But I knew I couldn’t put it off for ever.

Patrick rang me one day and suggested we have a beer together.

We decided to meet that evening in Lathebridge, at my suggestion. He had offered to come over to Casterbourne, but I didn’t feel that any of our small number of pubs were quite his scene.

He said he’d pick me up and, as I climbed into his red Jaguar, we exchanged brisk, awkward greetings. The seat was low and luxurious and the interior smelled new. I was quickly told that it was new. You couldn’t resent Patrick’s enjoyment of spending his money. He got so much pleasure out of having good things around him, and never seemed to take it for granted. Anya told me her parents donated to lots of charities, which was more than we did beyond the occasional Big Issue purchase, so who was I to judge someone showing off about their two-litre four-cylinder turbo-charged diesel whatever?

Patrick kept up a steady stream of chat as we drove to a pub on the seafront in Lathebridge. I nodded and responded in all the right places but was conscious of shifting about in my very low but ergonomically designed seat. I hadn’t felt awkward with my father-in-law since the very earliest days of knowing him. I didn’t know what to do with this sensation.

Finally, we were sitting in the upmarket gastro joint, me with a pint of Stella, him – being of that generation that’s blurry about drink driving – with a large glass of Pinot Noir. There was nowhere to hide.

It was early December now and the pub was festooned with Christmas finery.

We sipped our drinks in silence for a few moments and, finally, Patrick put both of his hands on the table and gave me an imploring look.

‘Elliott,’ he said and then took a breath. ‘I hope you know that me and Julia care about you, well, almost as much as if you were our own son.’

His ruddy face blazed even redder as he said this, as did mine. We usually left the emoting to Julia and Anya. I mumbled something and then took a too-big gulp of my beer, trapping a painful gas bubble in my throat as I did so.

Then he spoke again, his voice low.

‘I know Anya has told you about her sister,’ he said, ‘about our Isabella.’

It was the first time I’d ever heard her mentioned by Patrick or Julia. There was a photograph, just the one, on their piano, along with all the ones of Anya doing ballet, riding horses, or grinning up from sandy beaches and boats.

This one showed Julia looking exhausted but rather beautiful, a bundle in her arms that she held towards the camera. All you can see is the tiny wizened face of the baby who was destined to live for only a week after the photo was taken.