Frankie swivels and drops a plate down in front of me (more emphatically than necessary, if you ask me) and here is the omelette (runny in the centre, brown at the edges). Frankie picks up her espresso cup and takes a neat, controlled sip. “You’re welcome,” she says. She looks slick in her suit, but also a little baffled and sad. She glances at her watch and downs the espresso, goes to Zig and kisses him on the cheek and ruffles his hair. For a second, I feel like an intruder watching a stolen moment between mother and child. There’s an easy tenderness in the way she looks at Zig that stings. She unclips him and lifts him into the air and Zig laughs. Frankie carries him outside the room and I hear a brief exchange in the corridor. The nanny.

Frankie returns—alone. And I swear she almost looks guilty.

She sweeps up to me and her hand finds my shoulder. “Ana…”

“I’m fine. Just go.”

“I love you, Ana. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“You could tell me the same thing.”

“I could.”

She sighs. “Whatever this is, I don’t pretend to understand it, but I’m here. OK? I’m your mother, regardless of this Frankie charade. Your mother.”

I say nothing, let myself become petrified, as hard as wood.

“We’ll get through this,” she says. “Together. We’re a family. Maybe not a normal one. But then…well, maybe there’s no such thing.”

As always, she smells of expensive leather, strong coffee and, weirdly, chocolate, despite never touching the stuff (bad for the perfectly toned abs). She stands next to me, hand still resting on my shoulder—just sitting there.

“I’ll see you next week,” she says. “OK?”

“Fine.”

“Are you going to wish me good luck?”

“Who has a meeting on a Sunday?”

“It’s an informal meeting.”

“Right. Well…good luck.”

“Can you say it like you mean it?”

“Break a leg, Frankie. Knock ’em dead, Frankie. Do whatever it is you do so well. You’ll get the deal. You always do. You’re Frankie Solana. Super-achiever.”

“Ana…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…be safe. OK?”

I don’t look at her. I stare ahead. And when I turn around, she’s gone. But her smell lingers—the chocolate, the coffee. Suddenly, I feel like crying. And the world outside the door seems like a black precipice. I leave the omelette untouched.

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