She stares at me for longer than would be customary and I take another gulp of wine to hide how uncomfortable she is making me. Eventually, she huffs out the breath she was holding. Her gaze is trained on the door to the garden, one of those old-fashioned ones where both halves move independently. “Does he…” Her voice trails off. “I mean…” She clears her throat. “If…” She grabs my hand and the words come tumbling out. “If he hurts you, I can help. Help you get free.” Then her hands are once more on her side of the table and she is smiling as she stands.

“You must be freezing!” The men are back. She throws me a horrified glance over her shoulder. I’m assuming that Mr. Hardcastle isn’t always the teddy bear you would think either.

Later that night, I manage to get Val alone once again for a few moments. “It’s all fine,” I tell her, squeezing her hand gently. “Nothing I can’t handle anyway.” She smiles and nods but there is a tear in her eye. When Megan leaves him, she won’t be surprised. I kind of wish I could take her with me.

The next day we meet Chris’s sister Fran and her family at the pub for lunch. She and her husband Marcus have two little boys, George and Arlo, who are polite and well mannered. At least until they have chocolate cake and ice cream; there is then a half-hour window when they go batshit crazy, but they soon calm down after being released into the beer garden to run a few laps.

Fran is like a miniature version of her mum, except for one notable difference. She thinks the sun shines from her big brother’s backside. “You’ll make such a fabulous father,” she coos at him as he plays with his nephews. “I can’t wait to be an auntie,” she goes on, “and these boys need some cousins to play with.” Then she turns to me to add, “Better not leave it too long though, eh? Not if you’re going to have three.”

“Three?” I ask.

“At least. That’s what you always said, Chrissy, isn’t it?” She is the only person in the world who gets away with calling him that.

“Leave them alone.” Val tries to come to my rescue.

“But, Mum, you have to admit that Megan is getting on a bit if she’s going to have more than two. I just don’t want Chrissy’s time to run out as a result.”

Fran never really warmed to me. I don’t think I was ever good enough for her darling Chrissy. She was never outwardly hostile; her comments taken in context could be deemed innocuous. Except when she’d got pissed at my hen do. “I never thought he’d marry someone like you,” she had slurred into her fourth strawberry daiquiri. “You’re so… so… blah.” She had waved her hand in my face to illustrate her point. “Like you’re a sepia photo of just… nothing interesting.”