‘Yes, but so what? Some people would think it’s equally lunatic to slave away over Ottolenghi for hours.’ Helena, I knew, after putting in a twelve-hour day in the office, regularly did just that.

‘And the cottage?’ she demanded.

‘Ah, the cottage,’ I said nervously, knowing she’d freak. ‘Well, that’s another story. Let’s just say I’m very definitely in the spare room for the minute.’

I bid her goodbye, inventing some spurious excuse about Mum wanting me in the kitchen, and hastened away.

11

There’d been a fair amount of stalling about seeing the cottage – procrastination tactics, I realized, in retrospect. Once Camilla had carted her parents home my parents insisted on washing up first, before we went across. Obviously I did the lion’s share while they plumped cushions. When we’d got things straight, though, I suggested again that we pop over. My father said it was getting dark. I said surely the place had lights? He then explained that the silver still needed polishing and that if he didn’t do it now, he’d forget. He sat down firmly at the kitchen table with a duster and the Brillo, glaring at my mother. That seemed to galvanize Mum. She met the challenging look defiantly, straightened up and stiffened her back. Suddenly she was up to the task.

‘Yes, let’s go,’ she declared. ‘Danny’s still working there, of course, but he won’t mind.’

‘Danny? What – the builder? Is he? I didn’t see a van.’

‘Oh, he walks, leaves all his stuff there. And don’t forget,’ she adopted a twinkling, merry countenance, ‘you’ll need a certain amount of imagination!’