‘Congratulations. And to Faith. Such a lovely girl.’ In the background, my mother is scraping breakfast together as we talk. Most likely, bacon and eggs – my parents will walk it all off later. ‘Before I forget, we’re running a charity cake sale at the shop this Saturday morning. I’m baking a Victoria sponge. June is on for her famous apple turnover. Sally is bringing vegan beetroot cupcakes – not sure how well they’ll sell. It’s short notice, dear, but would you care to join us? Bit of an early start at 10 a.m. but there’ll be champagne nonetheless, and I believe Angela’s daughter, Janet, will pop by, so it won’t be just us old ducks.’

After the relative success of Beryl’s dinner party, my mother seems keen to loop me into her social calendar. She’s not getting any younger. I want to enjoy my time with her.

‘I don’t mind you old ducks. What can I bring?’

‘Just yourself. Will you stop the night?’ She doesn’t bother asking about Jordan. Twice in eighteen months. I guess she’s given up.

‘I have to be back in London for a work party on Saturday evening,’ I say. ‘But I’ll stay for lunch.’

‘Did I tell you Angela thinks Janet may be pregnant?’

‘So, no champagne for Janet at 10 a.m.?’

‘Ha! Well, that will be the tell... I won’t go on.’

‘I need to get to the studio, Mummy.’

‘How is that lovely young man, Harry? Will he be on set today? He’s still not married, presumably?’

‘Mummy...’

‘I’m just saying…’

‘I know exactly what you’re saying and I need you to stop please. And I have to go. Love you. And to Daddy.’

‘Love you, dear. Congratulations on the new show. See you Saturday.’

When I hang up, I’m a bit annoyed at my mother for sparking the thought I might fancy Harry.

There is his general all-round-nice-guy behaviour. There is his, apparently, extra-special-attentiveness to me, in particular – my mother noticed it when she was on set weeks ago and, since then, I can’t help but notice the way Harry stands close by me, telling me stories that make me laugh. There’s also the lingering eye contact between us that’s swept in, that I’m almost certain Faith has started to catch onto. Dinner at the Groucho.

After Faith’s passing comment on the phone last night, I’m worried I’ve been errantly carried away by flights of fancy. That Harry is just being my agent, a fixer, and I think it’s fair to say, a friend.

I don’t need my mother encouraging me – and I don’t like that Faith is being discouraging. Though, with all the wine Faith consumed last night, it’s crossed my mind she won’t remember saying anything on the matter whatsoever.