Yes. She was pretty sure that the answer to that last question was Yes. After coming out to Madeira in a fury as well, having discovered that Harry had been similarly unfaithful all those years ago. So who was the better person now? Despite his carrying-on, despite this new daughter of his that Jeanie had been devastated by, she could not imagine Harry getting spectacularly drunk and enticing a twenty-something-year-old barmaid up to a hotel bedroom. A funereal dirge played in her head as she thought about what a hypocrite that made her.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She wanted to be at home right now, apron on, making a fish pie for dinner, Harry’s favourite. She wanted to be deadheading the roses in her garden and ordering bulb catalogues for the autumn. Baking cakes with her grandchildren, listening to their funny stories and letting them lick the spoon when they thought she wasn’t looking. She wanted to be out for a day-trip to Scarborough with Harry, holding hands along the prom. Chatting on the phone to Paula or one of her boys. She missed them all so desperately. Why had she ever thought that staying here on her own for so long was a good idea?

Sunday passed very quietly. She lurked in her room all day, ordering room service and avoiding the rest of the world. She couldn’t bear the thought of the knowing looks she’d get, not just from the hotel staff, but from the other guests who had seen her in the restaurant and bar last night, playing ‘Copacabana’ at the piano – ‘Join in with the chorus, everyone!’

Even now, on Monday, she wasn’t sure she was ready to face life outside her own four walls again. How was she going to live down her Saturday-night antics? But equally, how could she go home and look her family in the eye?

‘Paula? It’s Fliss. Listen, I can’t chat long because Rory’s still potty-training and if I take my eye off him for, like, more than two minutes there could be a terrible poo incident at any moment. But, anyway, I was just ringing to say: I remembered.’

‘You remembered?’ Paula repeated uncertainly. She was in the middle of a house-viewing and held up an apologetic finger to the prospective vendor, before edging tactfully to the side of the spotless designer kitchen. (She loved this house already. She wanted, very much, to be able to sell this house with its generous garden and its gorgeous Victorian quirks, because a) she knew she could do it justice; and b) the commission alone would be enough to pay for a family skiing holiday at Christmas.) ‘What did you remember?’ she asked in a low voice.