‘Last I heard from Kirsty, she was planning her wedding. Yes, another one,’ says Emily, while Kevin continues to commentate in the background. ‘I mean seriously, I don’t know how she does it. I’m still de-stressing from my wedding a year later, never mind contemplating another. She’s like, what do you call her? What’s the name of the actress with all the husbands?’

Tom can definitely hear her now. We glance at each other. He catches my eye and smiles.

‘What’s the name of the famous actress who was married eight times?’ I ask him, not wanting him to feel left out.

‘Liz Taylor,’ he whispers.

‘Liz Taylor, yes! Kirsty would make Liz Taylor look like a spinster at this rate,’ I joke to my sister. ‘Look, I’d better go but you two enjoy the rest of your day and I’ll see you soon.’

But Emily doesn’t seem to want to go. She’s totally caught up in all things to do with me and Tom, it seems, and wants to hear more.

‘Is he there right now? Beside you?’ Emily says just as I’m about to hang up. ‘You know, our mother fancied him more than any of us when he was in the band with Matthew. She totally had the hots for him and said if only she was twenty-five years younger!’

I take that as my cue to go and we swiftly say our goodbyes, then I lean back on the booth and drop my phone beside me.

I can’t believe she said that my mother fancied Tom but, let’s face it, he probably has women of all ages swooning after him all the time. He’s the type of man that older women float towards in a giddy mix of maternal instinct and physical attraction.

‘So, your friend, is it Kirsty? She’s been married more than once or was that just a joke?’ he asks, out of the blue, and I’m a bit taken aback at his interest in the brief mention of Kirsty’s exotic love life.

‘Yes, Kirsty is a real romantic who would consider marrying Mickey Mouse if he asked her to, why?’ I ask, taking a gulp of my drink.

‘Just asking,’ he says to me. ‘Funny old thing, marriage. I’m just curious.’

OK, then, since he’s just curious …

‘Well, her first marriage was when she was twenty-four to a Turkish lad called Demir who she met on holiday,’ I tell him. ‘They’d known each other two weeks when he proposed.’

‘Sweet.’

I smile at his sincerity.

‘That’s one word for it, I suppose,’ I explain, ‘but as soon as he got his visa just over a year later, she was history.’

His face changes. ‘Ah, not so sweet then. Poor Kirsty.’

That’s what we said at the time, but we needn’t have worried.