‘A narrow boat?’

‘To tell me about his holiday. He was on the Kennet and Avon Canal.’

‘Your dad in a narrow boat? He doesn’t know anything about narrow boats.’

‘He was having a great time. I’ve never heard him so happy.’ Lucy paused. ‘Aren’t you going to ask about me? If I’m happy?’

I apologised and asked her, but I wasn’t concentrating. A narrow boat? I was parked on a double-yellow line behind a Londis lorry. A man unloaded a crate full of boxes and wheeled them into the shop. In the rear-view mirror I saw Azra walking towards me. She was on her mobile, and in no hurry. In fact she stopped, still talking animatedly, so she could carry on her conversation. I felt irritated; she’d hardly said a word to me all morning.

Finally she clambered into the cab and I slid into the passenger seat.

‘Greg’s been on a narrow boat holiday,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘He’s got a woman.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because the only thing I know about narrow boats is there’s got to be two of you. It’s always couples. You see them, one at the front and one at the back.’

She reversed, the gears crashing, and pulled out into the street. I knew she was fed up with me talking about Greg, but I soldiered on.

‘The one at the back steers it and the one at the front jumps out and does the locks and stuff. Greg’s never been interested in narrow boats. He’s got no friends who’re interested in narrow boats. I just know.’

‘Aren’t you a tiny bit jumping to conclusions?’

‘It’s always couples, middle-aged couples with their little folding chairs for when they stop in the evening to drink Prosecco on the towpath. They look happy. He sounded happy. They’re all Daily Mail readers, of course.’

‘Doesn’t sound like Greg.’

‘Exactly. That’s why I know there’s a woman involved. Men do all sorts of unlikely things if they’re having sex. Like your pal whatshisname voting Brexit. We all knew he must be shagging that ghastly woman.’

Azra stopped with a jolt at some traffic lights—she was a terrible driver—and swung round to glare at me.

‘Listen, pet, you’ve got to stop obsessing. Maybe Greg has found somebody. He’s probably quite a catch. After all, you fell in love with him once. And he’s not too bad for his age—plenty of hair, nice flat tummy, and pretty intelligent if you can bear him banging on about the Monetary Fund, or whatever it is he’s writing about. And a nice cottage in Dorset.’ She shrugged. ‘I mean, what’s not to like, if you’re desperate?’

‘You’ve changed your tune.’

She wrenched the stick into first gear and turned left. The car behind hooted. ‘I said he was a tosser because I’m loyal to you and can’t bear you being hurt. Of course he was bloody annoying, but then so are most people. That’s why I don’t live with any of them. Nor would they want to live with me.’