My father, when he could be, was unwontedly attentive to me. Cynthia dogged him but he did his best to talk to me. Unfortunately he could think of little to say and silences kept falling between us. In the end I was quite relieved that Cynthia was there. Her conversation was unmemorable but it made the awkwardness less obvious.

Syl and his mother left early. My father, still trying to make things go with a swing, said, ‘Yes, you’d better have an early night tonight, old man. Ho, ho.’

I knew this was the sort of remark that was made at weddings, but my awareness made me feel no less ill.

Lili handed me a drink. She plied me with whisky until the horrible evening became as blurred as the boundaries of madness, and I remember nothing more.

I also remember little of the following morning until the moment we set off for the summerhouse. My mother went to early Mass because it was comme il faut but didn’t even ask me to accompany her. She had looked at my face, haggard with hangover, and left.

She brought the parish priest back for breakfast and we crowded into the morning-room because the dining-room was being readied for the more important wedding breakfast which loomed in the afternoon. I hadn’t bothered to dress, since there seemed no point when I should soon have to don the garment which hung over a chair in my bedroom. I sat in my nightdress and dressing-gown and drank tea.

Lili was already in her redingote and refused to sit down for fear of creasing it. She had her hat on too and looked alert and excited. I was drearily disappointed in her. She left the room and I supposed she had gone to charm the caterers who were adorning the table with maidenhair fern.

After a while she came back smelling of cold air and cigarette smoke.

‘It’s out,’ she said.

‘What’s out?’ asked my mother, who had a great deal on her mind.

‘The cactus, darling,’ said Lili.

‘It can’t be,’ said my mother, now also looking elaborately excited. ‘It showed no signs yesterday.’

‘Well, it’s out now,’ said Lili.

‘I must go and see,’ cried my mother, vivacious for the sake of the gallery owner.

‘No,’ said Lili. ‘Wait until everyone’s finished their breakfast and you can all go and see.’

This idea appealed to my mother. ‘We can go and toast it,’ she said, ‘with champagne.’

‘What?’ asked Cynthia. She had somehow managed to cram both her children on her lap. They were crying a little.

My mother took on a more staid expression and adjusted her voice to instruct. ‘My winter-flowering cactus,’ she said. ‘It’s a sign of great good fortune if it flowers on the wedding day.’ This slight exaggeration of the myth I felt sure Lili had constructed gave her pleasure and she smiled at the gallery owner.