‘Tell me again why you’re going to this party?’ Lucy asks suspiciously.

‘Because! Because Gigi likes vintage and her friends like vintage, so I’m going to be handing out my business cards and doing a bit of networking.’ I chink my glass against hers.

‘Oh, is that all? A bit of networking. Nothing to do with the fact that you fancy her partner and want to know him a little better then?’

‘Lucy Mills! Shame on you! Of course not! David’s totally in love with Gigi. He’s making her a beautiful chopping board for her birthday.’

‘Why? Is she a butcher?’

‘Ha ha!’ I say. ‘It’s made of burwood, which is really hard to work with.’

‘Burwood? Get you! Since when have you been interested in carpentry?’

‘No, listen, he’s personalising it. He’s carved her name on it and her date of birth.’

‘Oh, he’s carved her name on it! Why didn’t you say so? That makes all the difference.’

Her sarcasm makes me defend him more heatedly than it warrants. ‘It’s romantic,’ I tell her. ‘He’s put a lot of work into it. Even if she hardly ever uses it, she’s going to love it just because he’s made it.’

Lucy’s silent for a moment, mulling it over. ‘You think?’

‘I would, wouldn’t you?’ A moth flutters towards us and folds up on the lighted window.

‘In that case, lucky her.’

If he’d carved my name on it, I’d cherish it forever. I look longingly up at the dark sky, trying to see it as he sees it, and I feel a shiver of misgiving.

Lucy’s right. I’ve got it bad.

I haven’t got a car because it’s too expensive for me to drive in London, with the congestion and emissions charge, so I arranged to borrow my mother’s motor to drive to Gigi’s birthday party in the Cotswolds.

This involves catching the train to Berkhamsted first, to pick up the car from their house. I get there by two o’clock. Shamelessly, as a walking endorsement of Fern Banks Vintage, and nothing to do with David, I’m wearing a yellow off-the-shoulder crêpe-de-Chine long dress with a lace bodice. I’ve let my hair dry naturally and it’s got a bit of a curl.

My mother answers the door. She’s wearing a pink Ralph Lauren cotton sweater and white jeans. Her hair’s tied up in a ponytail and she’s uncharacteristically pale.

‘Hi, Mum.’

She winces, as if I’ve scraped my fork on her favourite china. ‘I’d prefer you to call me Annabel, darling.’ After brushing her cheek lightly against mine by way of greeting, she stands back to look at me without comment.

The house is very quiet. ‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask, because since he’s retired, they do everything together.