It is Valentine’s Day. R has rehearsals with a boy called Valentine, whose t-shirt she is holding ransome. This morning we have coffee in her room, surrounded by lacy knickers and sponge fingers and last night’s stunning black dress. We left tulips, lipstick kisses and a question mark at her door. (H says, we’re practically married, she cooks me dinner. And J, well, he’s my mistress.)

Later I will make fishcakes for the boy, and dazzle him with tealights which are not mine. Perhaps I will ressurect the dead daffodils I threw away earlier.

The mother rang earlier and said, ‘urgh, your father and I don’t do Valentine’s Day.’ A small defensive pause. ‘I bought him new wineglasses last night, though.’ He is planning a trip to Madrid for her birthday, and when he comes to the phone he speaks in code. ‘For the surprise omelette,’ he says, ‘we must buy eggs from the farmers’ market.’ He realises he’s lost and gives up after he cracks them into the small porcelain bowl. I can hear my mother in the background, snorting anxiously.