I never quizzed Peter when he returned from meeting Tommy when he was over, looking flushed and rather pleased with himself, having been somewhere rather smart and grown-up. I looked into Tommy's grinning, irresponsible face now and wondered just how many girls had succumbed to his rather too obvious charms. It pained me, on behalf of the sisterhood, to believe it might be plenty. Tommy played the-boy-can't-help-it card beautifully, but there would surely come a time when it would become a bit worn at the edges? When perhaps, literally overnight, he might wake up in yet another strange bed, transformed inexorably from lovable rogue to seedy old dog? Happily it was not my problem.

"And how are your parents?" I ventured politely, feeling we'd wandered too far into Tommy's specialist subject and deliberately putting us on more formal ground. Tommy's parents had visited London when Hugo and I were first married and we'd gone to Rules for lunch with them. They'd been surprisingly delightful. Very much the sort of Westport family Janey had been describing earlier.

“Dad died," Tommy said shortly. “Two years ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry." I was. "He was a lovely man."

I remembered his kindness to me that lunch: telling Hugo what a lucky man he was as he beamed across the table at me, asking after Peter, who was nine months old at the time. His wife, Lillian, too. So gracious, generous and intelligent, a painter herself. I recalled Tommy's delighted eyes on me at that meal, knowing he'd caught me out: knowing I was thinking, how can a man like that have parents like these? When his mother had asked shyly, when the men were talking, if she could possibly see my work, I'd found myself going round to sit next to her. I'd shown her bits of my portfolio, which I'd had with me because I'd been on my way to a commission. She'd admired them, but properly. Critically. Agreeing when I'd pointed out flaws, which most people didn't. She'd had a few postcards made up of her own work, beautiful tulips, mostly overblown, very close-up. When I'd genuinely enthused about them, she'd made a face and said how well paintings always photographed, which was true. Tommy's father overheard and broke off his conversation to disagree.

“They're heavenly, Flora," he assured me. "Everyone says so, and those postcards don't do them justice. Huge great canvases, they are, very powerful. But can I get her to exhibit? Not a chance."

"Oh, but you don't know anything, Michael," Lillian had laughed, quickly tucking her postcards away. "You'd like anything I did, and so would my friends. I need an objective, professional eye, like Flora's."