A lot of the conversation was about Selina, her rise to fame, her star status. The producer began it, as he began every new subject, laughing at his own wit and shooting questions at everyone. Wasn’t Selina brilliant? Would anyone dream of being out of the house at eight-thirty unless they had set the video? Max said nothing but looked—I was going to say “sulky” except that’s not a word to apply to anyone as august as he was. When the compliments became too fulsome he pursed his lips and looked down at his plate. A change of subject brought him relief and he smiled.

It was at that lunch that I first heard of the couple called Andrew Lane and Alison Barrie. I’ve only known one person of the age I was then who buys a newspaper and that was Silver. Sometimes I watched television and sometimes I listened to the radio but not to news programs. So I had never heard of the Lanes (they were married, but Alison didn’t use her husband’s name) till that birthday lunch when we were all eating our cheesecake. I can’t remember which of the company first mentioned them, I suppose it was the television producer, but I remember the question.

“What do we think about those Lanes, then?”

“Who?” Selina said.

“Don’t you read your daily paper, Selina? They’re the couple who have run away with the child the pernicious social services won’t allow them to adopt.”

I wasn’t very interested. I only listened because I was trapped. Everyone began to talk at once. All had their views. The adoption process in this country was draconian and cruel. Social services departments said they put the interests of the child first but in practice that was the last thing they did. Political correctness was ruining people’s lives. How about this stupid rule that children of mixed race had to be adopted by mixed-race parents?

Everyone began to talk at once but Wanda the restaurateur didn’t talk. She left her cheesecake half-eaten and, waving her glass, said abruptly to Max, who wasn’t generous with the Chablis, “Can I have some more wine?”

Someone realized then and they stopped awkwardly. The cushion woman told me while we were having coffee in the drawing room that Wanda, now divorced, had tried for years to adopt a child but had been turned down on the grounds of being too rich and upper class. The television producer must have known, everyone there knew, but people were so thoughtless, didn’t I think?

“Sorry, I keep forgetting Selina’s your aunt.”