Mid-morning, I give up and I float into Melissa’s office. I sit on her desk for the rest of the day while she does her emails and makes phone calls. I chat away to her, in my head. You’re the same age as me, Melissa, how come you’re alive and I’m not? You seem to have things pretty sorted. What’s the trick?

I’m still there when her mobile goes around five that afternoon. It lights up on her desk where it lies and the smiling face of a sixty-something woman appears as background to the letters: Mum.

It hurts me, seeing that.

Melissa answers straight away. ‘Hi,’ she says, leaning back in her chair. ‘Yes, sure, no, I can ring them later if you like … yeah, no problem, sure.’ There is a long pause, then, while the mother talks for a while and Melissa looks up at the ceiling above her, settling down further in her seat. Her lips purse and twitch in an indulgent smile. Eventually she says, ‘Mum, seriously, it’s no … No, I’m not worried at all. Well, he’s nice but I’m not sure how bothered I am, to be honest … Well, that makes me lucky, doesn’t it?’ Melissa glances at the wall clock above her desk. ‘Mum, I’ve got a meeting soon … yes, sure, yes, no problem, of course … bye … bye. Love you too. Bye.’

She is still smiling as she puts the phone back on her desk. I’m touched by her indulgence. Melissa’s mum is clearly one of those mums who finds a small, practical excuse to call when she’s worrying about something else entirely and then can’t prevent herself from talking about the something else. I’m not sure I would have been so patient if my mum had started bemoaning my single status when I was trying to get some work done.

*

It was one of the few times I saw my mum snap at my dad. We were having a cup of tea in the kitchen. I had just broken up with Ian – well, we hadn’t so much broken up as sort of dribbled to a halt, but I had used the phrase ‘broken up’ because it was easier than explaining to my parents that someone who had never been much more than a friend-with-benefits was now just a friend and neither of us was all that bothered either way. Dad was topping up the teapot from the kettle that always leaked and as he did, pronounced cheerily, ‘Crikey, you want to get a move on, my girl, you’re getting past your sell-by date.’

‘George!’ Mum exclaimed from the other side of the room, turning from where she was wiping the surface round the hob with a blue J-cloth. ‘That’s a dreadful thing to say!’