‘It’s ok,’ I tell her guiding her back to the table, ‘let’s just sit back down with the others.’

‘Come on then, Tony, tell us more about this dance. We’re just dying to hear all the details. Did she let you get fruity? Did she let you undo some of those buttons by the end?’ Malcolm leans forward and cups his ear. Tony shrugs and looks at Gill for guidance.

‘To everything there is a season,’ May says to her hands ‘a time to weep, a time to mourn, a time to laugh– ’

‘Would you credit it?’ Malcolm says to no one in particular, ‘a Tory and a God-botherer. Please, won’t someone just get me the fuck out of here?’

‘Language, Malcolm.’

Albert wakes up and sits upright as though someone has just stuck a pin in his arm. ‘What’s happening?’ he says too loudly, ‘what are you saying? What have I missed?’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Really?’ Albert looks around, scans our faces for confirmation. ‘Really? I was sure that was only a dream.’

There are footsteps outside. Someone running down the corridor towards us. Keys jangling. Gill looks up. Alison is at the door, out of breath and gripping onto the frame.

‘You’re needed,’ she says to Gill, her eyebrows raised.

‘Sorry, Tony,’ Gill says and then ‘Sana – you’re going to have to take over in here – just for ten minutes or so. Then you can take them into the dining room for tea.’

‘Ok,’ I say, ‘no problem. That’s fine.’ The words just slip out of me. Really I want to grab hold of her hand and force her to stay. But she’s gone and May is rocking next to me and Malcolm looks like all his birthdays have come at once. He moves into Gill’s seat before I can say anything and taps her pen on the table. He reaches across and takes three biscuits from the plate.

‘What song did you dance to, Tory boy?’ he says through a mouthful of crumbs.

Tony hesitates. He looks anxious. He glances at me and I nod for him continue.

‘The Very Thought of You,’ he says, ‘it was always our song and we danced to it at our wedding.’

I try to write it in the notebook. It’s the kind of detail Gill’s looking for. May’s whispering next to me. Something about a boy. I can’t concentrate. I don’t know the song and I’ve half forgotten the title already.

‘Was it swish, Tory boy? Were you just drowning in champagne?’

‘What?’ Tony says. ‘What’s that?’

‘I can’t hear anything either,’ Albert shouts, ‘not a bloody thing.’