‘No, I didn’t.’ I inject a note of steel into my voice, one hundred per cent certain that I never requested for the song to be changed.

‘You did,’ the singer argues, ‘you left me a note on top of the speaker. Here.’ He fumbles in his pocket, bringing out a crumpled piece of paper that looks as though it has been torn from a notepad, the kind I remember my grandmother using to send airmail letters to her sister in Canada. As he unfolds the pale blue sheet, I see the words:

CHANGE OF PLAN! PLEASE PLAY ‘TINY

DANCER’ – ELTON JOHN AS FIRST DANCE!

SORRY FOR THE SHORT NOTICE. E.

The writing is all block capitals, and although I don’t think I can recognize it, I know it isn’t mine and while I can’t be certain, I’m pretty sure it’s not Rupert’s.

‘Right. Thank you. I’m sorry for the confusion.’ Ignoring his puzzled look, I take the note from him and plastering yet another fake smile on my face, quickly cross the dance floor, stopping to snag my shoes from under the top table, and march out into the evening.

I lock myself in the posh block of portaloos in the garden, my hands shaking slightly as I slide the lock to the cubicle closed. I thank God silently that Rupert had insisted on the most expensive block, the ones with mirrors and cubicles and actual tiny sinks with jars of pot pourri on top of them. Alone, I open the note again, my eyes scanning over the words as I rack my brains to think who could have done something this cruel. It was intentional, there’s no doubt about it, but I think that hopefully, Rupert and I reacted in such a way that everyone else must have thought it was an error on the band’s part. I am so engrossed in trying to work out who requested that the song be changed, that I don’t realize I am no longer alone in the portaloo until I hear my name.

‘That must be Emily’s idea.’ A woman’s voice, thin and reedy with that plummy undertone that all Rupert’s friends seem to have, but I’m not sure I recognize it.

‘Oh, of course. Why else would Rupert drop the Osbourne? Becoming Osbourne-Milligan was Caro’s idea, wasn’t it? And Rupert carried on being Osbourne-Milligan after she died. Definitely Emily’s idea.’

I sit bolt upright on the closed toilet seat, tucking my dress out of the way and drawing my feet up so the cubicle appears empty. I hold my breath, afraid of giving myself away.

‘What do you think of her anyway? It’s all a bit quick, isn’t it?’ A smacking sound, like someone is refreshing their lipstick.