Lulu did not answer, but, looking into her mother’s eyes, she saw everything suddenly change for Fee, too.

“Lulu,” said Fee. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Absolutely not,” said Lulu. “I have to go home now, Mom. I’ll see you for brunch on Sunday, okay?”

But Sunday brunch at her parents’ house, for once, did not happen. On Saturday evening, Fee telephoned Emma to tell her that David would be setting out early from Cambridge, and she would be meeting him for lunch alone.

“She sounded a bit mysterious,” said Emma when they were gathered at Charlie’s flat, where Lulu had offered to cook brunch instead. “I think they were planning to do something romantic.”

“Ewww.” Sophie pressed her palms to her eyes and shook her head. “Sick, sick, sick. That is the single most disgusting image I can imagine.”

“You don’t have to get gross about it,” Emma told her. “I think it’s nice that they get romantic. I hope Matthew and I still do after thirty years.”

Lulu grunted from the counter, where she was chopping tomatoes, peppers, and aubergine for a ratatouille. She had not told either her sisters or Charlie the thing she had heard in her parents’ hallway during the week; nor had she slept particularly well during the intervening nights. “So long as it’s still each other you’re getting romantic with,” she said.

“Lulu!” Emma looked up at her in shock. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“You never know,” said Lulu. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Ignore old Grumpypants,” said Sophie. “She’s been like this all weekend. I blame the pub, they’re horrible to her there.”

“Well, there’s no need to take it out on us,” said Emma. “And talking of being romantic, which we were before my gorgeously optimistic and idealistic sister spoilt the moment, you’re looking quite glowy and pleased with yourself, Charlie. Did you have a nice time last night?”

“Very nice, thanks.” Wandering in with bath-steamed skin in a dark pink cotton dressing gown, Charlie looked down at the table with a quiet smile. “Yes, you could say it was very nice indeed.”

She sat down and poured herself coffee from the pot.

Emma waited.

“Well?” she said at last. “What happened?”

“We had a nice time,” said Charlie. “We saw flamenco, we talked, he told me about Madrid, I told him about my family, we had a nice time.”

“Well, yes,” said Emma. “But what happened?”

“Charlie’s not like us, Emma,” said Lulu. She stirred the vegetables, set them to simmer, and joined the others at the table. “She doesn’t have sisters. She’s allowed to have a private life. It must be quite nice, actually.”

“And now that I’ve got your attention,” said Emma, turning to Lulu, “who was the guy you had lunch with on Friday?”

“Excuse me?” Briefly forgetting her parents’ trouble, Lulu glared at her sister in disbelief. “What are you, the head of the Secret Police, North London branch?”

“Rosie from work had an optician’s appointment on Friday, and she saw you from across the street coming out of that disgusting transport caff place you’re so fond of with a tall man who was making you laugh. She tried to wave to you, but you didn’t notice because you were so busy laughing. So—who was he?”