We laugh but I detect a hint of sadness in Georgie’s voice. She’s still young though she had to grow up fast when Mum died. I think the pain of losing her made Georgie determined to have a family of her own as soon as she could. I remember how shocked I was when she got pregnant a year after Mum’s death, yet having Imogen didn’t stand in the way of her career – if anything, becoming a mother made her even more ambitious. When Harry came along two years later her family was complete and she and Jack became a force to be reckoned with in their respective fields. Now, however, she looks rather lost, as though Imogen and Harry leaving home has diminished her somehow.

‘But all joking aside, darling,’ she says, placing her hand on mine, ‘I’m delighted for you. If anyone deserves a happy ever after, it’s my Nessa.’

It’s almost six o’clock by the time I get back to Connor’s flat. As I walk up the stairs I hear the faint sound of music and breathe in the smell of spiced roast chicken, my favourite.

‘Is that you, baby?’ Connor calls from the kitchen.

‘Yes, home at last,’ I reply, then check myself. Home? When did that happen?

‘Come outside,’ Connor says as I take off my coat and hang it on the hook in the living room.

I walk through the kitchen and out on to the roof terrace where I’m greeted with a sight so lovely it brings tears to my eyes.

There are candles on every surface, fairy lights threaded round the railings, soft cushions scattered on the ground and, on the table, a feast fit for a queen: a whole roast chicken with blackened crispy skin, just as I like it, bowls of couscous with pomegranate seeds scattered over it like tiny jewels, platters of roasted vegetables and flatbreads, hummus and salads. The little South London terrace has been transformed into a Moroccan souk.

‘Oh, Connor, it’s magical,’ I say, kissing his cheek, inhaling his peppery scent. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

‘Well, we were talking about going to Marrakesh next year,’ he says, handing me a glass of Laurent-Perrier rosé champagne, another favourite. ‘So I thought I’d give us a little taster. Happy birthday, baby.’

He kisses me and his mouth tastes of champagne. As we draw apart I recognize the song that’s playing.

‘God, I haven’t heard this for years,’ I say, sitting down on the cushions. ‘It was Mum’s favourite.’

‘I know. I remember you saying so I dug the album out on Spotify,’ he says, taking a knife and carving the chicken into thin slices.