I arrived early enough to see Lotte and Theo before they went to bed. I brought a Lego space rocket for Theo, and a stuffed purple unicorn for Lotte. It was the one I was going to give Ruby-May; it’s about time I passed it on to her sister. I bought wine, beer and lemonade; flowers and chocolates for Amy; and a takeaway curry that’s currently keeping warm in the oven. I remembered to ask my sister to invite Chloe; I picked Dad up from Somerset and drove him over. Now we’re sitting round the kitchen table, eating poppadoms and mango chutney; Chloe is looking at her iPhone and ignoring us.

‘What are we waiting for?’ asks Matt, pouring us both a beer.

‘Bethany,’ Amy says, looking at the clock. ‘I’ll give her another ring.’

I twitch slightly and try not to listen to her call.

‘So what’s all this about, mate?’ asks Matt.

‘He just wanted us to get together,’ Amy says, smiling at me. She turns away as her mobile stops ringing. I hold my breath, but it’s a recording of Bethany’s voice; the call has gone to her answerphone.

‘Maybe she’s in the taxi,’ says Amy, sitting down and snapping off a piece of poppadom. She slides her other hand round Matt’s neck and they smile at each other.

I swallow and take a swig of beer. Do I really want to do this, just as Amy and Matt seem to be getting back on track? Dad’s examining the paintings stuck on the fridge that Lotte and Theo have made, with an expression that looks a lot like contentment. Bethany was right. This will destroy us. All of us.

‘Shall we start eating? It’s getting late,’ says Matt. ‘Some of us have to be up early.’

I clear my throat. ‘I’ll go and fetch her.’ Amy and Matt glance at each other. They’re thinking I’ve turned over a new leaf, or some other bollocks. My palms are sweaty and I wipe them on my jeans. ‘Why don’t you go ahead? Save some for me. For us.’

It’s dusk and rush hour has died down, but there’s no quick way to reach Bethany’s flat from St Andrew’s. I drive into the car park behind Bethany’s block of flats and pull into her space. I might have missed her. Perhaps she’s sitting at Amy’s kitchen table right now, eating biryani and spinning our family some tale. I call her, but it goes to voicemail again, and when I ring the bell there’s no reply. I imagine her lounging on her white sofa, drinking a flute of icecold Cava, waiting for me. She’ll say we shouldn’t ruin everything by telling them what really happened. She’ll tell me I haven’t got it in me to do it anyway.