Roma and Patsie were there already, sitting across from one another at a table by the fire. Roma’s curly mop was wilder than usual; Patsie’s dark chignon was sensible. Roma’s maroon tunic over leggings was made of satin and lace in crazy panels; Patsie looked as if she were going into court and had picked the plainest dark dress John Lewis had ever sold. Lily felt like demanding, ‘How many navy dresses do you need? Red looks really great with dark hair, you know! Or treat yourself to stripes or checks.’ But didn’t. If Roma had dressed as if to make people think she was absolutely fine and Patsie had chosen something that made her invisible, there was no upside to Lily commenting.

Once Zinnia and George arrived swinging a black bin bag of presents the atmosphere lifted a notch. Everybody chatted and joked as they read the menu and decided on wine.

Lily enjoyed being with her family but felt ultra-aware of Roma and Patsie not touching and Zinnia and George constantly mentioning the baby. It was such a contrast: one negative and one positive. Maybe others felt the same because they all focused like mad on Zinnia’s pregnancy, evincing interest in every detail of morning sickness, maternity leave, medical appointments and scan dates.

Roma and Patsie gave the baby an envelope filled with cash for the furnishing of the nursery – what used to be the spare room/gym/study/dumping ground – and a Christmas card that promised the baby ‘all the love we can give you’, which brought tears to Zinnia’s eyes.

‘Lucky baby, if he or she gets the amount of love we were showered with,’ Lily said huskily, which made everyone else tear up too.

‘We’ve been very lazy,’ Roma smiled when she’d wiped her eyes, passing envelopes to Zinnia, George and Lily too. ‘You’ve all got cash.’

‘Always welcome,’ said Lily, thinking of her dwindling bank account.

Zinnia and George, having had to pay their excess on the fire insurance, had bought all their gifts from charity shops. Roma’s was a rainbow velvet jacket, Patsie’s an eclectic collection of decades-old books of poetry by people like Charles Hamilton Sorley and Laurence Binyon, and Lily’s a ski jacket the colour of lapis lazuli which still had its tags. ‘That’s gorgeous!’ breathed Lily, putting it on immediately.

‘I knew it would bring out the blue of your eyes,’ Zinnia said with great satisfaction.

The lunch, as really lovely family lunches seemed to, lasted so long that it slid well into the afternoon. Finally, Lily checked the time and announced, ‘I need to get home and changed for work. Have a wonderful Christmas, everyone.’ Emotion squeezed her throat shut at the thought of Roma and Patsie going off on their own and she gave them each a big, silent hug.