The red dress swished with every step I took, as if a pair of shears were slicing through the fabric. Quite what wild and wonderful creature I thought I’d become when I put it on, I no longer knew. A firebird? A dragon? A sorceress? It turned out I was still myself, the same old Freya Lyell, zipped inside a 1970s ball gown with massive sleeves, tight cuffs, and too many beads on the bodice.

I had to stop when I reached the landing because I thought my knees were going to buckle. This whole situation was impossible. I should have gone down ages ago; I should have been there from the start. Now I would have to sweep down the stairs in a flash of bloody-minded red that I wasn’t feeling as much as I ought.

I nearly dropped my phone when it lit up and beeped.

Turning into the drive now! Dad x

Forty-odd guests seems a lot when you’re writing the invitations by hand, but the high-ceilinged spaces swallowed them up. A few people noticed me racing down the stairs, but not many, and they didn’t seem particularly intrigued. Half of them still had their coats on. The champagne was being handed round but I heard someone mention hot coffee, and I knew for a fact we were out of coffee.

“It said on the invitation that Robert Lyell would be here,” one man grumbled, and another replied with a doubtful, “Hmm . . .”

I brushed past them and made my way to the front door, where Cory was waiting for guests. Perhaps it was too dark for him to notice the colour of my dress, or perhaps he was too nervous to care—either way he smiled and murmured, “Hi,” and squeezed my hand so tightly that the engagement ring hurt my finger.

The noise of the storm ruled out conversation, so I simply yelled, “Dad’s here,” and jabbed my thumb in the direction of the drive. We stood side by side, hugging our separate selves against the wind and staring across the garden. Before long, a couple of headlights did appear through the trees, but it was a red Mini, so it couldn’t be Dad.

“They’ll be here any second,” I insisted. “He said—”

But Cory was making a dash for the Mini as it bumped over the gravel and parked in front of the garden steps. He opened the passenger door—doing his desperate “Welcome, welcome!” act as the rain plastered his hair to his scalp—and my father emerged, squinting, with his collar turned up to his ears.

“Dad!”