OK, so the last one isn’t quite as life-changing as the others, but I really do need a new strapless bra.

NINETEEN

By 3 p.m. I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ve bought my new bra and I’ve sent over three dresses, six pairs of shoes and a tuxedo suit for Sage to try on. (I don’t think she’ll go for the tuxedo suit, but she should. She’d look amazing.) I’ve also taken Minnie out of pre-school early, and dressed her up in her sweetest smocked pink-lawn frock, with a big sash and puffed sleeves. It has matching pink-lawn knickers, too, and I’m actually quite envious. Why don’t grown-up dresses have matching knickers? Everyone would buy them. I might write to a few designers and suggest it.

Jeff has driven us to the Purple Tea Room, which is halfway along Melrose Avenue and has a big hand-painted sign with swirly letters. I help Minnie down from the SUV, shake out her skirts and say, ‘See you later, Jeff. I’ll call.’ Then we head towards the sign and push open the glass-paned door.

Crikey.

OK, so I don’t think Aran and I mean quite the same thing by ‘afternoon tea’. When I say ‘afternoon tea’ I mean silver teapots and waitresses in frilly white aprons and tiny cucumber sandwiches. I mean starched tablecloths and maybe a harp playing and Miss Marple-type ladies sitting at the next table.

The Purple Tea Room is nothing like that. For a start there aren’t any chairs or tables, only cushions and bean bags and odd-shaped stools made out of wood. The room is big, but it’s dimly lit, with candles casting a wavery glow over the walls. There’s music playing, but it’s Eastern sitar music, and the air smells scented, but not of scones or cinnamon. More of …

Well. Hmm. You’d think they’d be more subtle; I mean, this isn’t Amsterdam, is it?

Everywhere I look I can see hip young people lying around, sipping at tea cups, typing on Apple Macs and having their feet or shoulders rubbed by what seem to be therapists in baggy Indian trousers. And in the middle of it all is sitting Elinor, bolt upright, wearing her usual stiff bouclé suit and chilly expression. She’s perched on a stool in the shape of a mushroom, holding a glass of water and looking around as though she’s Queen Victoria and these are the savages. I bite my lip, trying not to giggle. Poor Elinor. She was probably expecting starched tablecloths, too.

She’s looking rather pale and wan, but her dark helmet of hair is as immaculate as ever, and her back is ramrod straight.

‘Ladeee!’ shrieks Minnie as she spots Elinor. ‘Mummy!’ She turns to me in joy. ‘Is Ladeeee!’ Then she wrenches herself out of my grasp, runs to Elinor and hurls herself affectionately against Elinor’s legs. Everyone in the place turns to watch and I can hear a few ‘Aaahs’. I mean, whatever you think of Elinor, it’s a very sweet sight.