The truth was, I had to start facing up to a whole load of things. How long could I stay in Greenwich, staring up at the ceiling of my father’s house, cocooned by his presence? What I really wanted to do was run away to Cornwall, take Digby and disappear to my haven at Pendarlin, but this was real life. I had to get on with living.

I was staring glumly at the peaked and shiny mountains of perfection in Bel’s wedding-cake book and realising I’d probably bitten off more than all the dried fruit I could ever chew with my rash offer, when the phone rang. I thought it might provide escape, but it was Charlie.

‘I need to see you,’ he purred.

‘I’m about to attempt Bel’s wedding cake,’ I demurred, but the slice of steel through his tone told me I had little choice.

‘Order yourself a car and meet me at the club at five,’ he said, and hung up before I could protest again. I had a quick slug of the cooking brandy and relinquished my still-pristine apron, admittedly with a flicker of relief.

It was already dark by the time my cab pulled up in Greek Street. As I hauled myself onto the pavement outside Soho House, a Lycra-clad courier whizzed by, frantically ringing his bell at a young girl stumbling, half-dressed, across the road. A man very much like a woman, resplendent in white fur, was redoing his cherry lipstick in the shop window next to me. Signing the driver’s docket, my crutch slipped from my grasp; the she-man bowed down to retrieve it for me. As I reached to take it, to thank him for his kindness, a huge silver four-by-four slowed behind him. For one tiny moment the tinted passenger window became transparent beneath the bright lights of the shops. A pale face, turning slowly, all ghostly behind the glass.

Alex. I thought that it was Alex.

I staggered. The she-man thrust the crutch into my outstretched hand – but she wasn’t quick enough. I’d lost my balance now, whacking my foot so hard against the kerb as I flailed that tears of pain sprang to my eyes. The she-man caught me before I fell. He smelled of something I recognised; something like my mother. Chanel. For one brief moment I relaxed against this stranger’s soft chest. It was the first time a man’s arms, any arms, in fact, had encircled me since my father’s anxious hug at the hospital, since my days of recovery, and I savoured the warmth. Then I remembered myself.

‘Thank you.’ I pulled away, embarrassed. He winked one beady spider-lashed eye at me. ‘Don’t mention it, ducks. I love a cuddle in the afternoon.’