‘Excuse me,’ I shout to the barman. He nods back. ‘Is there a table reserved for…’ I check the webpage, ‘Stapenhill Foundation?’

He moves over to the reservations book behind the counter and looks at it while shaking a cocktail. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘6.45pm, at the back. It’s marked on the table.’

‘Thanks.’ I slip off the stool, pick up my near-empty glass and walk towards the back of the room.

They arrive on time and fill the table with their coats, bags and laughter, clearly on a post-work high.

‘Get the drinks in, Danny!’ one woman says to a bloke with a ginger beard. He rolls his eyes.

‘Gotta make sure he gets his round in, stingy bastard,’ says another with a laugh.

I’m only about five metres away, sitting at an empty table, but they don’t give me a second glance. I scrutinise their faces, but I don’t know, I don’t know. I need them to say their names, as they did for ginger-bearded Danny, and I wonder how close I can get without it being obvious I’m eavesdropping. But something tells me she’s not here. I just can’t see it. I can’t imagine any of the women around the table being her.

‘Sorry I’m late, I had to go to the bank.’

My stomach turns over as I hear her singsong accent.

‘Danny’s getting a round in. Put your order in while you can, he’s not likely to offer twice!’

‘He didn’t offer once.’ A peal of laughter.

My eyes follow the new arrival to the bar and back again. She takes a seat. Smiles.

‘Christ, what a day,’ says an older woman with voluminous hair.

‘Forget about it. It’s nearly the weekend.’

‘Oh, I love this song!’ A blonde woman in a pink blouse stands up and starts dancing on the spot, singing along.

‘Bloody hell, it’s only seven o’clock.’

‘Wait ’til you hear her at midnight – her singing doesn’t get better.’

‘It can’t be much worse.’

‘Oi!’

The table erupts into laughter and then bearded Danny is back with the drinks on a tray and a round of applause goes up at the sight of him.

I see Hedi – because it must be her – take a glass of white wine from the tray and then she’s saying cheers, and I see her trying to look her colleagues in the eyes as she does so, though most of them seem oblivious to her attempts. I know it’s her. Not because of her distinctive accent, not because of her Swiss method of toasting, but because of the colour of her hair, the shape of her nose, the slight air about her that reminds me of someone else. Of Mum.

‘Are you using the rest of this table?’