Keeping busy is the key to warding off the horrors of the afternoon. Movement keeps at bay the awful finality of the encounter, the searing pain of his rejection. For the last nineteen years, her focus has been singular, her life moving forward with one purpose, one future, and now that it’s been shattered she doesn’t quite know what to do. If she stops to think about it, though, there is every chance that she will come completely undone. So she doesn’t stop: she stays busy and maintains the veneer of easy sociability. Even when there’s a hush as Greg makes a little speech, thanking her for her unwavering support, still her resolve stays rigid. After the applause, she darts into the kitchen and gets the desserts going, pressing Martin Cooper into service, tasking him with refilling people’s glasses.

It’s late in the afternoon when Maria Bolton comes up to her, putting her hand to the small of Hilary’s back and saying: ‘You’ve been running around like the Duracell bunny all afternoon, Hil. Come and have a glass of wine in the garden, take the weight off your feet for five minutes.’

She allows Maria to drag her outside, the two of them sloshing Cabernet Sauvignon into large glasses and perching on the bench at the edge of the lawn. The sun is dropping down behind the hornbeams that line the perimeter wall, and Hilary feels an ache in her limbs, and a stiffness in her neck. She takes a deep slug of wine and closes her eyes for a moment.

‘You’re worn out, Hil,’ Maria comments kindly. She’s one of those warmly frank people, never afraid to speak her mind. ‘You look like you’re about to collapse.’

‘I feel it.’

‘I’ll bet you’ve been up since dawn, eh? Probably been preparing all week.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, I hope he appreciates it,’ Maria adds, nodding towards Greg, who is standing a little way off in conversation with Martin and one of the men from the tennis club. He’s probably within earshot of their conversation, but if he hears he gives no indication.

‘He does.’

‘A good turnout,’ Maria remarks, and Hilary agrees, drinking again from her glass. The wine is helping, but still she feels the shock sticking to her, like a shadow.

For a moment, they comment on all the people who have come, and then Maria nudges her arm and says: ‘No sign of Anton, though.’

Hilary puts down her glass and looks cautiously at her friend. Maria is smiling, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

‘I saw you today, leaving his house. I said to Will: “She’s gone in there to invite Anton to the party.” And Will said: “Christ, I hope not!”’ She laughs, and elbows Hilary again, dropping her voice to add: ‘Will can’t stand Anton. Never could.’