‘You look well, darling,’ she said. ‘Your dark circles have gone.’ She laughed. ‘You’re not my little raccoon anymore.’

I bit back my irritation at how every compliment she ever gave me came with a ‘PS’.

‘I’m sleeping properly. Working hard. Doing lots of yoga. I feel great, actually,’ I said.

‘Tell me about what’s going on at work,’ she said. ‘Have you closed on a site now?’

This was one thing I did have in common with my parents: a career around housing and property. Mum had her own business, an upmarket rental company that put stressed-out tenants with too much money and not enough time into homes around West London. Dad’s law firm exclusively dealt in property, devising deals for multi-million-pound transactions. Both of them had done so well, particularly Mum, who’d herself grown up in a council flat in Hounslow that she’d never dream of stepping foot in now. Still, sometimes I felt like their proximity to the super rich left them feeling like they’d somehow failed by being merely wealthy. Mum’s drive had got her a long way, but it didn’t necessarily give her peace – you could apply that statement across the sweep of her life.

‘Yeah, we’re going for this repurposed industrial estate outside Letchworth,’ I said, relaxing again. She remembered what I was doing. We were talking about normal things, like a normal mum and daughter on a normal night out. For a second, I almost flagged down the waiter for a glass of wine, to add another layer of normal, but it was too risky. Meanwhile, Mum was running on.

‘With architects, the first month is critical. You’ve got to make sure they don’t start overthinking it and get behind. You need to be on their case every day. Out there in your hard hat!’

‘Don’t you worry, neon really brings out the colour of my eyes,’ I said.

‘Orange gilets are so this season,’ Mum shot back, and we giggled. It was nice.

‘I’m enjoying it,’ I said, which was weirdly true. The rigour of trying had become addictive. It was like I was back to my stack of A level textbooks, order restored.

‘I’m really pleased,’ said Mum, and I could see in her eyes that she meant it.

‘Thanks for helping me get myself…’ these were hard words to find. A part of me didn’t want to offer them, but I resisted being stingy. ‘Back on track. I appreciate the support.’

‘And you’re still seeing Amber every week?’ said Mum. ‘I just got her invoice.’