I drove on. Josh’s awkward concern had been equally touching, and I wondered what on earth he must think of me. Not that it mattered, of course. He was far more intelligent than me, quite the professor when he got going about his subject, despite the shabby chic exterior. Or perhaps that accounted for it. Nevertheless, I hoped I hadn’t come across as too barking. I decided I probably had.

When I reached my parents’ house, I passed a sleek black car parked outside in the lane, with the Millers’ chauffeur, Ron, fast asleep at the wheel. I recognized him from years ago: it had always been a source of amusement, the fact that we knew people with a chauffeur. Bugger, were they still here? I turned in at the gates. A couple of white vans were parked just inside, and scaffolding scrambled up one side of the cottage. Good. That was something, at least. The builders had made a start. Presumably they were beginning at the top and working down, patching the roof, which they’d told me was in dire need of attention. Jerry, who I’d liked enormously when I’d met him, and who had a quiet efficiency about him, was climbing down from a ladder, while his mate, Tod, was packing away their tools in steel boxes. As I got out of the car, they saw me and grinned.

‘Good luck!’ called Jerry, jerking his head towards Mum and Dad’s house.

‘Sorry?’ I shut my car door.

‘They’ve had a bit of a do,’ he called cheerily.

I went rigid. ‘A bit of a …’

I hastened towards the house. The front door was on the latch and I hurried through. Music was playing loudly, some old Nina Simone jazz. As I went through to the sitting room, my father was on the other side of the room by the stereo, crooning along to it at full volume, whilst Nancy danced. Nancy. What the hell was she doing here? Well, I say danced; she was swaying, actually – eyes half shut, turban askew, cigarette holder in hand, although there didn’t seem to be a cigarette in it. Horizontal on a sofa, fast asleep, was Bertie. He had a napkin over his eyes, his mouth was open and he was snoring gustily. All around was the detritus of a lunch party: empty glasses, cheese plates and overflowing ashtrays.

Dad hailed me from over by the stereo system where he was clearly DJ. ‘Darling! Come and join us!’

‘Where’s Mum?’ I shouted.

‘Upstairs, getting something for Hetty.’

He went back to his crooning, but unable to resist showing off now he had an audience, he sashayed across – as much as he was able – to sweep Nance into his arms. They waltzed, extremely unsteadily, around the room, giving me cheeky grins as they passed.