But with its high neck, long sleeves and muted ivy colour, it would probably be the wrong sort of glam for Mum, who appreciated bright sheaths of polyester satin, festooned with blingy appliqués.

The only thing she might approve of was that it was short. I’d also bought a teetering pair of black platform sandals. When I’d done a dress rehearsal for Claire, she’d tried to persuade me to go bare-legged—I swear her hand literally twitched for her beloved fake tan—but I wasn’t having it. ‘I need the safety of tights.’

‘But sexy ones,’ she’d pleaded. ‘None of your sixty denier shizz, gimme a sheeny fifteen.’

‘What if they get a run in them? Claire, I can’t, that night will be stressful enough. I’ll maybe go to twenty.’

‘Any chance you’d do hold-ups instead of tights?’

‘No. Me and sexy underwear are done.’

It wasn’t entirely true. But the last time I’d tried, at a restaurant with Quin, my knickers became so savagely uncomfortable that, after the starter, I’d had to go to the ladies, take them off and hide them in my handbag. I still wasn’t sure what had gone wrong—they’d felt okay when I’d left the house but perhaps I’d been sitting on them incorrectly? Or eaten too much bread?

‘Get your father,’ Mum ordered me.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Just get him, for the love of God!’

‘I’m here.’ Dad, who had clearly been primed to expect the summons, was at the door. He came in and sat down and we all stared at him. What was this about?

‘Right.’ Mum flicked a look at Dad. ‘At the party. We’ve. Decided. There’s to be.’

Both of them took a deep breath and delivered the fatal line, ‘An open bar.’

‘All night?’ Margaret was scandalized. ‘With your relations? You might as well file for bankruptcy right now.’

‘And we’re having champagne on arrival. Not prosecco.’

‘That’s right,’ Dad echoed. ‘Champagne on arrival. Not prosecco.’

‘But—’

‘Nnnh!’ Mum held up a hand to silence Margaret—who promptly turned to Dad and said, ‘The cost will—’

‘Nnnh!’ Mum declared. ‘Dad says we can afford it.’

‘We can afford it,’ Dad said.

‘Yes, but—’

‘And we’ve finalized the menu.’ Mum spoke over Margaret. ‘Asparagus to start, beef for the main course—’

Helen groaned long and loud. ‘Just how tragic can one woman be. Asparagus is the fanciest thing you can imagine?’

Hotly, Mum said, ‘Asparagus is a seasonal delicacy and if we don’t serve beef, they’ll say we’re poor or mean.’

‘We must serve beef,’ Dad echoed.

‘There are nicer things that cost more, if that’s your yardstick,’ I said. ‘Is there a vegetarian option?’

‘None of my relations are vegetarians.’

‘I’m a vegetarian and I’m your daughter.’