‘Hang on, don’t move.’ Esther picked a tiny white feather off her mother’s back, taking the opportunity to give her a half-hug, and feeling her skinniness through the smart purple dress. Despite her own much fuller shape, their features were still similar, she had to admit, far more so than Rick’s anyway. He had, predictably, arrived late – in time for dessert – after which Esther had pinned him into helping her with the washing-up, so that they could have a proper chance to talk – though, as usual, her brother was the one with most of the chatter, occasionally remembering to ask her about her life, but always sticking to the facts rather than the emotions. Norwegian oilfields apparently conquered, he was in talks with a Chinese syndicate, he had reported excitedly, his dark eyes firing as he hinted at negotiations over big risks and big money. There was a woman in Oslo, but he brushed aside Esther’s efforts to delve further. He had found Esther’s account of Dylan and the postcards amusing, and when Lily had wandered in, Esther had gladly left them to it.

‘So, have you enjoyed your annual surprise party, Mum?’ Esther teased, touched to see that her birthday gift, a silk scarf of lilac and soft pinks, was still around her mother’s neck four hours after its unwrapping, bringing out the intense light blue of her eyes, exactly as she had guessed it might.

‘It’s been lovely, of course,’ Astrid replied in her dismissive way, ‘especially having Rick – though your father is ridiculous, to make such a fuss every year, when I tell him not to. Getting me to make a trifle, because he loves it, and then commanding poor Janice and Ronnie to bring all that food. Lasagne is a bit heavy, I find, but there you go, it’s the thought that counts.’ She flashed her icy smile. ‘And Judy doing the cake, poor woman, when she’s still in pieces about Eric – I told you about that, didn’t I? – in the clubhouse, of all places, though luckily the waitress had once been a nurse…’

‘Yes, poor Eric, poor Judy,’ Esther murmured, wondering what it must be like to reach an age where friends could suddenly drop dead of heart attacks after rounds of golf with fellow septuagenarians. Her mother was slightly tipsy, she realised fondly, and in danger of looking her age for once, with the meticulously neat blonde sweep of hair askew, and the blusher she had clearly just reapplied looking noticeably overdone.

‘I’ll go and find Dad, then.’

‘I’m worried about him, actually.’ Astrid snapped the lipstick shut and dropped it into her handbag, which was parked beside her on a small woven-seated chair. ‘He’s always nodding off these days and sometimes goes all… drifty…’

‘Mum, honestly…’ Esther couldn’t help laughing. ‘I think naps are allowed at seventy-nine.’