‘Bea’s husband, Dan,’ he said.

‘Excuse me?’

Alex dunked his croissant in a pot of jam. ‘Estate agent. Wants to be an artist.’ He spoke as if he were reciting from a crib sheet. ‘No previous spouse, so far as I’m aware. Brought up in Brixton. Married – two years? How was the wedding?’

‘Peckham,’ said Dan. ‘It was nice.’

‘Registry office? Party?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘I’m just asking,’ said Alex. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Bea invited you.’

‘I know.’

He didn’t appear to have an agenda but Dan was suspicious, Alex was so smug and pleased about everything. The croissant left flakes in the jam, and he was picking them out and eating them. Dan couldn’t work him out. Suddenly, Alex stopped and looked up, bringing himself into focus.

‘No, you’re right,’ he said. ‘I guess I do have a point.’

‘What is it?’ said Dan quietly.

‘It’s just that I don’t know you. I don’t know you! You’re my little sister’s husband, and I don’t even know you. So, I’m just really happy you’re here.’

Disarmed, Dan didn’t know how to respond.

‘Bea is so precious,’ said Alex, gazing at him like a child. ‘I mean, she’s wonderful. If my family were birds she would definitely have been dropped into the nest by – just – another fucking mother-bird, you know? The Good Cuckoo.’

‘OK …’

‘She’s worth about fifty million times what any of the rest of us are, and that’s including Ed the Perfect, whatever she says about him.’

‘Your brother Ed?’ said Dan. He knew the eldest brother Ed was in banking somewhere, he thought Hong Kong. He had almost forgotten he existed. ‘She doesn’t really talk about him.’

Alex looked pleased. ‘Really?’

‘No.’

‘Well, Ed’s very boring. He’s just basically –’ He acted a crowd cheering, waving both his hands with a breathy sarcastic sound.

‘She doesn’t talk about him,’ said Dan, ‘or your parents. She never says that much.’

‘Good,’ said Alex. ‘See, Bea’s the One That Got Away.’

‘I guess.’

‘Obviously, I’m the Massive Screw-Up. Which one are you, in your family?’

‘The only one,’ said Dan. ‘Only child.’

‘Black sheep of the family doesn’t begin to cover what I am,’ continued Alex, comfortable talking about feelings, like an inverted, random version of Bea who loved to talk about other people’s. ‘I’m a cellar full of skeletons, me; the rotting portrait in the Adamson attic, fuck knows –’ It was as if his family were bigger than other people, assuming a grander footprint. The self-mythologising was alien to Dan.

‘She doesn’t talk about you like that,’ said Dan. ‘She just says she loves you or whatever.’

‘Really?’ Alex said gratefully. ‘Does she? Thanks.’

Dan shrugged him off. Alex went back to the mess of jam and croissant. ‘Bea,’ he said, between mouthfuls, ‘is the crème de la crème de la Adamson. You’re lucky to have her.’

‘I know.’

‘I’m sure she’s lucky to have you, too,’ Alex added hurriedly. He dipped and scooped the dark, sugary jam, licking his fingers. ‘Want some?’