‘I’m going to take Jess for a walk along the prom, and get an ice cream. You’re never too old for an ice cream with your nanna, are you,’ she says, squeezing my arm. I shake my head.

‘Do you want to join us?’

‘Ice cream, in March?’ Cyril shakes his head and does a mock shiver. It’s sunny outside, but there’s still a definite chill in the air. But ice cream on the prom is our thing, and we’ve always done it no matter what the weather. ‘Absolutely not. I’m sure you two girls have lots to catch up on, and I’ve got plenty to be going on with here.’

I swear if he could have had a cartoon twinkle in his eye, he would have. Nanna positively skips out of the community centre on my arm. I can’t help wondering if I’ll be as sprightly as she is at seventy-nine.

It occurs to me as we’re wandering along the prom with ice cream cones, admiring the massed plantings of daffodils in their huge pots by the shelters, that Nanna’s got a more interesting love life going on than I do. Something Sophie said the other day comes back to me – she pointed out in the bar the other day that I needed to get back on the horse. I said I’d think about it. And as I stand in the queue waiting for ice creams, I do. Maybe I should take the plunge and try dating again. It can’t do any harm, can it? We’ve got a half-populated Tinder profile sitting there. Maybe – ugh. I grimace. I can’t face the dick pics and the endless stream of weirdos sending messages. I’ve heard so many horror stories.

‘No nice young men on the scene?’ Nanna asks, looking at me over her glasses. It’s as if she can read my mind.

I shake my head.

‘None.’

‘The trouble with you, lovey, is you’ve got a streak of your mother in you.’

I step back, stunned. Mum and I couldn’t be more different. ‘Me? And Mum?’

‘Both old romantics, the pair of you. She’s always dreamed that someone’s going to come and sweep her off her feet, take her away from all this. That’s why she’s addicted to the drama of being on stage. And you’re the same in your own way – hooked on those romantic films.’

I look at her, feeling my brows gathering in a frown of confusion.

‘I don’t think I’m like Mum at all,’ I say, then eat some more ice cream and think about what she’s said. I like it better when Nanna and I talk about day-to-day stuff, when she doesn’t make me confront unpleasant realities. Today it’s as if someone’s taken her filter off. Maybe it’s an age thing.