‘Didn’t Martin tell you?’ Imogen eventually says.

He glances at Martin who is grinning with food-filled cheeks.

‘I wanted to surprise him,’ Martin says.

‘We postponed it,’ says Richard, reaching for more chicken. ‘Till tomorrow, so you could be in it.’

Wrapped up in coats and scarves, William and Martin are sitting in adjacent apple trees with their legs dangling over the unkempt grass. The darkness is softened by light from the kitchen. Surrounded by an old brick wall with eight apple trees, two cherry trees and a pear tree, the garden is like something out of a picture book.

‘I’m worried I won’t be any good – in the play.’ William rubs his finger along the fissured tree bark. He adjusts his position to ease the pressure of his waistband, which has been digging into his middle since the second helping of apple pie.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Martin says, emitting a cloud of breath. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Yes,’ William says, ‘and petrified.’

Martin laughs. ‘There won’t be any cousins, so it won’t be quite such a big deal.’

‘Oh!’

‘They came on Boxing Day. They’re back in London now.’

William doesn’t mention his surprise at Flo, or how pretty his sisters are; he doesn’t want to discuss any of it, he just wants to enjoy it. And anyway, he is so touched that this big, sophisticated family would rearrange things just for him, he would probably cry if he opened his mouth.

Evelyn wouldn’t like the sprawling clothes on the landing, or the old newspapers scattered across the sitting room, or the splats of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror, but William loves the idea that style and elegance don’t depend on cleanliness.

‘Your house is splendid,’ he says, taking off his trousers, his legs goose-bumping instantly. William wonders that no one has drawn the curtains, but without neighbours to overlook them, he can see why they wouldn’t bother. The room contains four single beds, but still, there are broad swathes of space in between them.

‘Thanks.’ Martin strips off his vest and drops it on the floor.

‘Our flat is tiny compared to this,’ William says, glancing at his skinny body in the wardrobe mirror across the room.

‘I bet it’s cosy. It’s freezing here unless we have a heatwave.’ Martin’s voice is distorted from within his pyjama top. ‘And I bet your mum keeps everything tidy.’

Martin won’t hear a word against Evelyn; So elegant, lipstick that makes her mouth look like slices of fruit, butter biscuit baker. But tonight William finds himself drawn to the Amazonian mother figure of Mrs Mussey, with her broad-brush approach to housework and mothering.