‘You can cook them, Mavis. But I won’t eat them.’ For as long as I can remember, my mother has battled to feed my father greens, my father resisting her every effort. ‘Tell your mother I’m happy with ham and potatoes, will you, love?’ he grumbles good-naturedly.

I kiss his cheek again. His skin is soft, sun-spotted and crinkly. He smells of Imperial Leather soap and Old Spice cologne.

‘Are you sure you won’t eat with me, Grace? Not sure if you remember, but Beryl isn’t the best of cooks. Not like your mother.’ Daddy winks at me.

‘Oh, go on, flattery will get you everywhere. You can have your ham and potatoes. Honestly, Derek, you don’t set a good example for our only child.’

My mother fusses with a table setting for one and, after the kettle boils, bustles about making my cup of tea. She doesn’t allow me to do anything in her kitchen, though she taught me everything she knew when I was younger. My mother is the reason I pursued a culinary career. When I come home now, it’s nice to be looked after.

‘Mummy, I eat my vegetables,’ I laugh. ‘Look at me, I eat everything.’

‘You’re a beautiful girl, Grace,’ my father says. ‘Just like your granny, God rest her soul.’ I inherited my womanly curves from my paternal genes. Eighty years in, my mother retains her willowy thin figure. ‘How’s work?’

‘Work’s great, Daddy. The new show is… a lot of fun.’ Now we’ve shot the first episode, I’m nervous how my parents will react. A matter for consideration in a few weeks’ time, once it hits the telly.

‘I told your father the new set is something else. They must have spent a fortune.’ When she was on set, I’d mentioned the basic premise of the show to my mother, who I’m sure relayed it to my father. But, at that point, I wasn’t to know I’d be asked by Faith, on camera, what sort of stonking big vegetable or little sausage winky I fancied for myself.

‘Yes, it’s all quite extravagant, for a bit of fun. What I mean is, the show itself is nothing to take too seriously. Apart, of course, from the money they’ve invested.’

My mother says, ‘That’s television for you.’

‘Yes, Mummy. Spot on.’

‘And how’s the flat?’ my father asks. ‘How are things with Harry?’

‘Harry?’

‘Your fella.’

‘Daddy, Harry is my agent.’

Confused, my father turns to my mother.

‘He means Jordan.’

‘Jordan…’ my father repeats. They’ve only met twice. I understand the oversight. ‘Well, who’s Harry?’

‘Harry is the lovely gentleman I met at the studio,’ my mother says. My father both shakes and nods his head, not seeming much the wiser, not looking bothered either way. ‘You are aware he’s not married, Grace.’

‘Who, Harry?’

‘Yes, dear.’