“No, thank you.” Dad’s voice was crisp, as if my suggestion had been in poor taste. “By the way, I meant to say: you’re looking terribly grown-up this evening.”

The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable, and I was a child again—the great big twenty-three-year-old child I’d been before I left home for Byrne Hall. Was that Dad’s problem? My appearance? I didn’t think so, deep down. It sounded like a casual swipe; a symptom of some other mysterious displeasure.

“Dad? What’s up?”

“Oh, I think it’s a fabulous dress,” Zoë piped up before he could answer, and then there was a touch to my elbow and Cory was saying, “Hello again, Mr. Lyell! How wonderful to see you.”

Cory wore his behaviour like a handsome and well-fitting suit, and since I intended never to be alone with him again, this meant I would never know his thoughts about the red dress. Even if I seized him by the shoulders and peered into his eyes, he would smile for the sake of his guests and give nothing away.

I’ll see Tom tomorrow, I thought. Come hell or high water, I’ll see Tom tomorrow.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” Cory was saying. “Freya tells me you’ve booked into a hotel in Bligh, but you’d be most welcome to stay here . . .” and so on and so on, his voice shimmering with kindness.

Dad asked after his mother, and introduced Zoë properly, and Zoë kissed his cheeks three times: mwah . . . mwah . . . mwah. I doubted anyone would notice if I sidled away. Dad started thanking Cory—again—for inviting him to the opening, although he made no comment on the paintings themselves. Even when Cory stood back with his arms slightly spread, and surveyed the walls with an inviting, “Well . . .” Dad just turned his attention to the olive he’d been holding for the last ten minutes and said, “This is an impressive spread! Did you make the food yourselves, or did you get people in?”

Zoë saw me backing away, but I shook my head ever so slightly, so that she’d understand not to make a fuss. She did understand, to her credit. I think she was worried, though, because when she told Cory, “It’s an absolutely stunning house you’ve got here,” she had one eye on me, and her tone of voice no longer matched her superlatives.

“Thanks,” Cory said, as I made it to the entrance hall.

“Oh, yes,” Dad remarked. “You should see the gardens in summer!”

There were still a lot of champagne flutes standing in tidy formation. We had catered for too many, as far as drink was concerned, and too few in terms of food. I drained a glass in one go and picked up another.