The final destination is King’s Cross. It’s a journey of more than two hundred miles and I disembark into a different world. The station is thronged with people, rushing back and forth, all in a hurry to be somewhere else. Life feels as if it has suddenly gathered pace. I look around me and, for the first time in months, I don’t recognize a familiar face.

The Tube is packed, and I stand up all the way to Naomi’s. She lives in a flat on the ground floor of an ex-local-authority building. From the outside it’s nondescript, with a plain red-brick exterior and a bare forecourt that appears to be used only as storage for everyone’s recycling bins. But walk through her front door and it opens out into a treasure trove of gold pineapple lamps, Frida Kahlo cushions and sixties prints. The style is unreservedly unapologetic; like Naomi herself.

‘You’re here! You’re actually here!’

After greeting me with a shriek of delight that must have alerted all the neighbours, Naomi finally stops hugging me and ushers me past the wall of tropical-palm wallpaper and out into her courtyard garden, where there’s a pitcher of something very alcoholic waiting.

‘Of course I’m here – you invited me.’

‘I know, it’s just . . .’ As she shakes her head, her feather earrings flutter back and forth. ‘I didn’t know if you’d be able to make it.’

‘I’m not going to miss a party!’ After the long journey I flop gratefully down into one of her rainbow-coloured chairs. Made of strings of wire rope, they are surprisingly comfy.

‘They’re called Acapulco chairs – isn’t that the best name?’ she says, pouring me a drink.

‘It’s like that song by Barry Manilow.’

‘That’s “Copacabana”,’ she laughs, handing me a brightly coloured cocktail.

‘Geography was never my strong point,’ I grin and take a sip of my drink. ‘Mmm, delicious.’ Unsurprisingly, Naomi makes very strong drinks. I’m going to have to pace myself. ‘Where’s Ellie?’

‘Having a sleepover, so Mummy can par-tay,’ she whoops, shimmying her tiny hips and making me wonder how many of these cocktails she’s had already.

‘So how you feeling about your birthday?’

‘A bit mental,’ she admits, folding herself into the chair opposite. ‘I mean, it’s really kind of crazy. I remember my mum turning fifty. I was sixteen and got drunk on Malibu and pineapple. I thought she was so old.’

‘It was different then. Fifty is the new thirty.’

‘Try telling that to a thirty-year-old,’ she says and I laugh.

‘Well, I bet she wasn’t wearing cowboy boots.’ I gesture to them. ‘Are they new?’

‘They’re a birthday present to myself. I always wanted a pair of cowboy boots with angel wings on the side.’

‘Only you could pull them off.’

‘That means you hate them.’

‘No, I love them. They’re fabulous. I just bought myself a pair of Crocs,’ I grin.

Naomi looks appalled. ‘You did not.’

‘They’re so practical,’ I confess, and I can feel her eyes upon me.