‘But I can’t match them. What am I going to talk about?’ I’d only felt more glum. ‘Where we’re not holidaying at half-term or Christmas? Or if Costcutter does a decent Chardonnay? Anyway, I really don’t dare take time off right now.’

‘But if you don’t rest, you’ll drop down dead. ‘ Melissa had stopped, too late, rag in hand above the gleaming hob. ‘God, sorry, Rubes.’

‘It’s fine, Mel, honestly.’ I couldn’t go through the rest of my life being sensitive about any mention of people dying. It was unrealistic; it was daft and babyish. But I’d put the Jaffa Cake I’d been eating down again, half eaten.

‘Look, it’ll be fun, and you need a break.’ Melissa had given the stove a final flick, pretending not to see me wipe my eyes. She was tidier even than Jonny had been. ‘How about I wangle me and Ces an invite too? Then we can enjoy some fresh air together and you won’t feel so out of your depth.’

‘Oh God.’ I’d looked at my friend in relief. ‘Yes please!’

It didn’t even cross my mind there might be more to Melissa’s offer than met the eye.

Daft, I did think, later. I was off the boil though when it came to perception that season; distracted by the exhausting turn of events.

It had taken Melissa and I thirty minutes to get the unwieldy six-man tent to the stage where we’d realised the pegs must still be in her car – a good half a mile trek back through the woods.

Zach and Ceci were no help, having rushed into the woods as soon as we arrived to ‘forage for wild stuff’ – which I suspected actually meant magic mushrooms.

‘Don’t eat anything you pick without checking it first!’ I’d yelled as they lolloped off, giggling. ‘Zach, do you hear me? And mind that ankle.’

I tried not to think how quickly Jonny would have erected this monstrosity as Melissa jogged back to fetch the pegs.

God only knew where she got her energy.

Still, I could have a sit-down while I waited. It’d been a hellish week. The nice girl who delivered the flowers was away, meaning I’d had to drag myself out of bed daily to do the 3 a.m. New Covent Garden run, only to return in the afternoon to my monosyllabic son, stuck in the clammy flat with a sprained ankle. Furious because he couldn’t play football at the youth academy this week, he’d spent every last minute on the PlayStation – despite me trying to put time limits on the account – and definitely not doing his art project as the summer dwindled away.

Epic parenting fail number 346 – and that was just this week.

On top of all that, the sheer terror of stripping off in front of Nella or Marcus by the lake had woken me at 3 a.m. – the first night in ages I actually hadn’t had to get up early for once and I’d failed to sleep again.