Between my mother’s unbeatable roast dinner and the opportunity for fresh air, most Londoners would jump at the chance. But Jordan has met my parents only twice in the year that he and I have been living together. Once, at their wedding anniversary party, last summer, when Jordan was set up on the sofa bed but sneaked into my bedroom while my parents slept (and we didn’t). And again on Boxing Day just gone when he collected me in his rented Audi A3 after we spent Christmas separately with our own families. Jordan had been all the way down in Cornwall with his three brothers and a myriad of cousins – an awkward situation when, throughout the whole of Christmas Day, he didn’t call to wish me Merry Christmas. I’d sent him a text immediately on waking. When Jordan hadn’t replied by dinnertime, I’d been too nervous to call him. Until my boyfriend breezed in the next day and brushed the issue off as mobile coverage problems, I’d no clue how to allay my mother’s concerns that something dreadful may have happened to him.

‘Let’s assume it’s just me, Mummy.’ There’s zero chance Jordan will say yes, and I won’t be asking anyway. Not to mention my father won’t appreciate the inconvenience of them babysitting each other on a Saturday evening. His life is, as he warned my mother, now far too short. ‘Mummy, I really must get off the phone.’

‘For the murder mystery, you’ll be Satine Featherbag,’ my mother presses on obliviously, her hearing akin to the selective memory she accuses my father of. ‘Satine is the secret lover of Billy Bragalot, who is the owner of the shoe factory where the murder occurs. You could wear—’

‘Hanging up right now.’

‘All right, dear. We’ll talk soon. I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’

‘Goodbye.’

Putting the phone down, I brace myself to throw back the covers. The central heating switched off an hour ago. The air is icy. I’m still wearing the white shirt and bra I came home in last night. My black trousers – and knickers – are strewn over the dresser. Too drunk to undress properly, I suppose. I hope I didn’t say anything of the sort to Jordan. I honestly can’t remember.

I go to the bathroom, and take two Nurofen with water from the tap. I slink back into bed.

I’m lying very still, trying to recover, when the landline rings again.

‘Mummy, please.’ No one but my mother, and occasionally Faith, calls my landline. My mother because she believes mobile phones cause brain cancer and Faith because, sometimes, my mobile doesn’t work inside my flat.

I’ve agreed to go to Beryl’s murder mystery dinner, dressed up as the slightly slutty-sounding Satine Featherbag. What more can my mother want of me this morning?