Peter looked down into his glass and for a moment I was puzzled, because I really thought that he was considering the question, of whether his friend would find his wedding photographs tedious to look at. But then my confusion began to fall away. I glanced in desperation at James but he had nothing for me, he was also standing with his head bowed.

We all stood immobilized in a long silence, broken in the end by Célia saying, on a sighing breath, “Ah, non. Ah, non.”

“When?” I blurted.

“Tuesday afternoon,” said James.

Today was Saturday. All these past days I’d been thinking of Alastair, expecting him. But he would never come now.

Peter said, “They don’t think he suffered—”

“No.” Célia raised her hand, shaking fingers splayed. “Don’t tell me, Peter. Not today. Today we’ll drink to him. Yes.” She snatched up a slopping glass. “Let’s drink to him.”

Obediently the men raised their glasses to touch hers. Peter said, “To Alastair Pearce.”

“Alastair,” said James, and both men drank.

“To Alastair!” cried Célia, her eyes brimming. “Allons, Yvette!”

I drank, having choked out his name, as Célia, her face crumpling, was enfolded in Peter’s arms. I turned away blindly to James.

“Come,” he said, “let’s get some fresh air,” and I found myself being led by him out into the lobby and then through the revolving doors to the street.

“You must tell me what happened,” I said, as soon as I was able.

Alastair had been out on a sweep over Gazala when two Me 109s found him. These German fighters were the most dangerous. He didn’t manage to shake them off. It was likely that Alastair had been shot in the plane, wounded or killed they couldn’t tell, because he didn’t bail out. His plane carried on flying and crashed in the sea.

“Alastair.” I burst into noisy weeping. “Oh, Alastair.”

We crossed the road to the seafront. I walked with my shoes scraping on the ground. The salty air buffeted my tears as they flowed.

“I didn’t want to lie,” James said. “But Peter convinced me it was for the best. He was going to tell Célia tomorrow.”

“How could we be so stupid?” I sobbed. “We should never have believed you.”

“You weren’t stupid.”

I wiped my face. “Yes, we were. Actually, I’m the idiot. Célia’s forgiven. She can’t even contemplate the idea of pilots getting killed. She has banished it from her mind.”

“Is that true?”

“Obviously.” I stared at him. “How else could she possibly marry Peter?” I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “I don’t know how she’ll carry on now. Day after day, hoping for good news from Peter. Thinking of Alastair’s wife . . .”

The notion made me even more desperate.

“Célia will manage,” James said in the end. “She’s got you.”