‘They’re an eight,’ adds Maisie. They started ranking pancakes five years ago. To begin with they had a log book, but while that’s long since been abandoned, the need to allocate marks has endured.

‘Just the one, please.’

Adam may have aged – of course he must have – but to Becky his face is the same now as it was at school. Kind, curious and easy to read despite his efforts. His buttoned-up skinny-fit shirts give the impression of him being a well-turned-out kind of guy, but she knows the cupboards and drawers of his Shoreditch apartment are total chaos. His jeans, like his face, are unchanging, always bought from the same website in the same size, same shade of indigo, a replacement sought once the old pair has faded and thinned at the knees. He’s as loyal to his jeans as his friends.

‘Adam dumped Brooke,’ chirps Maisie. ‘She offered to get the cover of his favourite magazine, Men’s Health, tattooed onto her back to try to make him love her.’

Adam erupts into laughter. ‘Men’s Health isn’t my favourite magazine!’

‘She got as far as inking the title across her shoulder blades.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Becky says.

‘About what? Brooke’s shoulders?’ Maisie loves being in the middle of any conversation when they are all together. She’s grown up that way, thinks Becky. It might have done her good to have a sibling. And then she thinks, it’s not too late for her to have a sibling, is it? Becky’s only thirty-two after all so there’s still plenty of time, a decade perhaps … And then she has to remind herself to put those thoughts down and concentrate on what’s in front of her. A pancake bubbling over heat. A plane to catch.

‘How did you do it?’ demands Maisie. ‘Gory details. Come on.’

‘I don’t find break-ups easy …’ Adam blushes.

‘No one does but come on, she was planning your interiors. You had to pull the trigger.’

‘I didn’t really read that as a sign she might want to stay,’ he says. ‘I thought it was handy because, you know, she had good taste. I thought she enjoyed picking out blinds.’

Maisie slaps her forehead in delighted disbelief.

‘Was she American, with a name like Brooke?’ asks Becky.

‘Tell her the surname!’ crows Maisie. ‘What was her surname, Dad?’

‘Waters,’ says Adam, sheepish, as if he’d named her himself.

‘Brooke Waters!’ howls Maisie. ‘Damn, girl! Headline for the week: Adam’s Waters broke.’

‘Hey, Maisie,’ says Adam. ‘Can you go into my bag and grab the blueberries I bought?’

‘Yep, I’ll be a minute OK? Got to get sorted for tonight first.’ She takes a few steps toward Becky and pecks her on the cheek. ‘You’re amazing, my hero, I totally love you.’ Then she wanders out, answering her phone on the way.