We walk diagonally across the grass towards the terrace where her fancy flat is, and Bear pulls on the lead to go home. But he must read something in her body language because the lead goes slack and he lies down with a happy sigh.

Now? Is this my second chance? To kiss her.

But before I can act, she sighs and it’s less of a happy sigh than Bear’s. ‘That was fun. Thank you. I hope you have a great weekend.’

And she moves in and I think, Yes, kiss her now, but she’s giving me a firm, friendly hug – over almost before it’s begun – and she drops my hand and walks away.

I half wake to what sounds like a knock on my door. Check the time. Too early for anyone else to be up.

Why do I feel like shit? It’s not a hangover – I only had one beer. When I remember, I groan. Why didn’t I kiss Gemma? I should have tried to explain. I pick up my phone to message her, but what would I say? Sorry, I wanted you too much to kiss you. Or: Next time I promise I will?

Ugh!

I turn over. What’s happened to me? Two weeks ago I was living my best life. Uncomplicated, spontaneous, shallow. On the plus side, it’s Friday and after Angelica takes Gemma to the hospital they’re going back to the Midlands. I have the penthouse to myself again for the weekend, though it doesn’t seem anywhere near as big a thrill as it did this time last week.

Another knock.

‘DL? Sorry. It’s me. Casey.’

She sounds worried. I jump out of bed, pulling on my boxers, opening the door. ‘What’s wrong?’ Her appearance startles me: I’d forgotten about her cute new haircut. ‘Are you sick?’

She shakes her head, but her frown deepens. ‘I’m OK, but Mum’s not good. We’re meant to be up by now, packing and getting organized. But she . . .’

The door to Angelica’s room is ajar. No way am I going in there to get my head bitten off. ‘Is she ill?’

‘Not in the way you mean.’

‘Angelica?’ I call out, trying to sound upbeat. ‘Is everything all right?’

Nothing comes back: no sharp put-down or complaint.

‘She won’t get up,’ Casey whispers.

I stand on the threshold. ‘Angelica, can I get you a coffee? Anything else I can do to help?’

This time I do hear a sound, like a kitten’s mew. Finally: ‘Go away.’

Casey beckons me into the living room and onto the terrace. ‘Usually, when she’s like this, it doesn’t last more than a day. But it seems worse this time.’

‘Usually? This has happened before?’

My daughter scratches her head, even though the wig’s gone. ‘She’s been through a lot. She gets tired sometimes.’

There’s a catch in her voice on the last couple of words. Casey is trying not to cry. I want to hug her, but she’d definitely cry then, which is the last thing either of us wants.