Umpteen years later, though Andy’s mother was now dead and buried, Rhoda said a day never passed without Andy saying he wished he had treated her better. Reminding Moira of a thought she had once had in that respect, that the invisible cord that bound Jewish sons to their mothers was not severed even when the mother went to her grave.

Nor was it just the mother. It was the intangible that Jews called Family. An example of which, Moira recollected, was Andy’s once having spent the little he and Rhoda had in the bank, in order to fly to the funeral of an Israeli relative he had never met.

So much for Moira’s trying to ensure that her son would not fall prey to that intangible. And who could blame her for withdrawing from the fray to the sole comfort she had?

She saw Marianne enter the restaurant – greeted by the owner like the celebrity she was. How could that tiny woman exert the influence she did? It was she, not Moira, to whom Moira’s husband and son took their troubles. If it weren’t for her – what she represents – how different my life might have been.

Marianne would not have been so hypocritical as to kiss Moira’s cheek, nor did she offer a platitudinous greeting. All she felt able to say was, ‘I’m pleased you weren’t too tied up to lunch with me.’

She had called Moira’s office and, finding her unavailable, had left a message. A secretary had called back to accept the invitation.

‘I presumed you had something to discuss with me and cancelled another date,’ Moira replied.

‘Thank you for showing me that respect,’ said Marianne. Was this cold formality all that was left to them?

She noted Moira’s pallor – which currently matched Martin’s. How nice it would be if she could just pack the two of them off on holiday and all would come right.

Regrettably it would not, since they would return to the same state of affairs they had left behind. Nor would Moira have taken kindly to the suggestion if it came from Marianne.

Somehow, though, Marianne must try to dispel the chilly atmosphere. ‘Remember when you came up to London to stay with Ralph and me? And I took you to lunch and then to buy a pram?’

Moira had a picture of that day engraved upon her mind, along with others like it. Herself heavily pregnant, and Marianne ushering her into John Lewis’ babywear department where they had first bought the washable nappies now largely replaced by disposable ones.

‘Didn’t we lunch at Genaro’s?’

‘I believe we did.’

‘I recall us both gorging ourselves on that wonderful cannelloni with the spinach filling and the creamy sauce,’ said Marianne.

‘What a remarkable memory you have.’

‘Only for some things.’