It was fair to say he didn’t help himself.

‘We must go and say hello to Simon and Sheila,’ Dad said, unwinding my mother from Adrian’s arms and casting a cool look in his direction. Adrian fended it off with a wink I was sure I’d be hearing about later. ‘Will you be wanting a lift later, Rosalind?’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Reynolds,’ Adrian answered before I could. ‘I’ll get her home safe and sound.’

Dad gave him another thunderous look and marched on, barbeque-bound, with my mother leading the way.

‘You make it worse every time,’ I said, suppressing a smile. ‘Although, maybe if we told my dad you’d got me pregnant, he’d let me move back into the house.’

‘If we told your dad I’d got you pregnant, we’d be moving him to the heart ward at the Royal Brompton and me to the cemetery,’ Adrian replied. ‘But whatever it is your mum’s doing, you should consider doing the same.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be doing what my mum’s doing any time soon, thank you,’ I muttered into my glass. The cursed image of sushi night flashed in front of me.

‘How’s the job going?’ Ade asked as I watched all the attending dads eye up my mother and all the attending wives glare at the dads. ‘What’s the latest?’

I pulled at the high collar of my dress, as my mum, surrounded by middle-aged men offering her sausages, hooted with laughter.

‘It’s interesting,’ I said diplomatically. I’d spent all week immersing myself in all things Snazzlechuff and I still had no idea what I was going to do. ‘As soon as I work out how to best display the talents of a near-mute fourteen-year-old, I’ll be killing it.’

‘Snazzlechuff,’ Adrian whispered, holding one hand aloft and squinting his eyes as though he were delivering a Shakespearean soliloquy. ‘It’s this generation’s “Rosebud”. I want it to be my dying word.’

‘You’re going the right way about it,’ I assured him. ‘Hey, isn’t that the bartender from Good Luck Bar?’ I pointed over to a tall man with black hair who was busy behind the bar. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘That’s John,’ he confirmed. ‘He’s my anniversary present to Mum and Dad. Custom cocktails to get everyone so slaughtered, they don’t blame Dad’s barbecue skills when they’re throwing up tomorrow.’

‘You’re such a good son,’ I replied, wrinkling my nose at the platter of chicken legs that was currently marinating nicely in sunshine and salmonella. ‘And you’re buying me a pizza later.’

‘Agreed,’ he said, sinking his Pimm’s. ‘Shall we test-drive the cocktails?’