‘I could handle that. It’s just that Martin, the bridegroom, has invited my father and his new wife. Apparently they know each other through work. I remember Nicky saying something odd, that Martin didn’t have a lot of friends. He’d have to be scraping the barrel to invite my dad.’

‘Shit. What a disaster.’

‘What are we going to tell Mum?’ Sophie, normally the calmest of people, fought back tears as she raised an anguished face to Meredith’s. ‘Oh God, Meredith, why do men always seem to leave women?’

Meredith opened her arms. She always told herself she’d never missed having children, but there were times when Sophie almost felt like a daughter. ‘Come on, have a hug.’ She folded Sophie into her arms.

‘Maybe if I asked him not to come,’ she blurted into Meredith’s shoulder.

‘Asked who not to come? Sophie, darling, what on earth’s the matter?’

They turned to find Jo standing in the doorway.

Sophie decided the truth was the only option. ‘Mum, I’m so sorry. I’ve just got the guest list, and . . . Martin’s invited Dad and Amanda. I assume he has no idea of the connection with us.’

For a split second Jo seemed as if she might collapse. And then a furious sense of dignity came to her rescue. She was damned if she’d be pitied over this. ‘Oh well,’ she announced, a smile creeping across her face, ‘he’ll only make an arse of himself on the dance floor, so we’ve got that to look forward to.’

Sophie launched herself across the space between them. ‘I love you, Mum. And I think you’re absolutely wonderful!’

Jackie looked at her shiny kitchen surfaces with satisfaction. Everything about her modern bungalow was easy-care, from the gleaming white worktops to the neatly stacked modern dresser. Apart from Steve, that was. He still managed to lounge on the small sofa, draping his large frame over its edges like whipped cream oozing out of a Victoria sandwich, and throwing discarded garments onto the nearby armchairs. He had the knack of being relaxed wherever he was. He could probably, Jackie thought with grudging affection, have made himself at home in a medieval dungeon.

‘Are you quite comfortable?’ Jackie enquired. ‘Fancy a cup of tea? A cool beer?’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked cautiously, waiting for the trap to close if he gave the wrong answer.

‘I wanted to talk to you, that’s all.’

Instinctively he moved his feet off the arm of the sofa and lumberingly pulled himself upright, like a great beast surfacing from a watering hole in a David Attenborough programme.

‘What about?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Have you got anything more to finish up at the château?’

‘Mostly finished. This was only stage one, obviously. We’ll do the rest over the winter. It looks a lot better, though. On time and under budget.’