing my temper. Fleur paid. She always paid. She was very generous with Kenneth’s money.

My mobile had blipped while we were at the table, but I didn’t check for messages until I was back in the Yeti in the car park. Only one. Voicemail.

A rather precise, slightly nervous voice.

‘Hello. I hope I’ve got through to the right person. My name is Edward Finch and I have a problem of far too much clutter in my house. I’d be grateful if you could get back to me. My number is …’

The message suggested that Edward Finch was elderly, of the generation that still didn’t quite believe mobile phones recorded the numbers of incoming calls. Not unusual. A lot of my clients are elderly. The urge to hoard grows with age.

I’d get back to him on the Monday. I try – not always successfully – not to do SpaceWoman work at weekends. I love what I do, but the effort of encouraging people and always sounding positive for them takes a lot out of me. The physical lugging around of boxes and furniture can also be draining. When Friday evening comes round, I’m exhausted, and I need time to recharge my batteries.