This, I’m rather hoping, will be the end of it. Sadly, it simply piques Malo’s interest further. He wants more details, more clues, and when I tell him enough’s enough, he takes absolutely no notice.

‘Is this something private, Mum? You’re shagging him?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘What, then? What is it?’

‘I can’t tell you. Private’s a good word, but not in the way you think. Let’s get that waiter back. I’m not sure I’m hungry any more.’

On the way back to Holland Park, Malo is more than solicitous. Am I feeling OK? Is it something I’ve eaten earlier? Would I like to stop for a drink? To every question, I offer nothing more than a shake of my head. It’ll pass, I mutter. It’s nothing.

Outside the flat, Malo gets out of the car and helps me on to the pavement. This is very sweet of him and makes me feel very old. He gives me a hug and then holds me at arm’s length.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ He’s beaming. ‘You are shagging him.’

TWENTY-FIVE

Thursday, 12 December. Election day. I’ve overslept for once and it’s nearly ten o’clock when the phone rings. I roll over, groping for my mobile. I recognize Evelyn’s voice at once. When she’s upset, she has a tendency to gulp.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Are you there? Enora?’

‘I am. What’s going on?’

‘Something’s happened. I don’t know what. Bill just phoned me.’

‘And?’

‘He said to watch the news. The TV news. And to tell you to do the same.’

‘But why? Why would he say a thing like that?’

‘I don’t know. You’ll phone me back? Promise?’

I say yes. Already I’m out of bed and heading for the lounge, trying to remember the channel number for BBC rolling news. Seconds later, it’s there in full HD, queues of voters at polling station after polling station, live injects from reporters in Leeds and Plymouth, on-screen reminders of the shape of the evening to come. Prime Minister Boris Johnson, we’re told, has already voted. And here’s a clip of Jeremy Corbyn doing exactly the same thing. The nation holds its breath. Anything could happen.