Dinah looks at me and starts to laugh, too. She has a high-pitched laugh, a proper tee-hee-hee, very infectious, and she doubles up over the counter. ‘That mob!’ she says gleefully between giggles, ‘I thought the stall was going to fall down, didn’t you!’

I’m laughing with her and gradually we pull ourselves together. She dabs the tears from her eyes, turning her face up to mine. ‘How do I look?’

‘Um, your turban’s a little jaunty,’ I advise, and she takes it off and studies it.

‘Here,’ she says suddenly. ‘This is for you. Remember, I promised it to you.’ She places it on my head as gently as a crown.

LOT 15

A belted black PVC raincoat, small, knee-length, unlabelled, circa 1980.

I drive from the Cotswolds back to Berkhamsted. My mother’s surprised to have the car back a day earlier than she expected. She takes me into the lounge to see my father. He’s watching cricket on Sky Sports. He tears his attention away briefly from the screen to say hello.

She shrugs and gestures to me, a gesture that says – see what I have to put up with!

She goes into the kitchen, her kimono fluttering behind her. The sunlight’s coming through the window, illuminating a vase of red tulips.

As she puts the coffee on, I think about the events of lunchtime and wonder what would have happened if one of their friends had actually warned David that Gigi was expecting him to go down on one knee.

Would he have stuck to his opinion that they ‘weren’t there yet’, or would he have done it to please her, to ‘make her eyes light up’?

‘Wasn’t it fun?’ my mother asks doubtfully, seeing me frown and probably wondering why I’ve cut my weekend short.

‘Tremendous fun,’ I reply, and I describe in detail the house and the restaurant we went to for lunch, and the cake, and the photographer.

‘Was he from a magazine?’ she asks eagerly.

Despite the fact he wasn’t, my mother’s happy that I’m mixing with the right sort of people. ‘Your father’s meeting new people, too,’ she adds.

‘Yes, well, that’s what happens when you take up a new hobby. You should find something new as well; he’s right about that.’

‘Why?’ she asks stubbornly, leaning elegantly against the fridge. ‘You and your father are my whole life.’

I’m so shocked by this admission that without thinking, I say, ‘No wonder I’m such a disappointment.’ I regret it instantly, because her face hardens with disapproval and all the warmth is suddenly sucked out of the kitchen. ‘Sorry,’ I say desperately. ‘I just mean – your life is your life and you’ve got so much to give.’