Honestly, tea isn’t supposed to be white. I don’t know what Mum would have to say to this girl. She’d probably produce a Typhoo teabag and say, ‘This is tea, love.’

‘Do you have a tea for making life totally brilliant in every way?’ I say, just to wind the girl up.

‘Yes,’ she says, without missing a beat. ‘Our Hibiscus, Orange and St John’s Wort tea promotes an improved sense of wellbeing through mood enhancement. We call it our happy tea.’

‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Well, I’d better have that one, then. Would you like that, Elinor?’

‘I do not wish to have my mood enhanced, thank you.’ She gives the girl a stern look.

That’s a shame. I’d love to see Elinor on happy pills. She might smile properly, for once. Except then she’d probably crack, it occurs to me. White powder would fall from the corners of her lips and suddenly her whole face would disintegrate into plaster dust and whatever else they’ve patched her up with.

The girl has given our order to a passing guy in what looks like a Tibetan monk’s outfit, and now turns back.

‘May I offer you a complimentary reflexology session or other holistic therapy?’

‘No thanks,’ I say politely. ‘We just want to talk.’

‘We’re very discreet,’ says the girl. ‘We can work with your feet, or your head, or the pressure points in your face …’

I can see Elinor recoiling at the very idea. ‘I do not wish to be touched,’ she says stiffly. ‘Thank you.’

‘We can work without touching you,’ persists the girl. ‘We can do a tarot reading, or we have a humming meditation, or we can work with your aura.’

I want to burst into giggles at Elinor’s expression. Her aura? Do they mean that chilly cloud of disapproval that follows her around like her own atmosphere?

‘I do not possess an aura,’ she says, her tones like icicles. ‘I had it surgically removed.’ She glances sidelong at me and then, to my utter astonishment, she gives the faintest of winks.

Oh my God. Did Elinor just make a joke?

At her own expense?

I’m so gobsmacked I can’t speak, and the girl seems a bit nonplussed as well, because she backs away without trying to press any more therapies on us.

Minnie has been surveying Elinor intently throughout all of this, and now Elinor turns to her.

‘What is it, Minnie?’ she says, uncompromisingly. ‘You shouldn’t stare at people. Aren’t you going to sit down?’

Elinor always talks to Minnie as though she’s another adult, and Minnie loves it. Minnie doesn’t answer, but leans forward and picks a tiny thread off Elinor’s skirt.

‘All gone,’ she says dismissively, and drops the thread on the floor.

Ha! Ha-di-ha!

How many times has Elinor picked me up for some tiny bit of fluff or speck on my clothes? And now Minnie’s got her revenge. Only, Elinor doesn’t look remotely put out.

‘Thank you,’ she says to Minnie gravely. ‘The housekeeper at my hotel is somewhat lax.’