‘Oh, good, sex antics. On second thoughts—’ I reached across the table to take the bottle ‘—maybe another sip won’t hurt.’

‘Edi, don’t be such a prude.’ She took a generous mouthful. ‘Now, wedding plans.’

‘Rowan and I haven’t talked yet, Mum—’

‘Don’t try to tell me you haven’t thought ahead already.’

‘I’ve had a few thoughts,’ I lied. I’d had all the thoughts at one time or another in the years and months we’d been together. But I thought I’d burst with joy if I shared too much of that quiet planning yet. ‘It’s the wrong time of year for it really, though, isn’t it?’ I nodded towards the window, stained with rain that hadn’t let up for most of the day. ‘It’d be better to wait until summer.’

‘How quick do you think wedding plans come together?’

‘I don’t know. A few months?’

‘Pah. Years!’

‘Mum, you’re exaggerating.’

‘Well, certainly longer than a few months.’ Another sip. She lowered her voice and said, ‘Long enough time for someone to change their mind. And that’s the last I’ll say on that matter.’

I sank back in my chair. ‘You think he’ll change his mind?’

‘Silly girl.’ She squeezed my knee and laughed. ‘You might. You could go all Runaway Bride.’

‘I don’t have the hair for it. And I can’t run in heels.’

‘You’re inventive enough to make your own romantic comedy.’

‘Well …’ I pushed back from the table. ‘Hopefully no one will be jilted at the altar in mine.’

She grabbed at my hand. ‘Sit down a second, will you?’ I followed her instructions while she leaned across to the seat next to her and grabbed at something out of sight. When she lifted her hand, she was holding a neat square box.

‘Present?’

‘Sort of.’ She handed it over, the lid still in place. ‘Something old, and borrowed, but you can keep it if you want. It might be something you pass down one day.’ She shook her head softly as though remembering something. ‘If you decide to have children, which you may not but … Oh, never mind that anyway, let a mother have a moment with her only daughter, would you?’

I lifted the covering slowly, as though something might escape. But when I fought my way past the tissue paper, my fingers soon hit upon lace. I handled the garment with care until it was free of the box, then I held it up in front of me to get a proper look. It was a garter. Lace, and greyed from years in a box, I guessed. When I looked past the fabric to Mum, I saw what looked like the beginnings of tears.

‘Oh, Mum.’ I dropped the garter back on the tissue. ‘It’s yours?’