But, following her up and across the big porch towards the door, my eye was caught by something high above me.

I paused, squinting up at the elegant rank of top-floor windows.

A figure, I thought, watching us? Now moving into shadows cast by the dying sun – or, maybe, just fading light, sliding slowly across the glass.

‘Sorry!’ I repeated, yet again – straining to see better. ‘But I think…’

Was that a pale face, pressed against the pane – or only my overactive imagination?

I knew what Jonny would have said – but who could I ask?

Nella had already disappeared inside.

And Jonny? Well, Jonny was long gone.

Along with my heart.

‘It’s years since I went to a dinner party.’

‘Oh, me too,’ I agreed carefully. But was it even one? I wasn’t sure because, honestly, I never went to them at all. We used to splash out occasionally on a pub roast, but usually we’d been happy with a takeaway and a rerun of Cool Runnings to ease the pain of real life. Every Christmas, in fact, the whole family re-watched Notting Hill, just for the bittersweet hilarity of it being absolutely nothing like where we actually lived, blue door or not.

But that was before.

‘Casual’s where it’s at these days, isn’t it?’ Nella’s husband Marcus swung a bottle of champagne around as I fiddled with my strapless bodice again, ruing the moment I thought this dress might give the impression I belonged on this side of the square. ‘Gotta let it all hang out sometimes, eh, Rex?’

Marcus was svelte, though, in his white T-shirt and faded Levi’s, whereas Melissa’s husband Rex was definitely letting it hang out, the swell of belly above his golf shorts more than obvious.

‘Oh yeah,’ Rex – a middle-aged man-child, shaped like a bear – nodded enthusiastically. ‘Kitchen’s cool with me.’

But was this room even a kitchen? I wondered. It was like something from Vogue or Elle Decoration in the hairdressers – huge and decorated exactly like the photos of every other kitchen this size, all glass and slate and islands.

You haven’t arrived if you don’t have a kitchen island, I could hear my sister mutter from her own fake-Shaker kitchen in York – and this one was the size of Cuba. Floating in the midst of a shiny floor, bowls of exotic fruit and framed posters with bright words, the Jacksons’ pièce de résistance was a pink neon light, hanging above a squidgy sofa, that read:

F*** me Now, Don’t Forget me Later

‘That’s a Tracey Emin.’ Marcus followed my eyeline. ‘Or maybe a new artist Nella discovered, can’t remember. Not very… PC, maybe, these days.’

‘Well, I think it’s…’ But his effort to include me was rendering me more self-conscious. ‘You know’ – what was the correct answer? – ‘kind of – exciting.’

‘Maybe.’ He nodded sagely. ‘That’s an interesting view.’

Only when he turned away did I manage to exhale.

The printed menu said: Lime and dill jus over salmon mousse souffle & delicate salad, followed by white peach granita.