“Oh, you will have to stop calling me that now you are getting married. You will have to call me Maman.”

This was going to be a long evening. “Mum, I don’t even call you Maman.”

“That,” she glowered at me Gallically, “is because you have no respect for your heritage.”

I was about to deliver a fantastically clever and witty reply when the sound of barking echoed from inside and four ecstatic spaniels burst from the hallway. I say ecstatic, but they were, of course, ecstatic to see Oliver, who was great with dogs, and not at all interested in seeing me, who they’d known their entire lives.

On the plus side, Oliver did look incredibly cute kneeling down to receive an armful of fur and puppy-dog eyes.

“Charles,” he said, bestowing scratches, pets, and scruffles, “Camilla, Michael of Kent. Hello, Eugenie, old girl; who’s a good girl, you are, yes you are.” I never worked out how Oliver or, for that matter, anyone else, was able to tell the dogs apart.

Once Oliver had finished greeting the woofles as he occasionally and embarrassingly called them, all seven of us went through to the front room.

“Judy,” Mum announced, “look who is here. It is Luc and his fiancé, Oliver, who, as you know, he has told us he is engaged to.”

I sort of liked that Mum was bad at deception. Judy, however, as a result of…of…a great many aspects of her tumultuous life history, had no problem with it at all. “Ah, of course.” She beamed. “Congratulations, old boys. Meant to bring you a gift, but it’s fattening up in the lower pasture.”

“You know,” said Oliver incredibly gently, “I am still a vegan.” It wasn’t much of a protest, but it was more than he would have managed two years ago.

“Not to worry.” Judy seldom let go of an idea once it was in her head. “Keep it in the garden. Good for the grass.”

I wasn’t sure why I was getting into the details of this given that the nonspecific animal in question was almost certainly fictional, but I couldn’t quite help myself. “You realise I live in a top-floor flat, and Oliver’s garden is about eight feet across.”

“Well, that changes things.” Sitting back, Judy stroked her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have to give you a goat instead.”

I was beginning to feel like I was in one of those improv games where you had to keep saying “yes and” to whatever your partner came up with. “I don’t think we’ve got room for a goat either.”

“Don’t be silly,” Judy told me, undaunted. “Everyone’s got room for a goat. They’re tiny. Practically stackable.”