‘Yes, and for making a complete fool of yourself,’ I add, breaking off as my phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out: an unknown number. ‘Sorry, Chrissie, I’d better take this …’

She nods. ‘Thanks for the pep talk. It’s helped, actually.’ I give her what I hope is an encouraging smile as I accept the call, and she heads back into her house.

‘Hi, Viv? It’s Nick here. Penny’s son.’ Penny must have passed on my number without my permission. That shouldn’t surprise me. She never knocks or rings my doorbell either – she just barges right in – but of course it makes sense, with the Bobby handover being imminent.

‘Hi, Nick, how are you?’ I say, stepping into the kitchen with Bobby close at my heels.

‘Good,’ he says, ‘but yesterday’s filming ran over and I ended up staying here in a B&B last night. I’ve just stopped at services. I’m so sorry. I should be with you in a couple of hours.’

‘No problem,’ I say. ‘I’m here all day so there’s no rush.’

Keep it speedy and businesslike, I remind myself as I pace about with Bobby following me. I try to kid myself that I am merely ‘exercising’ him, and not marching around, unable to settle to anything due to Nick’s impending arrival. There’ll be no need for a big chat, I remind myself, quickly checking my reflection again and wondering if my hair is in fact overly bouffed up, and might startle him. He’s probably busy anyway and will just want to grab Bobby and go.

At one o’clock precisely, Nick is sitting at my kitchen table, and I am serving us lunch.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lunchtime

Well, it would have been rude not to, considering he arrived just as I was starting to feel peckish. I had already decided that I didn’t want him to witness my usual home lunch of hummus, cherry tomatoes and crackers, and maybe a pear or a tangerine if I’m feeling really fancy. Not that I remotely cared what he’d think – but I’d happened to spy some parmesan, bacon and cream in the fridge, and we always have plenty of garlic for Izzy Cooks! Anything savoury has garlic in; it’s the law.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ I asked after our slightly awkward hellos, how are yous, and gosh, that was embarrassing when you arrived here with your mum (‘Your mum’! As if he’s nine years old). He’d said no thank you at first, but I soon wheedled it out of him that he had just driven up from Keighley, in Yorkshire, where he’d been filming his documentary about steam locomotives. And he’d had nothing apart from a dismal croissant about three hours ago.

‘That does smell really good,’ he conceded as I made a sauce, which happened to be enough for two people.