He gave me a languid smile. ‘Sure thing,’ he said, an Aussie uplift to his tone, and I felt a tiny charge. I could chase a high in a dustbin in those days.

‘Cheers, Mum,’ I said, chinking my glass against hers, my high feeling almost real.

‘Cheers, darling,’ she said, giving my glass a tentative tap. ‘Just the one. You know what Amber said. I want you to make sure that you see her next week like you promised.’

The room was filling up rapidly, the hum of conversation almost drowning out her voice.

‘I will, I swear.’ My promises had scarred us both too many times by then: her smile was no more than a thin line drawn by her lips.

There was Dad, rounding the top of the stairs. Why had he arrived separately from us? My gaze swept the room. No sign of Esther. He crossed the space, slipped an arm around Mum’s waspish waist and signalled effortlessly for a drink with his other hand.

‘I thought we’d just paid through the nose to keep you sober?’ he said at the exact same moment the good-looking waiter leaned in to hand him his glass. My cheeks flamed red with shame, but he was too professional to let his face register Dad’s comment. Mum touched Dad’s arm as the waiter melted back into the crowd.

‘She’s promised to just have the one. It is a celebration, Nick!’

‘I’m fine, Dad, just leave it,’ I said, feeling approximately thirteen years old. How was it possible I was into my fourth decade, with my parents paying for therapy and monitoring my booze stats? I might as well have had a maths tutor and a time limit on Facebook.

My brother, the golden child, was chinking a champagne flute with a fork now, clearing his throat.

‘Thank you all for coming here to celebrate our beautiful daughter.’

Chloe raised the white-frocked baby a little higher to trigger the admiring coos of the crowd, the twins still glued to her ankles. As she did so, I saw Esther slip into the room and head for the back. Was it my imagination, or did Dad’s eyes narrow, following her progress?

‘She’s truly a blessing. We couldn’t be more proud of her, and she’s only fifteen months old.’

There was a tremor in his voice, a trace of emotion that I rarely saw in my brother, who was so ruthlessly efficient at life that there was little room for glitches. I stood there, frozen between the frosty twin poles of our parents, my shame mounting. Nancy was already making her parents proud at fifteen months: I seemed to be doing the absolute opposite with my thirty-plus years.