‘“As his mother is Miss Briony Cavanagh, I expect he will make his own mind up about that. My wife, however, Isabel Dumas, gets nothing, her father having left her well provided for.”’

Mr Otterbaum looked at them with a pained expression.

‘I can only tell you what your husband put down. I can’t begin to express my sorrow at the contents. It was drawn up by my father...’

His voice trailed off.

Isabel had closed her eyes tightly.

‘The bastard! The dirty rotten stinking bastard!’ The words were whirling around her head. She had not realised she had said them out loud.

Benedict looked at his wife, then his mother, with a stunned expression on his face.

‘What the hell is going on here?’

Isabel grasped his hand and shook her head. Then the tears came.

An hour and a half later, Benedict had been told the true story of his birth, and such was Isabel’s rage at her departed husband, she told it with the same cold callousness she knew he would have used. Benedict listened gravely to the story of a young girl giving birth at thirteen years old and felt the rainbow trout he had eaten for lunch rising up inside his stomach.

Now he knew why he had never liked his father, why he’d always felt a distaste for him. Now he knew why his father had never been to him as other fathers were to other sons. The truth of his life was laid bare and Benedict, not having the hardness or strength of his natural mother, cried.

Fenella Dumas, his wife, listened to the story with detachment. There was one thing in Fenella’s favour. No matter how much Isabel disapproved of her otherwise, nothing threw her. Nothing at all.

She was quite looking forward to telling the children. Natalie especially, being a golden sixties child, would absolutely love this. Their real granny was a tart of the first water. It was like something from the News of the World.

Benedict, however, had different thoughts on the subject.

Briony, Kerry and the twins sat drinking weak coffee and talking about the wedding. It was the first time Kerry had shown a spark of interest in anything for years. She wanted to know where it was, what they were wearing, what they were going to eat. She wanted to know every detail. Her face was animated and Briony detected something of the old Kerry then, the live wire Kerry of her youth, and this spark saddened her.

Boysie sipped his coffee and took a large bite of a cheese sandwich. ‘I was wondering, Auntie Kerry, would you sing for us? In the church like. I know that Suzannah would love that.’

Briony watched Kerry’s face close. ‘Oh, I don’t know...’

‘Come on, Kerry, we can’t have a marriage and you not sing. You always sing at everything.’ Briony’s voice was light.