‘Sit him next to Mr Trewin’s godmother and her next to the vicar.’

I laugh. ‘You’re a genius, an absolute genius.’

‘I wouldn’t be so rash, but I’m not a bad cook and I’ll need to talk to Jacob to get more fish. I think we have enough of everything else.’

I ran my finger down the menu. Chilled vichyssoise followed by sole meunière, dependant on today’s catch, cheese, then silverbelle plus birthday cake. We would have drinks in the garden then dinner followed by dancing. The smoking room would be cleared and the carpet rolled up. It would all be fine, and I am seeing problems where there are none. There is nothing to be concerned about at all. Allan is always bringing home unexpected guests and this is something fun. I am tired, that is all.

Carrying the notebook into the office, I take a seat at the desk and review the details for this weekend. Making sure my writing is clear as it should be, I enter in the extra guests and finalize the seating plan. My pen rests a moment too long on the name of Ralf Venn, thinking of the camera he presented to Diana. The ink feeds out into the thick paper. I withdraw it before more damage is done. Most people looking at the book wouldn’t notice the extra ink on the end of the N, but it jumps out at me. Ralf Venn is marked. All the other names, even George Russell, are uniform.

I shake my head and look out at the garden. An agapanthus head, big and blue, is in my line of sight then a big stretch of the lawn before the sea. Boskenna is so connected to the sea. What is that poem I loved as a child? ‘Sea-Fever’.

Boskenna, the sea and my gypsy life moving from one country to another. The poem captures it all. I smile thinking of my merry fellow rovers, Diana and Allan. I can almost hear their laughter carrying in on the breeze, but it must be other happy souls playing on the beach. Boskenna grounds us and returning here reminds me that life can be normal.

I glance down at my notebook. Real life. This is it. Each event, whether attended or hosted, is here in detail. This weekend is no exception, but I wish it could be. Everything must be the same as before. All anyone reading this strange record of my life since I’d married Allan would see is a woman obsessed with perfection in entertaining. The irony isn’t lost on me. My mother had kept a similar notebook, but not as detailed. It is one useful thing she had taught me. Not to mix my drinks is another.