Mum fidgets in her seat and adjusts her top. She’s wearing a tight, bodice-style denim blouse that strains across her chest slightly, white jeans and tan-coloured heeled sandals. Her toenails are freshly painted in fuchsia. I haven’t done mine since Christmas. Not that it matters as I live in trainers, even in this heat. If I ever don sandals they’re my trusty Birkenstocks, which Mum has always deemed downright ugly. ‘I’m thinking of staying on a bit longer.’ She pauses. ‘If you don’t mind?’

I wonder what’s made her decide to lengthen her stay. I’d thought a week would be more than long enough for her. Surely by then she’ll be pining for Alberto and the beach. ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say, although that’s not strictly true. Mum’s personality fills the cottage somehow so that everything feels even smaller. She can’t help but take over – cooking for us, even if we’re not hungry, or, just as we’re about to unwind on the sofa, she’ll ask me to fetch some clothes that she can put in the machine. I feel guilty when she starts washing up and feel I have to help, even though Tom and I would usually leave it until the next day, preferring to chill out in front of the TV. Tom is great with her, but I could see the strain on his face as she talked at him last night while he was trying to watch The IT Crowd. ‘What about your job?’

‘I can take some of it as unpaid leave. Anyway, they owe me lots of holiday.’

‘Okay. You know you can stay as long as you want, but I do need to work. I’ve got a deadline,’ I say, which is true and hopefully means she’ll know I haven’t got time to sit around chatting all day.

She reaches out and pats my knee fondly, her bracelets jangling. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. Just do the things you’d normally do and pretend I’m not here.’

I want to laugh. That’s just not possible with my mother. ‘Will Alberto mind?’

She waves a ringed hand dismissively. ‘Leave that to me. It’ll be fine.’

I force down my worry. I can’t help but think Mum is running away from her life in Spain, from the problems she’s no doubt having with Alberto. It makes me feel guilty that I have Tom and a baby on the way when Mum has never really been able to settle.

She emits a sharp laugh, which makes me jump. ‘Darling, you look so serious. Stop worrying.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re chewing your lip again. You always do that when you’re worrying. I’m a grown woman. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me . . . I need to worry about you.’