“No, it’s not stone. I thought so too, at first, but it’s some sort of modified natural material. No common garden camping utensils for my mother.”

“Stylish,” replied Faye, taking a tin plate to slice the shallots on.

“You must’ve noticed the cooler box?” Clare gestured towards the black and white container, which—elegant, modern and clean among the other dusty, worn coffers—looked like it had misunderstood the dress code.

“Yes. Derek and Bruce were admiring it and playing with all its nifty digital functions last night.”

“Dad’s embarrassed by it.”

Faye gave a small laugh. “Do you cook at home? With your mom?”

“No.” Clare frowned slightly. “Dad and I cook together. Mom prefers doing it alone. Says it’s more work showing us how to do things her way than doing them herself.”

“Oh.”

Faye wasn’t sure what more to say. The sound of chopping, the clank-clank of the steel and the thud-thud produced by Michelle’s high-tech board, seemed to accentuate the pause.

“Do you and . . . um . . . Derek cook together?” Clare asked eventually.

“No. God, no. I mean, he’s a good cook, but we never do it together. He reserves his cheffing for special occasions. Usually when people are coming over. Gives me a shopping list. I deliver the ingredients and then make myself scarce. Until it’s time to clean up.”

“Sounds like he and my mother have a similar approach.”

The women were quiet for a moment; as if contemplating the idea.

Clare continued, “Actually, I remember Zach’s birthday one year. We must have been eleven or twelve. He, Derek, I mean, had just been to Holland and cooked us a Dutch meal.”

Faye massaged the back of her neck. “Oh! What a nightmare that was. You kids turned your noses up at the herring. Then the croquettes exploded and the poffertjes were burnt. Poor Zach! What an awful birthday.”

“Derek was so angry and it gave us the giggles. Alice, Linda and I set off the boys, but Derek sent Zach to his room. Poor guy. On his birthday. And it wasn’t even his fault.”

Faye remembered how angry and humiliated she’d been on Zach’s behalf. She’d followed Derek to the kitchen after he’d yelled at their son.

“That’s not fair, Derek. The girls were giggling, not Zach. And honestly, they’re kids and this,” she gesticulated to the mess in the kitchen, “it hasn’t worked out. Let’s round them up and go to the Spur for a burger. It’s a pity it didn’t go the way you planned, but there’s no—”

Her husband spun around, the veins in his temple pulsing. “I’ll take the others to the bloody Spur! You and Zach can laugh at me all you like while you clean up. ‘The girls were giggling, not Zach.’ Do you hear yourself? What is it about Clare that riles you? Hmm? What?”