Andy dropped Isabelle at the house, got her case out of the boot, and said ‘No, I won’t come in, thanks.’

They didn’t hug, and he drove away. It was like the last time she’d seen her mother. Had she orphaned herself?

The lights were on; Christine was in.

Isabelle walked up to the door, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.

‘Oh.’ Christine blinked and rubbed her eyes, which were red and tired. ‘It’s you.’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘You’d better come in.’

‘Thanks.’

Christine ducked into the living room, and Isabelle heard her blow her nose. She emerged looking a lot brighter.

‘Congratulations!’ She kissed Isabelle on both cheeks, lightly resting one hand on her shoulder. She did not hug her.

‘Thanks. I came straight here from the airport.’

‘So I see.’

‘Is that okay?’

‘Of course, darling. It’s still your home. I’ve not changed the locks or anything dramatic like that.’

‘Good.’

‘Cup of tea?’

‘Mmmm . . . Is it okay if I . . .’

Shit. I don’t want to cry. If she can keep it together, so can I.

‘What?’

‘If I stay for a few . . .’

No. Deep breath. I’ve got nothing to reproach myself with.

‘Stay for as long as you like. I’ll put the kettle on.’

Christine went through to the kitchen. Was this how it would be, then? Coldness, politeness, cups of tea? Too much water under the bridge. Too far out at sea. No way back.

‘Mum, I . . .’ The tap was running, and Christine couldn’t possibly hear. ‘I’m so sorry. Sorry for everything.’

She dragged her case upstairs, one bumping step at a time, and by the time she reached the landing she’d worked herself into a right temper. ‘I bet Maya Rodean has people to do this sort of thing for her,’ she said, quite loud, ‘and she hasn’t just won a fucking Oscar.’

She sat on her bed for five minutes, and tried to collect her thoughts. When she came down, Christine was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over papers. Two cups of tea were steaming on the granite work surface.

‘Sit down.’

‘Thanks.’

They sipped tea for a while.

‘Are you staying?’

‘Can I? I’m sort of rather homeless at the moment.’

‘I thought you’d stay with Dad.’

‘Not this time.’

More tea.

‘Congratulations, by the way. On the Oscars.’

‘Oh. Thank you. That’s the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.’

‘Right.’

She thinks I’m pushing her away again. Why is it always like this?

Isabelle was frowning, her dark eyebrows coming together at a deep vertical line. How soon before she had to resort to Botox?

‘How’s Will?’ You could hear the effort in Christine’s voice.

‘Not too great actually.’

‘No. That’s rather what I feared.’

He’s dying and I don’t know what to do . . .

‘I’m so sorry, Isabelle.’

‘So am I.’

‘I mean, about Will.’