‘I’m not being a misery guts,’ Janine says, sitting in the kitchen and mentally strangling her mother with the telephone cord. ‘I’ve got clinical depression.’

‘Oh, mumbo jumbo. Did I bring you up to believe all that? Anyway, you know Mrs Bates - the one down the road with one leg shorter than the other, who had her conservatory done with the money she got for suing the bakery, but she told me she used some of her savings from the post office, too.’ She pauses to take a breath. ‘Well, her son’s just moved back to Clevedon to help look after her. And guess what? He’s single!’

Janine closes her eyes, clenches her jaw. ‘I thought he might be,’ she says.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘About what?’

‘Meeting him, silly! You can’t wander around all day feeling sorry for yourself. Last time I saw you it was as if you’d been handed a life sentence. Such a dreary Deidre!’

‘Oh, well I’m sorry I’m such terrible company.’

‘Divorce doesn’t mean death,’ – that’s what Sheila at my card making class said.’

‘Has Sheila been divorced?’

‘Twice! And widowed. But she’s got the right attitude. ‘'If you fall off the horse...'’ Anyway, why are we talking about Sheila? What do you think about Mrs Bates’s son?’

‘I don’t know anything about him.’

‘And you won’t if you keep yourself shuttered away like some claustrophobic.’

‘You mean agoraphobic.’

‘Oh, tomato, tomatoe. How’s Saturday for you?’

‘Does he know you’re doing this?’

‘Yes! He’s delighted. He’s never had a girlfriend before. He can’t wait to meet you. I showed him a photograph.’

‘Which?’

‘Your wedding picture. I cut Carl out.’

‘Well, that’s something I suppose. How old is he?’

‘Carl?’

‘No, Mrs Bates’s son.’

‘Oh! 44.’

Janine looks out at the garden where a cat that’s not hers is taking a dump on the lawn. She’s being set up with a 44 year old who’s never had a girlfriend. By her mother. Where did it all go wrong?

‘Are you still there?’ Her mother’s voice is louder than before, as if talking to someone hard of hearing. ‘Janine? Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m still here.’

‘I thought you’d thrown yourself down the stairs.’

‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘Oh, silly! So, Saturday?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What have you got to lose?’

My sanity, she thinks, but says again, ‘I don’t know.’

‘So shall I tell him lunchtime? At the Moon and Sixpence? They do a lovely two for one menu. He’s just been made redundant, so that’ll suit him down to the ground.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Well, I’ll let him know. Oh! How exciting! A date!’

Janine is about to hang up when she asks, ‘What’s his name?’

‘Hm?’

‘What’s his name? I can’t call him Mrs Bates’s son, can I?’

‘Oh, silly! It’s Norman.’

Janine feels a smile lift her lips. ‘Norman Bates?’ She begins to laugh, a full, hearty laugh, and it feels like the first time in months.