Although no further information has been given, the thought of something happening, something new and positive to shake me out of my work rut, is pretty thrilling. I’ve missed having a job I genuinely love, that I can throw myself into and feel that I’m good at. I miss making a difference in a more meaningful way than organising taxis to pick up Rose from various airports around the world. I know I’m lucky to have a steady job that’s not too arduous. It just feels kind of … empty sometimes. However, the promise of some kind of change keeps me buoyed up all day, which helps to make up for the fact that Izzy sauntered off with Jules, Erol and Maeve first thing this morning. I know she’ll have a brilliant holiday. I experienced only the tiniest snag at my heart as she leapt, delightedly, into their car.

Home to an empty house now, I soak in the bath, making a mental note to spruce up my CV over the weekend, in case Rose asks me to attend a formal interview. As I used to remind Spencer before his exams, ‘You can never be too prepared.’

‘Really, Mum?’ he’d say, with an infuriating smirk. ‘I thought I’d not bother and just go in and, like, wing it?’

Saturday, August 3

So, a whole week, all by myself. It’s going to be great, I decide, sipping my coffee and trying to shove away feelings of bleakness. Of course I’ll miss Izzy, but I’ll make the most of the time. There are so many things I can do.

First, I deep-clean the kitchen, stopping to marvel at all the swanky ingredients we have now: the chilli oil and porcini mushrooms, the smoked paprika and black cardamom pods bought in for future episodes of Izzy Cooks! I rearrange our food cupboards several times before putting everything back in their original positions.

Next, I work my way through all the laundry, including the teeny socks that have been lurking in the basket since Izzy was about three, and would barely fit a dolly (not that Izzy has ever shown the slightest interest in dollies). Disconcertingly, I also find some boxers of Andy’s festering at the bottom. If I had his address I’d be tempted to stuff them in a jiffy bag and post them to him, addressed to her. Would Estelle feel the same about her hot doctor lover if she ripped open a package to be confronted by his unsavoury pants? Sadly, as he’s still being weirdly cagey about where he’s living, I am to be denied the chance of doing this. Hacking them to bits with the kitchen scissors would seem a little pointless and only serve to contaminate a kitchen utensil. Picking them up gingerly by their waistbands, I settle for slinging them in the kitchen bin.