Ridiculously, though – and I feel you know me well enough for me to tell you this – I imagined myself introducing him to Ned and Imo. Except – Ned had already met him. Had liked him. My heart gave a foolish leap. Josh. Joshy. I smiled. Dear Tilly. Lovely Tilly. So young. Of course she was. How could I even have thought such a thing? It was verging on the perv – no, no it wasn’t. But she was so refined. Not that he wasn’t. But he was more right-on than she was. More woke, as it’s now called. Tilly’s boyfriend was probably in the City. Whereas Josh … well golly, I’d find out, wouldn’t I? Cosmopolitan, classless, liberal intelligentsia, was where I’d put him. And age? Hmm … difficult, I thought, as I came off the motorway. I gave it some thought as I wound through the lanes. A tiny bit older than me, I’d like to think, but I’d hazard that was wishful thinking. The same would be ideal. Younger … more tricky. And stressful, as Nancy had discovered. What was it Mum had said? All that maintenance. All that grooming. All that plucking, dieting, waxing and exercising. Baked bean tins had come into it too somewhere, although I couldn’t quite remember where. Exhausting. And expensive.

Well, I’d write a book, I decided as I pulled into the drive. To pay for it all. Of course I would. Hadn’t I already sort of decided? That needs must, to pay for the cottage? Well, now they absolutely must. And he’d like that, I thought, as I got out of the car. Men did. And don’t forget, he’d looked me up. In a good way, we now assumed. And I could hardly say – d’you know what, Joshy, I don’t really do that any more. The writing thing. I just sort of, care for my parents. That wasn’t terribly attractive. Kind, but not sexy. Yes, men liked the books, even if they weren’t Booker Prize winners. Especially since they weren’t Booker Prize winners. One had to consider their fragile egos. Nothing too threatening. Although I was sure Josh wasn’t like that. Those were the old Michael days. He was too enlightened for that.

Lamps were on in the sitting room window and smoke was spiralling from the chimney, signalling the parents’ safe return from the Frobishers. On the way in I caught sight of my reflection in the hall mirror. I paused for a moment. My hair was badly in need of highlights. And it was growing, actually, like a bush. It needed trimming. The thickening waist could do with some trimming too. I’d see about those Zumba classes in the village hall. How could I have gone to London looking like this?