She smiles at him, and we watch as he climbs the stairs. Then she turns to me. “Come and have a cup of tea,” she says. She looks suddenly rather naughty. “Unless you’d like to see the portrait, of course. That is the reason you came, isn’t it?”

She looks so much like Laurie at the moment that it makes my heart hurt.

“You know why I came,” I say. She raises an eyebrow. “I came for Laurie’s address.”

“And why would I give that to a stranger?”

“I’m fairly sure that I ate canapes in your dining room once.”

She smiles at me. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve spoken to Lennie, so I know everything.”

“I sincerely hope not,” I say, alarmed.

She grins. “I know enough to recognise that you’re in love with my son, aren’t you, Magnus Carlsen?”

My stomach dips. “If I am, then I think he might be the first person I should tell that to, yes?”

She inclines her head approvingly. Her eyes are the same colour as Laurie’s and full of the same intelligence, wit, and kindness. “Well then, let’s just say that I know enough to recognise that my son might feel the same.”

She turns to search in the drawer of the walnut console table, leaving me feeling as if she’s just punched me in the stomach. She exclaims and turns with a piece of paper in her hand.

“Here it is,” she says and forces it into my hand. “His address. Lovely house. It was my mother’s. She was the same as him. A heart as big as the sky and no intention of ever using it properly,” she says affectionately and then looks closer at me. “Are you alright, Mags? Is it Mags?”

“I suppose it is,” I get out.

“You look like you’re going to be sick. Maybe you should pop into my lounge and throw up on my curtains. They’ll never be the same after your dog.”

“Did you say your son was in love with me?” I gasp.

She smiles wickedly. “Well, I think if he were, you’d be the first person he’d tell, don’t you?”

I lunge forwards, and she gives a gasp and a shriek of laughter as I grab her and hug her.

“Thank you,” I say, letting her go.

She grins. “I like you, Mags. I hope to see you soon.”

I nod, and, calling Endof, I race down the steps. My car is in for a service, and I rack my brains to think of my next move. A few houses down the street, a neighbour is paying for his taxi, and a brilliant idea occurs to me. I jog over as the driver begins to set off. “Wait,” I thunder, slamming my hand on the bonnet.