As if sensing her gaze, he lifted his eyes without moving his head. She arched an eyebrow that asked what he thought he was doing? His arch in reply said ‘why not?’ They had always understood each other. It was why it had always been so easy to be with him. Everything about them worked – backgrounds, social circles . . . Their mothers had been right – they just looked well together; like a Ralph Lauren ad, their Cambridge mates had always said. No one seemed to think it was important that he drove her nuts – with his carelessness, his laziness, his spoilt arrogance – and they certainly would never have understood that she didn’t fancy him. Yes, he was gorgeous but she had never responded to him on an animalistic, chemical level. The great secret they had successfully kept from everyone – and she knew he had felt it too – was that they were more like brother and sister than lovers.

He winked at her and she gave him the barest smile in return, turning away quickly before her mother-in- law could see who had snaffled his attention.

Stephen was standing in a small group with her mother and her mother’s friends. Charlotte wandered over, sliding her arm into the crook of his elbow. ‘Mind if I steal him away for a sec?’ she smiled, doing just that.

Arms linked, they went and stood by a window overlooking the river. The tide was out, barges resting on mudbanks, giant tyres dangling from chains as make-do fenders on the jetties, the Thames a blonde rope in the evening sunshine, wending its way out to sea.

‘I missed you,’ she said, looking up at him, one hand resting on his chest, fiddling lightly with his tie.

He didn’t reply immediately and she could see the hurt in his eyes, the frustration. ‘I missed you too,’ he said finally.

‘I’m so sorry about this week. I know I’ve behaved badly, made the wrong decisions. I should have been here, put you first. I promise I’ll make it up to you.’ This was not the time to tell him she was due back there again tomorrow. Not the time at all.

He watched her fidget like she was a specimen under his microscope. ‘I thought perhaps it was . . . symptomatic of something else.’

‘Like what?’ she frowned.

He regarded her closely. ‘Change of heart.’

‘What?’ She gave a shocked laugh. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘Come on Charlotte, you’ve hardly been enthusiastic. I never thought I’d be the one choosing napkin colours.’

Another time, it might have been a wry comment, but she saw the questions in his eyes. He had his doubts about her commitment. ‘Stephen, I love you, I do. And I can’t wait to be your wife. I know we’re going to be so happy together.’ She pressed her hands to his chest and gazed up at him.

But he was unmoved. ‘You sound just like your mother when you say that.’