‘I will. I promise.’ I missed Matthew as well as my parents, but I had to get used to it, just as I’d had to get used to Marcia moving on so many moons ago. Matthew had been with Juliet since university and moved to South Africa straight after they both got their degrees. He loved it, and soon got a job working as an engineer. The climate suited him, and he and his family had a wonderful life over there. I got out to see them when I could, but Cape Town was a long way from London and air fares were costly.

‘I will, and you know you’re welcome back here any time.’

Matthew pulled a face. He’d never liked the cold weather.

We caught up on recent news, said our goodbyes and, when they’d gone, I texted Mum and Dad again.

A message came back, ready and waiting, I pressed FaceTime again and then there they were – or rather, there were the tops of their heads.

‘Mum, I can’t see you. Adjust your screen, that’s it. Oh, and now I can’t hear you. Is your sound button muted?’

I could see them faffing about and I felt a rush of affection. At last Dad pressed the right button. ‘Can you hear me? CAN YOU HEAR ME?’

‘I can Dad, no need to shout.’

It was good to see their smiling, familiar faces, and I felt a stab of nostalgia for Christmases we’d spent together, singing carols out of tune, swapping presents, playing charades. They both looked well, Dad white-haired and suntanned, Mum ash-blonde and glowing. The Mediterranean climate suited them. As with Matthew, I filled them in on my Indian trip and, in turn, they told me about their past weeks. They lived in a community for Brits abroad and it was reassuring to know that they were never lonely.

‘Any chance you might get over?’

‘I’ll try, Mum, but having been away for two weeks, I have to make sure everything’s OK with the shop.’

‘When you can, love,’ said Dad.

‘Have you spoken to either of your brothers?’ asked Mum.

‘To Matthew just now. They all look disgustingly well and Phoebe’s absolutely gorgeous, very creative and oh … do you remember me having an imaginary friend when I was little?’

‘Imaginary friend?’ Dad asked.

‘Oh yes, I do, course I do,’ said Mum. ‘Billy.’

‘Billy?’

‘You couldn’t have been more than five. You were such a funny little thing. Why? What’s made you think of him after all this time?’

‘Phoebe. She has an imaginary friend and Matthew reminded me that I’d had one too, though I don’t remember. Are you sure I called him Billy?’