‘Sorry about that,’ Andy offered. ‘You should go easy on her.’ That was Andy in a nutshell, wanting both a blokey alliance and to stick up for his wife: the type of guy who says, ‘Yes, honey,’ at a dinner party but then wobbles his head and goes, ‘Pfft, women, right?’ when she’s in the loo. His nose was red, but it was hard to tell if the cause was alcohol or temperature, and his glasses were slightly fogged up. His short, jet-black goatee sat on his face like it had been taken hostage from a younger man; he was in his early fifties.

‘I didn’t do a rain dance last night just to piss her off,’ I said.

‘I know, mate. It’s just a tricky weekend for everyone. So, you know, you don’t have to make fun of her for trying to make it a little easier.’ He paused. ‘Not a big deal, hey – don’t let it get in the way of us sinking a few beers this trip.’

‘I didn’t make fun of her. I’m just late.’ I could see my stepsister, Sofia, having a cigarette on the porch as we approached. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, it’s worse inside.

Andy took a few steps in silence, and though I inwardly begged him not to, drew a breath and said, ‘Yeah, but,’ and I decided there’s nothing sadder than a man trying to stick up for a woman who can stick up for herself, ‘she put a lot of work into those invites, and you didn’t have to make fun of her spreadsheets.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Not now. When you sent it back. Under allergies you wrote “spreadsheets”.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Sofia overheard and scoffed, ejecting a plume of smoke out her nose. Erin, who’s not dead, would have liked that one too. Andy didn’t need to say aloud what I’d written under ‘Next of kin’ – it’s a family reunion, so anyone here, unless Avalanche – for me to feel a right arse. I conceded. ‘I’ll go easy.’

Andy smiled, pleased that his husbandly virtues, if not affectionate, were at least box-ticking.