Mummy and Daddy were brilliant, but they were also quite serious and quiet. They listened, and thanked us for coming to tell them of our intentions, but the whole day was rather subdued. And Daddy didn’t get the champagne out as I thought he would. My family can turn anything into a celebration, which this surely was.

On the way home, Michael leaned across and patted my hand. ‘All right, little Luce?’

‘Yes.’ I turned back from gazing out of the window. ‘Fine.’

‘Your parents were so good about it, weren’t they? I mean, given the circumstances?’

‘Yes. They really were.’

I knew, though, that had it been Helena and Ant, an unplanned pregnancy, a mistake, a wedding, there would have been whoops of delight. My mother would have clasped her hands in joy. Daddy would have rushed to the drinks cupboard. Ant would have stammered a sheepish apology, whilst Daddy pooh-poohed it, saying, ‘Nonsense, dear boy!’ Whereas Michael had slightly stolen the show. Done all the talking about how things were going to be, and how he was going to look after me. Patting my hand, like he was now.

Two days later, I received a letter from my father, and I can’t tell you how unusual that was.

Dearest Puss,

Forgive some interference from a crumbling old fool, but something in your demeanour yesterday inclined me to put pen to paper. The thing is, my love, I’m slightly concerned. Are you happy? Is this genuinely what you want? Because Mummy and I can’t be sure. I can see it’s what Michael wants, and I’m sure he really loves you, but darling, do you feel the same? Because if not, please, please examine your options.

In the first place, you don’t have to have the baby, this isn’t the 1950s. If that idea is morally abhorrent to you, as Michael said it was, then of course, we understand. But please know that we would also one hundred per cent support you as a single mother. You could come and live with us and we would welcome you with open arms. Or, why don’t the two of you live together, but wait a year or two to get married? It is far from unusual to have a toddler at a wedding, these days. What I’m trying to say, my love, and no doubt in a clumsy fashion, is that you do have alternatives. You don’t have to get married now.

I’m in London on Friday seeing Mike Dubarry about some terrible new scheme he’s got for flogging wine to the French – aka ice to Eskimos – but could meet for lunch? How about Wheelers, one o’clock?

Anyway, have a think.

Best love,

Daddy

I stared in wonder. Stood up from the stairs where I’d been sitting reading it. Michael’s voice behind me made me jump.

‘All right, little Luce?’