And I creep down the gallery, away from the couple presumably entwined, away from Helen Kelsey’s false smiles, and down the thickly carpeted corridor, because I have a craving to see my son; I imagine him asleep in the bed, his fists curled above his head, his sleep-soaked face utterly peaceful in this madness.

I sit on the window-seat in his room and I realise with a crashing certainty that the only person I want to see right now, apart from my kids, is never going to be here, and I feel such sorrow; such anger with myself for having chosen so badly. I fooled myself I could do sex without emotion: I was horribly wrong. I am riven with desire and I can’t seem to fight it. I bite back the tears. I waited so long for him and yet I chose so badly; he only made me feel worse. And everything is falling apart and I can finally see my life for what it is: the fact that in Paris eight years ago, I mistook my shared guilt with James for our destiny.

Freddie murmurs in his sleep as I hear the drum-roll begin downstairs, and when I come out again, as if on cue, I hear my name as James cries it from the stage where he has just replaced

Liam. I lean over the balcony and James looks mussed and sweaty and larger than life in his slightly overtight T-shirt. In this light it looks like he has glitter on his face.

‘So, people,’ (I groan inwardly. I do wish he wouldn’t say ‘people’), ‘you all know I couldn’t have done any of it without my rock.’

I cringe inside.

‘My mate, my lifelong companion.’ Outside, I force a smile.

‘My beautiful wife, mother of my three pride and joys – I know you’ll excuse my poor English – Rosie has ever since our student days, eh, petal?’ Everyone laughs indulgently. I wish he’d hurry up. My face is as rigid now as Helen’s Botoxed one as the glasses are all extended towards me, and I search the crowd for one single upturned face that I recognise. For one I actually like. My eyes settle on Jen, standing beside Xav, and she winks. I feel so flat, I cannot return the smile properly, although I do try.

‘To my petal. My Rose!’

‘To Rose,’ they parrot, and then, thank God, James is on to the next thank you, his partner, Liam, and I exhale, pushing down the feeling, thinking, oh God when will this ever end? Then the lights go down and a thousand fairy lights flicker across the room, and for a split second there is silence, and then a whoosh of air.