‘Because I did phone him. I was going to tell you. When I explained about Clem, he went mad, lost it completely.’ He looks pained, bites his lip, then shrugs. ‘So, what choice do I have?’ He bends to retrieve the empty bottles, then glances up again. ‘Spare room, Mum? Like before?’

For the rest of the day, we tiptoe round each other, observing the provisions of what feels like an armed truce. This is deeply wearing for both of us and, mid-evening, after a supper on trays in front of Call the Midwife, I break out a bottle of Rioja and offer him a glass or two. This perks him up no end and by the time we say our goodnights, he’s behaving like a human being again. He even concedes that I’m probably right about Clem, and that he needs to clean up his act, which – coming from my son – is something of a surprise. Malo, now twenty-one, still has youth, looks, and occasional outbreaks of charm on his side. Confusing this with the hard work it takes to sustain a grown-up relationship has always been his mistake.

Moments before he goes to bed, he admits he’s been a dickhead.

‘That’s something you’ll have to live with.’ I give him a kiss. ‘Not me.’

EIGHT

Next morning, I leave Malo to sleep late while I get on with the rest of my life. By lunchtime, I’ve written a long email to Evelyn, assuring her of a bright future as a public speaker, and have also been in touch with my agent. The good news is that a BBC royalty cheque we’ve been expecting has at last come through, but it seems they’re more eager than ever to nail down Pavel’s mystery script.

‘You’ve looked, my precious?’ Rosa asks.

‘Not yet.’

‘Then when?’

‘Soon. These things aren’t as simple as you might think.’

‘Simple? You?’ Rosa laughs. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

I have lunch with a girlfriend in Notting Hill. A fellow thesp, she feeds me endless gossip from the set of a big feature shooting out at Elstree, and warns me never to open my dressing-room door to the fatter of the movie’s two producers.

‘The man’s a carnivore.’ She shakes her head. ‘Share a meal with him and all the clues are there. Normally, he never takes his knife and fork to any girl this side of twenty, so maybe I should feel flattered. He didn’t even ask nicely. Just dug in.’

This, we agree, is the Zeitgeist. First Trump. Then a small army of grotesques in thrall to their dicks.

‘I giggled at the sight of it.’ She orders another glass of Prosecco. ‘Laugh like you mean it, and the bastard’s out the door.’

‘Along with your career?’

‘Hopefully not. Though these days, that might be a blessing.’