Obviously, there were quite a few nail bars in Parsons Green, but it didn’t take long to breeze into some of them, claim Millie had recommended the joint, and then, after three had shaken their heads, locate the right one. Fourth time lucky. I’ve never been to a manicurist in my life, but according to Fatima, who filed, buffed and polished me, it was high time I did. She also told me how lovely Millie was, and how she admired Ingrid’s style. But the crucial nugget came when she told me Ingrid was writing a book, about interior design. This was a gift from God, as far as I was concerned. All prospective authors were wide-eyed at the prospect of an introduction to an agent or a publisher, which, of course, was exactly what I suggested when I rang her. I’d opened with the Scandinavian kitchen makeover, and she’d said she’d come round and give me a quote. She’d asked where I lived and, when I’d told her, she’d sounded surprised: said she was literally round the corner. Obviously I didn’t want her popping round, so I said I’d love to see her work first, and she’d blithely directed me to her shop, and her manager, Helmut, as I thought she might. I’d agreed to go – and later, of course, decide, with regret, it was too expensive – but wondered if there was anything I could look at? A website, or even a brochure? The rest was easy. She’d bitten.

I settled myself beside her now at the bar and we chatted a bit about the club: how cosy it was, albeit a bit run-down. And then Ingrid glanced around, blue eyes searching.

‘Is she here?’ she asked, referring to my agent, Sonia, who was in fact in Hampshire seeing her newborn grandchild for the first time. ‘Or did you say she’s meeting us later?’

‘Later,’ I agreed. ‘If she can make it. But she did actually send a text saying she was slightly held up with an author. She said she’d do her best, though. Ingrid, you look amazing, have you been away?’

‘Portugal,’ she said shortly. ‘Just a long weekend in Lisbon.’ She frowned. ‘So … maybe we should make it another day? Rearrange? I could easily do some shopping today.’ She began to gather her suede bag with its slinky gilt chain from the bar.

‘Oh, you never know, she may yet show. Just a tonic water, please,’ I said to the barman, who was raising his eyes enquiringly at me. ‘And could we see the menu, please? I’m starving, aren’t you?’ This with a beaming smile at Ingrid, who was looking a little disgruntled.