‘And you could have your desk here,’ Mum was saying. She pretended to sit, facing the French windows, demonstrating with a flourish of her imaginary pen how I’d write. Then she paused, pen in hand, to gaze out at the view. I imagined her there, writing her thank-you letters. Before going to her pantry, which she’d never had, and had always wanted. To prepare a little light lunch for her and Dad. ‘Because you will write again, won’t you?’ She turned to me anxiously. ‘Helena and I see you doing that again, here. Well away from – well. You know.’

My former life. My disaster of a life. Which was still chasing me. I’d clearly been discussed, at length, on the phone by the two of them. That didn’t come as a surprise to me. Mum and Helena were very close. And I don’t say that with any hint of jealousy at all; in fact, I’d often felt it let me off the hook. They spoke every day, sometimes twice a day, and I wasn’t really like that. I’d never felt the need to clock in with anyone, and throughout my marriage, had deliberately not done so with Mum because I didn’t want to worry her. I’d have had to lie constantly, which would have been so exhausting.

Instead, I suppose in a cowardly fashion, I’d let Helena do it for me. ‘I’m sure she’s fine, Mum, sure they’re fine. You probably haven’t heard from her because she’s writing.’ And then a quick text to me: ‘Ring Mum.’