Willow, looking amazing and very tanned in extremely low-slung jeans, feathery cardigan and scarlet crop top, materialised beside Ishaan.

‘I’ve come to save you, Mrs March.’ She smiled pleasantly. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘I’ve never been more relieved to see anyone ever, I don’t think.’ I kissed the girl roundly on both cheeks. ‘You’re welcome to it.’

‘No worries.’ Her skin was very cool, and she smelt of peppermint and patchouli. ‘I love it.’ Calm as ever, Willow produced an iPad of designs from her bag.

‘Oh, by the way, Dr Nair’ – she looked at Ish, still trying to wipe black face paint off a previously pristine T-shirt – ‘can you look at this?’ She pulled her trousers even lower, as low as they could decently go, below her concave tummy. ‘Do you think my belly button ring’s gone septic?’

‘Can I look later?’ Ishaan was distracted by his son’s fresh wails. ‘I’d better sort this one, before he has a complete meltdown.’

Blimey, I thought. If this wasn’t already a meltdown, what on earth was it?

‘Of course.’ Willow smiled. ‘I’ll find you. So, who’s next?’

‘Me!’ Beau’s serious little face gazed up at his big sister. ‘Lone Ranger please. I’ve got my mask.’

‘OK, squirt.’ Willow pulled her brother closer. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Oh, Ruby, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere.’ Nella was bearing down on me, looking even more radiant than when she’d hopped in the taxi earlier – though I couldn’t quite work out what was different. ‘Could you just—’

‘Sorry. I’ve just got to find Zach.’ I shot towards the entrance. ‘See you later.’

Truthfully, I wanted to check out the gardening stall, over by the church.

Hurrying past Nella’s house, before anyone could ask me to do anything else for them, I saw a woman bending into the back seat of a nasty pink Range Rover parked in Nella’s drive.

She stood up and waved. Ugh. Hobbit-Hands Rebekah.

I raised a wary hand and hurried on.

Melissa

Honestly, I felt elated when I got back to the party: brimful of energy. I’d managed to meet him and, crucially, I’d not got caught, and now I was crowing internally at my good fortune.

Buzzing, I waved at Ruby across the marquee, promising myself I’d talk to her properly later, try to explain things a little.

Right now though, I wanted to throw myself into handstands and headstands. Grabbing the key from Nella’s, I dashed off to set up my mats in the square garden.

My good humour lasted well into the Vinyasa flow class I’d opted to take: a type of yoga that seemed an entirely constructed Western, if not London, thing to me. So often the yoga taught by ‘teachers’ who’d qualified online – fast and over-furious, participants straining into position while eyeing the next-mat competition – it would have true yogis blanching before they’d so much as finished their Oms.

Today’s ‘class’ was no exception: mostly overly made-up yoga mummies in identikit outfits, interspersed with a few game men, some in ill-advisedly baggy shorts. I missed my soft old ladies from the care homes.