‘Just like that.’

‘Why not? You said it might take longer than we thought. Well, that’s my first step. What’s yours?’

‘Oh, God. Maybe I’ll persuade Richard to let me stop wearing that godawful nylon wig.’

‘That would be an excellent first step. It would be nice not to get an electric shock off every door handle in your flat.’

Her smile was infectious. I took the empty cigarette packet from her before she could litter the car park with that too, and stood back so she could climb through the window. She stopped and turned to me, as if she had suddenly thought of something. ‘You know, falling in love with someone else doesn’t mean that you loved my dad any less. You don’t have to be sad just to stay connected to him.’

I stared at her.

‘It’s just a thought.’ She shrugged and climbed back in through the window.

I woke the next day to find that Lily had already gone to work. She’d left a note saying she would bring some bread home at lunchtime as we were a bit short. I had drunk some coffee, had breakfast and put on my trainers to go for a walk (Marc: ‘exercise is as good for your spirit as it is for your body!’) when my mobile rang – a number I didn’t recognize.

‘Hello!’

It took me a minute. ‘Mum?’

‘Look out your window!’

I walked across the living room and gazed out. My mother was on the pavement waving vigorously.

‘What – what are you doing here? Where’s Dad?’

‘He’s at home.’

‘Is Granddad okay?’

‘Granddad’s fine.’

‘But you never come to London by yourself. You don’t even go past the petrol station without Dad in tow.’

‘Well, it was about time I changed, wasn’t it? Shall I come up? I don’t want to use up all the minutes on my new phone.’

I buzzed her in, and went around the living room, clearing the worst of last night’s dishes, and by the time she reached the door I was standing there, arms open, ready to greet her.

She was wearing her good anorak, her handbag slung satchel-style over her shoulder (‘Harder for muggers to snatch it’) and her hair styled into soft waves around her neck. She was beaming, her lips carefully outlined in coral-pink lipstick, and clutching the family A–Z, which dated back to some time around 1983.

‘I can’t believe you came by yourself.’

‘Isn’t it wonderful? I actually feel quite giddy. I told a young man on the tube that it was the first time I’d been on the Underground in thirty years without someone holding my hand, and he moved a full four seats down the carriage. I got quite hysterical with laughter. Will you put the kettle on?’ She sat, pulling off her coat, and gazed at the walls around her. ‘Well now. The green is … interesting.’

‘Lily’s choice.’ I wondered fleetingly if her arrival was some great joke and Dad was about to barrel in through my front door, laughing at what a great eejit I was, believing Josie would come anywhere by herself. I put a mug in front of her. ‘I don’t understand. Why did you come without Dad?’

She took a sip of the tea. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. You always did make the best cup of tea.’ She put it on the table, carefully sliding a paperback book under it first. ‘Well, I woke up this morning and I thought about all the things I had to do – put a wash on, clean the back windows, change Granddad’s bedding, buy toothpaste – and I just suddenly thought, Nope. I can’t do it. I’m not going to waste a glorious Saturday doing the same thing I’ve done for thirty years. I’m going to have an adventure.’

‘An adventure.’

‘So I thought we could go to a show.’

‘A show.’

‘Yes – a show. Louisa, have you turned into a parrot? Mrs Cousins from the insurance brokers says there’s a stall in Leicester Square where you can buy cheap tickets on the day for shows that aren’t full. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.’

‘What about Treena?’

Mum waved a hand. ‘Oh, she was busy. So what do you say? Shall we go and see if we can get some tickets?’

‘I’ll have to tell Lily.’

‘Then go and tell her. I’ll finish my tea, you can do something with that hair of yours, and we’ll head off. I’ve got a one-day travelcard, you know! I might just hop on and off the Underground all day!’

We got half-price tickets to Billy Elliot. It was that or a Russian tragedy, and Mum said she’d been funny about Russians since someone had given her cold beetroot soup and tried to pretend that was how the Russians ate it.

She sat rapt beside me for the entire performance, nudging me and muttering at intervals, ‘I remember the actual miners’ strike, Louisa. It was very hard on those poor families. Margaret Thatcher! Do you remember her? Oh, she was a terrible woman. Always had a nice handbag, though.’ When the young Billy flew into the air, apparently fuelled by his ambitions, she wept quietly beside me, a fresh white handkerchief pressed to her nose.

I watched the boy’s dance teacher, Mrs Wilkinson, a woman whose ambitions had never lifted her beyond the confines of the town, and tried not to see anything of my own life. I was a woman with a job and a sort-of-boyfriend, sitting in a West End theatre on a Saturday afternoon. I totted these things up as if they were little victories against some foe I couldn’t quite identify.