Christine stirred the gravy a little more vigorously. ‘It’s lovely to be all together.’

‘Is it?’

Ben drifted into the living room, picked up a magazine and threw himself on to the sofa.

‘When are you off to LA, then?’ asked Christine.

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘How exciting!’

Isabelle said nothing, swirled the last mouthful of champagne around the bottom of her glass and drained it.

‘Make sure you check out the new Rice – Brotherson building,’ said Andy. ‘I did a lot of the interiors on that.’

‘I’m going to be busy.’

‘More champagne?’ Christine signalled to Andy, who refilled Isabelle’s glass.

‘Must be hard for you to believe that you’ve come such a long way in such short time,’ said Christine.

‘Not really.’

‘We’re so proud of you.’

‘Are we?’

‘Right,’ said Christine, turning away and pouring the gravy out of the pan, into a bowl. ‘I think we’re just about ready. Darling, will you carve?’

Darling? She never called him darling when they were married.

Isabelle went to the conservatory, and looked out over the garden. It had been a wet morning, but now the sun was shining, reflecting off sodden leaves and shiny berries. She remembered when the conservatory had been built – to Andy’s design, of course – when she was in her teens, thirteen or fourteen. She remembered sitting in there on hot summer days when she’d played truant, curled up on soft cushions, smoking cigarettes, naked, the wicker chairs printing into her arms and thighs. She remembered the arguments with her mother when she’d smelt the smoke. She remembered entertaining her first boyfriend in there, well on the way to losing her virginity. That had happened upstairs.

A light touch on her shoulder. She span round.

‘Is everything all right, darling?’ Christine, in that ridiculous pinny.

‘Yes.’

‘You seem a little tense.’

‘Do I? Well, I wonder why that might be.’

Her mother looked pained. ‘Isabelle, I don’t understand. You wanted to come round and say goodbye.’

‘To you. Not to have the whole family thing thrust down my throat.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘What is he doing here?’

‘Your father?’

‘No, Mickey Mouse.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘What’s going on, Mum? I mean, what is it that you’re trying to do, exactly? I’d just about got used to the idea of the toyboy . . .’

‘Isabelle, for God’s sake.’

‘Then you sprang Massimo Rivelli on me.’

‘That was . . .’

‘And we all know what happened there, don’t we?’

Christine was looking out of the window; a gust of wind brought huge sycamore leaves flapping through the garden like strange yellow birds.

‘And now, what do you know, Daddy’s home.’

Christine folded her arms, kept her back turned.

‘What’s your next trick? I mean, what’s left? Lesbianism? A career in porn? You’re running out of ways to shock me.’

‘Do you really think . . .’

‘I thought men were the ones that had midlife crises, not women. Is it a menopause thing?’