Rachel was obviously being impossible, but I kidded myself that Christmas would fix it. She’d be under my roof for days on end, not flitting in and out like the other two. She’d be able to see how much I loved her, even if we exasperated each other along the way. That was our dynamic, our seamless two-step. I felt sure she hadn’t forgotten the moves. How could she, when we’d practised tirelessly for so many years?

It wasn’t like I hadn’t been thinking about Esther since the christening, wondering whether she was going to need dealing with. But it still didn’t lessen the shock I felt that night. With Rachel out of the picture, I had leftover love to give, and on this particular evening it took me to his office after hours, like some kind of demented 1950s housewife. Obviously I hadn’t cooked the chicken fricassee myself – I’d picked it up from an overpriced French deli next to the final viewing of the day, a family home in Ealing which a visiting American couple were going to be paying top dollar to rent after I’d told them they’d likely be camping in Hyde Park come January if they didn’t make a snap decision. People ultimately benefit from clarity, even if they don’t appreciate it in the short term.

The deli had a blue-and-white checked awning, stacks of Christmas treats piled up high in the window. I queued impatiently behind well-heeled locals grabbing a bottle of Beaujolais to get them through the night, then picked out a few glistening chicken thighs on top of a bed of potatoes. I even threw in a bottle of wine of my own, just in case Nick had time for an office picnic between his endless calls.

The security guard waved me upstairs without bothering to call to announce me. I swept through the corridors unimpeded, the reception desk deserted. When I got to his office, Nick was bent over his computer, eyes narrowed in concentration, his aquiline profile illuminated like a pencil sketch by the light it was giving out. I watched him for a couple of seconds before I made my presence known.

‘Surprise!’ I trilled, pulling the plastic boxes out of the carrier bag, adorned with pretentious twirly writing. ‘Extra surprise!’ I said, reaching back in for the bottle of wine. ‘Oh God, do you even have a corkscrew?’

He gave a quick, tight smile.

‘Not in my top drawer,’ he said. ‘We’ve reached our quota of drunks in this family.’ I didn’t smile. ‘There’s probably one in the kitchen,’ he added.