I do another whirl. The colour is divine on me. The matching silver-threaded, crystal-adorned bra underneath is stunning – and not too revealing. These past few weeks, I’ve done push-ups until my arms collapsed. My chest supports itself these days.

I step one foot forward in the manner of a red-carpet pose. It’s not bad. I check the rear view – it really isn’t bad.

A handsome and debonair man hovers outside the changing room, intermittently consulting with the attractive woman prancing about beside me – his wife, presumably. He’s ogling my behind.

‘You look scorching,’ says Faith, dipping her head furtively at my admirer.

The man blushes, the woman scowls and my decision is made. The suit it is.

Sunday is Mother’s Day. I catch the train to Redhill and, instead of my mother cooking, I take my parents to the local pub for a roast dinner. I insist Beryl joins us, given as she doesn’t have any children of her own, and after what my mother confided in me, it’s an honour and a privilege to treat her in a different light.

It’s a lovely day out. Beryl doesn’t grumble and moan half as much as she usually does and my father is happy because when we get to the pub, he knows a few people he can sit with at the bar, leaving us ducks to it. When my mother asks after Harry – thankfully, when Beryl nips to the toilet – I tell her he’s fine, which he is, although he’s been so busy with his other clients that we haven’t spent much time together lately. I don’t mention my pre-occupation with Carlos. I don’t expect he’ll be around long enough for my parents to have to know anything about him.

As I’m heading out the door and home to London on Sunday evening, my mother is caught in the kitchen cleaning up shattered ceramic where my father dropped his cup of tea. I’m rushing for the train.

‘Mummy, I almost forgot, we’ve been invited to a special do next weekend’

The invitation is for a Sunday afternoon tea hosted at Fortnum and Mason. The press office passed it along to me after my mother won them over on the set last week.

‘I have to rush for the train, I’ll leave the invite on the table. I hope you can make it. Call me! Love you!’

I reach into my bag and throw the envelope onto the bowl of potpourri that’s on the hallway table.

She calls back, ‘Sounds lovely, dear. I’ll call you! Don’t miss your train. Stay safe! Love you.’

The following morning is April 1st. Yup. Here we go.