When she left the surgery, she walked along the Thames at Blackfriars instead of going straight back to the office. She bought a takeaway Tetley from the corner cafe and leaned over the railings, staring at the grey, turgid water. The air was damp cold and she clutched the warm polystyrene cup with both hands. Something caught her eye and she turned her head to the right to see a squirrel running up the trunk of a tree. It stopped for a second, looked straight at her and then darted into the higher branches. Two children walking past with their mother saw it too. They stopped and pointed, the younger child delighted to spot the tiny creature. The woman smiled at Sylvia. ‘You’ll catch your death standing there,’ she said.

When Sylvia was about that child’s age – four, five? – her mother must have been twenty-nine or so. A mum for eight years already. No career, only two years as a secretary before she had married. She spent her days making house. Days dominated by washing cycles and groceries and rubbish collection dates and endless dusting. Sylvia always thought her mother was relatively happy. She certainly never complained – unless you made a mess of her tidy home, of course. But, growing up in the sixties, all Sylvia saw when she looked at her mother’s life was a trap she didn’t want to fall into herself.

These days, with Sylvia and her siblings grown and gone, her mum spent most of her time making clothes. Sewing dresses and shorts for the grandkids, crocheting hats and scarves for friends. They were beautiful, detailed, intricately patterned with carefully chosen colours. She was talented. Sylvia had once found a sketchbook filled with drawings, tucked under the guestroom bed. Women in elegant dresses, maxi skirts, tailored coats. Some pages had fabric swatches glued beside them, and she’d realised with a jolt that these were her mother’s own designs. She’d taken the book downstairs and waved it triumphantly at her.

‘These are brilliant, Mum – why haven’t you ever shown me?’

Her mother had snatched the book away. ‘Give me that! It’s nothing. Just a hobby. Not for anyone’s eyes.’

In that moment, Sylvia saw it. Just the tiniest hint of something she realised was regret. Regret over an aspiration she’d never had the opportunity, or confidence, to fulfil.

She spent the afternoon at Brent Cross interviewing shoppers for their opinions about the glossy new commercial centre. ‘Are American-style malls the next big thing? Is this the new way to shop?’ fashion editor Marnie had said when she’d packed Sylvia off to write a ‘lively’ piece for tomorrow’s paper. Frankly, Sylvia didn’t care an ounce, but she dutifully spent the morning talking to women picking out lingerie in John Lewis and mothers gossiping over coffee while their kids played on the giant wooden caterpillar designed to entertain the under sevens.