‘So,’ said Clio, pointing to the sofas, ‘please make yourself at home. Tea? Coffee? Gin?!’ I must have looked a bit confused because she quickly corrected herself. ‘I know. Way too early for gin. Coffee?’

‘Coffee would be great,’ I said.

Actually, it might have been nice to get merrily drunk here with Clio, but then I had the children to consider. Another time, maybe. There would be another time. I could feel it.

Clio disappeared into another room and so I followed her, not really knowing quite what to do with myself otherwise. We ended up in an airy kitchen with a huge pine table in the centre. There were plenty of cupboards and work surfaces but there was nothing out on any of them, and when Clio opened a cupboard to get out mugs for the coffee I could see that it just contained four lonely cups and a glass-and-chrome cafetière. I thought of my own kitchen cupboards, which would only close if you got the angle of the mug handles just so.

‘I don’t really cook here,’ said Clio, following my line of thought with spooky accuracy. ‘Usually I eat with Mummy. I’m a terrible cook. Mummy sent me on a cordon bleu course when I was a teenager, but it made no difference. Everything I make is either totally inedible or ends up tasting exactly the same as the last thing I made. So I’ve given up.’

This, it appeared, was true, because when she opened the fridge to get the coffee and milk I could see that there was nothing in it except drinks, the bottles in the door rattling loudly as Clio kicked it shut. ‘Can you cook?’

I’d never really thought about it, but I supposed I could.

‘Well, we don’t starve,’ I said with a wry smile, and Clio laughed.

‘I think I really might if I were left to my own devices. I can manage coffee, though,’ she added.

I was starting to feel slightly more confident of my surroundings now. ‘This is the most incredible place,’ I said. ‘It must have been amazing growing up here. All this space.’

Clio shrugged. ‘I suppose,’ she replied. ‘I’ve never really thought about it. It was just home. I was a bit lonely. Daddy packed Hector off to boarding school when he was eleven. My brother was and can still be a right royal pain in the arse and we fought like cats and dogs, but at least he was someone to talk to.’

‘Did you not want to go?’ I asked. I couldn’t think of anything worse than being separated from Mum and Dad, especially given how things turned out, but wasn’t that what these posh sorts were brought up to expect?