I looked at Virginie, and she looked at me. Since the thing with Jesse Marlon, I’ve lost weight, and I did not feel conscious of my stomach, or my breasts, but simply enjoyed displaying myself to someone who – for whatever reason – wanted to look at me. And Virginie – she’d pinned her blonde hair up, but some tendrils were sticking to her slender neck. I could barely keep my eyes from her breasts, but when I lifted my eyes, I saw that her lips were pink and swollen, a tongue was playing around pearly teeth, and her breathing was coming fast.

‘I sort so,’ said Virginie, after we had been staring at each other for a time.

‘What?’ I asked, and suddenly I found that I was squirming my thighs together, and the towel had dampened underneath me.

‘Some women, zey ’ave a animal drive, and ozzers, zey ’ave zee drive maternelle,’ she said, as her eyes held mine. I am thinking, Oh my God… Virginie… she isn’t making a pass at me, is she? Then her hand moved down to between her legs, which had unashamedly parted, and I think, Oh my God, she is, she’s trying to turn me, as one leg had risen to rest on the slatted bed rather than the floor, and it was as if a cloud of butterflies took off in my stomach.

Mimi

And we are all now packed into the yurt.

Admittedly, this time last year, Casimir would be at a Chelsea match at Stamford Bridge. Mirabel would be in Top Shop. Posy would be playing hide and seek in the communal garden, while Ralph and I ‘assembled’ a delicious lunch of imported ingredients bought from local Notting Hill delis for the price of a small car.

But we are, with Ceci, in Spodden’s Hatch, in Sophy’s yurt, where the entry cost is 50p, materials are free, a paper cup of Spodden Hatch own-label apple juice is 50p, honey-sweetened oatmeal cookies made by Sophy 20p each, gluten-free soya milk, spelt and blueberry muffins, made by Sophy’s friend Rain, 70p apiece.

The children have been issued with thin gardening gloves and pots and are shooting me murderous looks.

Baby Noah is sitting close to the central open fireplace, pushing a crayon up his nose. Spike is sitting looking desperate on a sort of bunk covered with rags, scraps of patchwork, knitted blanket and so on, which have an awful unwashed look. He is clearly mortified that Mirabel, in his class at school, can inspect him in his habitat, as if he is a panda in a zoo.

Sophy is sitting in front with an assortment of herbs and jars on a table.

‘Is she the witch?’ Posy asks audibly, staring at her purple, hand-knitted long cardigan, black hair shot through with grey, and sheepskin boots. This is annoying, as I have never said there was a witch.