‘Yes. Like handling pastry too much. You can work at it, and go on working and hoping to make it better until you bring it to the point of ruination.’

Mel ran her fingers through her hair until it crackled. I thought that if I turned off the lamp I’d see a wild halo of blue sparks.

‘My God, that’s frightening. I was scared to death of Jasper’s Clare and she’s a nineteen-year-old girl. It must be even more complicated with Jack, when you love him so much. And for Jasper, with Clare. I can imagine it, even though I’ve got none of my own.’

I noticed that Mel’s way of speaking about it had changed. She still lamented her childlessness, but the raw edge of agony seemed to have melted away. That was what falling in love with Jasper had done for her.

At the same time, I was thinking yes, that’s right. I’ve got to find a way to lay off Jack, just as Tony and Mr Rainbird told me, and now even Mel is circuitously telling me. But abandoning him to Audrey and Turnmill Street isn’t the way.

Not abandoning him, however hard he insists on the opposite, that’s the right way. He’s pushing me, to see what I will do. He may not even know it himself but he’s testing my allegiance and that’s good. When I was Jack’s age I hadn’t owned even a fraction of the confidence it would have taken to test Ted.

I groped for Mel’s hand and held on to it. We sat and looked out at the windows of the houses opposite ours and the yellow bloom of the nearest street lamp. I wondered if the dog fox was delicately stepping somewhere beyond the circle of light. ‘Clare is scared too,’ I said. ‘She’s afraid you’ll turn out not to be good enough for her father. She’s afraid you might have hoodwinked or hypnotised him. Or that he’ll love you too much and therefore love her less.’

Mel drew up her knees and rested one cheek on them, looking hard at me. ‘You’ve been through all this.’

‘In a way.’

We squeezed each other’s hands.

‘It doesn’t stop, does it?’ Mel murmured. ‘Learning and loving.’

‘No. Even though we’re as old as we are. Fifty outside, twenty-seven within. It doesn’t stop.’

‘Good,’ she said.

We found that the party in the kitchen had changed gear. The table had been cleared and the dishwasher was humming. The three of them had drawn up their chairs, there was another full bottle on the table and Graham was shuffling a pack of cards.

He looked at us over the top of his glasses. ‘We thought we’d make a night of it. What’ll it be? Gin rummy? Pontoon? Or a couple of hands of poker?’