‘I might,’ she said, pale eyes widening, and I could tell it hadn’t occurred to her, but she was encouraged I might think she could make an empire out of her plaything. Perhaps an upmarket IKEA? She was beginning to thoroughly warm up and even gave a tinkly little laugh as she knocked back her wine. I admired her hair and she ran a hand through it. Normally at this point in the proceedings – indeed, long before – the other party might politely ask me a question, albeit, in the case of Tara, the actress, in a bored, offhand fashion, but not our Ingrid. As I moved on to the rocks on her fingers, gazing rapt and appreciative at the glittering spectrum, she ran me through each heirloom. Only when we’d exhausted this did I ask about her children, which usually had to lead to mine, together with a chummy, self-deprecating eye roll about our adored but impossible offspring. A sharing of photos and tips. But Ingrid didn’t conform.

‘One, a girl, Sophia. Rather spoiled and princessy at the moment.’ I waited, but she didn’t expand. Neither did she reciprocate.

‘I’ve got two,’ I volunteered, rather desperately. She nodded. Sipped her wine. ‘And … how old is Sophia?’ I ploughed on.

‘Seventeen. She lives mostly with her father in New York.’

I felt my heart pound. ‘You’re divorced?’

‘Oh no, that would not be financially viable, but we lead separate lives. It’s much easier.’

She smiled thinly and I was about to agree warmly that this was, of course, the ideal scenario, when I realized this was the only thing I should absolutely not agree with her on. I was slightly floundering now, to be honest, when luckily, a friend of mine, a smiley Irish author called Maggie Healy, chose that moment to interrupt. She swept across from the bar and materialized before us in a long floral dress. She kissed me warmly on both cheeks, bending down to squeeze my shoulders.

‘Lucy! It’s grand to see you. I was wondering where you’d been hiding yourself! Sorry to interrupt,’ she shot a wide, apologetic smile at Ingrid, ‘but I couldn’t resist beating you to it. Look what Sonia’s just sent me!’ She had her phone hidden in her bag and glanced back to check on the barman, who was luckily distracted. ‘Lucy and I share an agent,’ she explained to Ingrid. ‘Take a look at that, now. Isn’t that the sweetest babe you’ve ever seen?’

I looked. At a very lovely, smiling photo, which became a video, of a beaming Sonia. She had a newborn wrapped in a shawl in her arms and looked every inch the proud grandmother. I felt my throat tighten. ‘Isn’t she the most gorgeous bundle of joy? Augusta Sarah, born last night, on the stroke of midnight.’ Maggie turned her phone inclusively, so Ingrid could see.