‘Well, I didn’t know where we were meeting, dear. You said inside, but it’s so crowded. I’m sorry I’m so late. The car had all sorts of trouble getting me here. The roads were blocked, and I’d promised your father I wouldn’t walk around town by myself. Anyway, I’m here now and that’s all that matters.’

And then I realise. I screwed up the invitations. The rush for the train – I’d pulled the wrong envelope from my purse. I’d left my mother the invitation to the TIARAs instead of to the luncheon at Fortnum and Mason.

Seeing her here, I can’t imagine her anywhere else.

My mother’s dress is full-length navy satin with a neckline plunging to her cleavage. Tall and willowy, as elegant as any woman in the room who’s half her age, she’s wearing it well. Her silvery-white hair is coiffed into a neat chignon. Ravishing burgundy on her lips.

‘How do I look?’ she says.

‘Mummy, you look beautiful. Grace Kelly would be envious.’

‘That’s what your father said. Grace, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’

‘I’m glad you’re here. I must warn you, there might be a small mix-up with the seating to resolve...’

This isn’t the Baker & Staines Annual Advertising Awards evening I’m crashing. It’s the TIARAs. I’ve no idea how I’ll wangle an extra seat – I don’t wish to be rude and dump a second person with no notice, but with circumstances again mitigating, if I have to, I’ll ask Jordan to leave. There’s no way I’m letting my mother down now.

‘Of course, dear. Is that Judi Dench over there?’

‘You know, I think it is. Come on, let’s find Faith and Jordan and the others.’

‘Are you here with Jordan, dear?’

‘Oh, Mummy. I have so much to catch you up on. Let’s get our seats sorted first.’ I take her hand in mine. ‘Follow me.’

We’re crossing the floor together when a thundering crash stuns the room, a commotion at one of the fire exit doors.

Unfortunately for me, the commotion was caused when Carlos burst through the fire doors chased by a swarm of burly security men.

Carlos hollers a ludicrous mix of Spanish and broken English, peppered with the word Crazie.

Clearly, he did not understand my communications – nor I his. His suit is not the black Tom Ford tuxedo Poppy bought for him with my money. It’s shiny silver, and far too tight around his crotch. He spots me standing here, shrinking.

‘Ola, Crazie! Crazie!’

‘Dear, is that a mad fan calling for you?’ My mother grips my hand.

‘He’s not a fan, Mummy. He’s… Carlos. Oh my gosh. Mummy, can you stay right here a moment? Jordan will be back with drinks any minute. Everything’s fine. I have to sort this.’