Well, other than the party Nick was at, which was apparently a soiree for the ages. Annabelle Farthing had told Country Life magazine that she was renowned for her New Year’s Eve bashes when they lived in Dubai and that she was looking forward to “taking the posh set by storm.” I was looking forward to Annabelle Farthing contracting norovirus and sending all her guests home. Not that Nick would necessarily choose to come back to ours.

“Why aren’t you celebrating with Cilla?” Mom wondered.

“She and Gaz got roped into attending her cousin’s silent retreat in Yorkshire.”

I must have looked sad, because Mom suddenly tsked at herself. “You are only pretending not to need me. I am your mother. I ought to have seen that.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

But I wasn’t. I’d insisted to everyone that a low-key New Year’s Eve at the Queen’s bedside was just what I needed. I’d ignored Cilla’s entreaties to join her in the countryside, and muted Bea’s phone calls; aside from one deranged moment in which I considered popping on Margot’s hair and escaping to the tropics, my sole plan was to numb myself until 2015 was in the rearview mirror. In that sense, I’d been telling the truth: The Queen’s chambers were exactly what I wanted. I could crawl deep into my bottle without being forced into fake-cheerful conversation, and yet I also didn’t feel alone.

“Mom, please go have fun and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?” I said. “Marta and I are going to have a great time watching…” I checked the TV listing on the bedside table. “Bryan Adams’s hit parade.”

“I am going to hang up, but only because I have a bridge game at Hardware Pete’s house,” Mom said. “I think he and his wife are trying to set me up with Contractor John from John’s Contractors and I am not interested, but I’ll never turn down a chance to eat Pete’s onion dip.”

“Happy New Year, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said. She leaned up to the mic. “HAPPY NEW YEAR, MARTA.”

Marta looked startled. “I’m not deaf,” she spat.

*  *  *