‘Oh.’ Charlotte frowned as she took in the sight of the half-chopped vegetables and a dish of rock oysters on the worktop. ‘. . . Did we make an arrangement I’ve forgotten about?’

‘Not at all. I just thought I’d look in on my way back from the facialist and Stephen asked me to stay for supper.’

‘Ah.’ She gave a tight smile. So much for an evening in her pyjamas with her feet up. ‘That’s sweet of him.’

‘As I reminded him, we still need to pin down the more errant of your friends who think RSVP is a cognac.’

Oh good. Charlotte poured herself a glass of water as they waited for the wine. ‘How was your facial? You look glowing.’ Her mother took her personal grooming very seriously and was always the first to sign up to any new cosmetic procedure that offered to whip away the years. Her once-blonde hair was now a silvery ash but she still wore it in the curled-under bob she had favoured since her forties, and her blue eyes, though undeniably droopier at the brow, had a youthful twinkle that ensured she was still sought after at dinner parties in London’s smartest postcodes.

‘Just wonderful. Marie’s hands are always so cold, I swear her touch alone makes my skin firm up,’ her mother said, dabbing at her cheekbones lightly.

‘Mmm.’

Stephen walked in, carrying a bottle of Domaine Leroy Musigny Grand Cru. ‘Ah, you’re back. You’re late,’ he said all in one breath as he came over. She reached up for a kiss but he pecked her on the cheek instead; he didn’t believe in PDAs, as he called them, and particularly not in front of her mother.

‘Yes. I had some paperwork to catch up on before I left.’ She watched as he uncorked the bottle between his knees. He had changed into his chinos and a fresh shirt, no tie. It was about as informal as he got.

‘How was the meeting at Steed? Farrer fire everyone?’ As a broker himself, he was well aware of the rumours about the currently testy atmosphere within the bank.

‘No. It was interesting.’ She watched as he began to fill her a glass. God, she was thirsty; it had been a long day. ‘They need me to go to Madrid for a couple of days.’

‘What?’ Stephen asked, faltering as he handed over her drink.

‘When?’ her mother demanded, looking aghast.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘But the dress fitting—’ her mother exclaimed.

‘The dinner . . .’ Stephen added.

Charlotte stared back at their horrified faces and counted to five. Sometimes she thought they were the couple and she the naughty child. ‘It’s fine. I’ll push back the fitting to the weekend when I’ll be back in good time for the dinner. Don’t worry. I’m hardly going to miss my own wedding party, am I?’

But they both stared at her with expressions that suggested they weren’t quite sure. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she reiterated, having a sip of wine for strength.