‘What does she expect?’ he suddenly bursts out. ‘What does she expect me to do?’

‘Maybe she doesn’t expect anything,’ I venture.

Luke doesn’t reply, just sips his coffee with a murderous scowl.

‘What kind of surgery is she having?’ I ask. ‘Is it serious?’

‘Let’s just forget about it,’ he says abruptly and gets to his feet. ‘So I’ll tell Aran there are four acceptances for the benefit. It’s black tie,’ he adds, and kisses me. ‘See you later.’

‘Luke—’ I grab his hand to stop him. But as he turns back, I realize I don’t know what I want to say, except, ‘Please make peace with your mother,’ which I can’t just blurt out with no build-up. ‘Have a good day,’ I say lamely, and he nods.

‘Black tie?’ Tarquin is looking dismayed as he turns to Suze. ‘Darling, what will I wear? I don’t have my kilt.’

His kilt? Oh my God. The idea of Tarkie turning up to some LA benefit in a kilt and sporran and those big woolly socks makes me want to collapse in laughter.

‘You’re not going to wear a kilt!’ expostulates Suze. ‘You’re going to wear …’ She thinks for a moment. ‘An Armani tuxedo. And a black shirt and a black tie. That’s what all these Hollywood types wear.’

‘A black shirt?’ Now it’s Tarquin’s turn to expostulate. ‘Suze, darling, only spivs wear black shirts.’

‘Well, OK, a white shirt,’ Suze relents. ‘But not a wing collar. You need to look cool. And I’m going to test you on celebrities later.’

Poor Tarkie. As he leaves the kitchen he looks like a man sentenced to prison, not a man who’s got a ticket to the coolest party in town.

‘He’s hopeless,’ sighs Suze. ‘You know, he can name about a hundred breeds of sheep, but not one of Madonna’s husbands.’

‘I’ve never seen anyone so out of place.’ I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. ‘Tarkie’s really not suited to LA, is he?’

‘Well, we’ve been on enough holidays to grouse moors,’ says Suze. ‘It’s my turn. And I love it here.’ She pours herself some more orange juice, then lowers her voice. ‘What do you think’s up with Elinor?’

‘I don’t know.’ I lower my voice even further. ‘What if she’s really ill?’

We look at each other anxiously. I can tell our thoughts are heading in the same direction, then sheering away.

‘He has to know the truth about the party,’ says Suze at length. ‘He has to know how generous she was. Just in case … anything happens.’

‘But how do I tell him? He’ll just fly off the handle. He won’t even listen!’

‘Could you write it down?’

I consider this for a moment. I am quite good at letter-writing, and I could make Luke promise to read to the end before shouting. But even as I’m considering it, I know what I truly want to do.

‘I’m going to invite her over,’ I say with resolve. ‘Either before her surgery or afterwards, depending.’