“I hope you don’t mind my coming tonight,” Zoë said, and it was worry rather than pleasure that lit her features. “I wasn’t sure. You know what your dad’s like, all vague and airy, and Oh, don’t worry, Freya won’t mind.” She lowered her voice. “Actually, between ourselves, I think he’s embarrassed of me . . . No, no, I don’t mean that”—as Dad muttered a protest—“I don’t mean embarrassed of me. Just worried what you’ll think about us.”

It was one of those moments that might have been awkward in another life. Maybe next week, maybe even tomorrow, this whole Dad and Zoë thing would bother me, but I couldn’t think about it now. One of the waitresses appeared with a tinfoil platter.

“Oh, fantastic!” said Zoë optimistically. There wasn’t much to choose from: a pile of grissini, a khaki dip, and some brown olives on cocktail sticks. We all took something, but Zoë was the only one who actually ate. Judging by the pristine state of his glass I don’t think Dad had touched his champagne, and his fingers kept twitching round his pocket, as if he could kill for a cigarette. He met my eye without smiling, and I got that hollow feeling in my knees again. Perhaps he was just upset—understandably—by Cory’s paintings, but in that case why was he glaring at me, as if I had committed some offence?

“Where’s Tom?” I wondered, glancing over Dad’s shoulder. Whatever else was going on, that was still the crucial question.

“Tom?” The way Dad said it, you’d think there was some doubt as to which Tom, out of many, I was referring to. “I don’t know. I didn’t realise he was invited.”

“Oh.” I stared at my father. “But I just assumed . . . Did he not drive you down?”

“No, no, Zoë brought her car. Anyway, I barely see him these days—I suppose he’s busy getting ready for his big move up north. We would have offered him a lift but, as I say, I didn’t realise he was invited.”

“No,” I said. “Well, no. I suppose he wasn’t exactly, come to think of it.”

I remember staring at my cocktail stick with its glistening olive, and wondering what on earth it was and why I was holding it. It bothered me that Dad’s hands were full—what with the unsipped champagne and un-nibbled canapé—because that meant he couldn’t take notes. He ought to be making notes for his review.

“Do you want to put those down somewhere?” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Cory printed off some catalogue notes, if you want to scribble on one of them? Or I’m sure I can rustle up some paper—”