‘Let yourself in,’ she said, still bouncing on her heels. This looked like a fresh wave of excitement on top of the first, though. When it came to subtlety, Mum typically ranked at the same level as a large bomb detonated in an enclosed space. She had a poker face worse than Rowan’s – and he hardly had one at all. So it didn’t come as a total surprise when I walked into the living room and straight into strings of bunting …

‘Happy engagement!’ Mum shouted from behind me.

The sheer extent of the bunting, though, now that was the surprise.

‘Mum, the place is …’ I frantically felt around for the right word. Bright? Loud? ‘Perfect.’

She rested an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me tight to her. ‘I went out and bought everything when Rowan told us he was going to ask. I’ve been itching, I tell you.’ Another squeeze. ‘Itching. Shall we get the kettle on?’

‘Rowan gets whisky and I get tea?’ I joked.

‘Oh, my sweetheart.’ She moved in front of me and set a hand on each cheek. ‘It’s an expression. There’s white wine stacked to the roof of that fridge.’

‘What a way to celebrate.’

‘You lovely girl.’ She stepped around me and made for the door. ‘That’s just weekday stock.’

*

Dad was showing Rowan baby pictures two rooms away. It definitely wasn’t the first time he’d subjected me to such an embarrassment, though. So much so, it no longer felt embarrassing, really, but more like part of the experience of visiting my parents. Rowan being shown the sight of my bare backside poking out from a flowerbed while my front end was hurriedly searching around for lost snails was, I hoped, something he found endearing. His parents hadn’t ever shown the same enthusiasm for making him feel uncomfortable. Well, not through the means of flaunting baby pictures at least. But given the choice between bare arse cheeks and loud, aggressive accusations, I thought I’d stick with my own wild-haired, overtly proud relations rather than instigate a swap with Rowan’s. His folks were (I thought, not for the first time), the one real drawback of agreeing to marry him.

Dad and Rowan let out a burst of laughter loud enough to make Mum wince and she picked up the bottle of wine from the kitchen table. She topped up her own glass and then moved towards mine. But I placed my hand flat over the top.

‘I’m okay, Mum.’

‘Nonsense! We’re …’ She petered out and her eyes stretched as though someone had delivered a surprise. ‘You’re not?’

I narrowed my eyes, but then matched her shocked expression when realisation dawned on me. ‘No, I’m bloody not. Christ, we’re only just engaged.’

She laughed. ‘Well, your father and I only waited that long.’