‘I hope Mum and Dad are going to behave themselves today,’ said Bella, looking out of the car window at the pretty Oxfordshire landscape. The narrow country lane, flanked by overgrown, honeysuckle-scented hedgerows, had wound its way through golden poppy-strewn rectangles of corn, virulently mustard-coloured rape fields and lush green daisy-dotted meadows teeming with teenage lambs. Now it was approaching Lower Piglet, the ridiculously picturesque village in which she’d grown up. Higgledy-piggledy houses of warm Cotswold stone lined the way to the village centre, which boasted a Norman church, a sweet primary school, a duck pond and two pubs, one of which dated back to the Civil War.

Andy, in the driver’s seat, laughed. ‘They’re usually OK with Bernie around, aren’t they? He seems to be a pretty good moderator.’

‘True enough.’ Bella turned to look at him, tall, dark and handsome in his jeans and navy-blue Guernsey sweater. It was one of those summer days where the puffy meringue-like clouds chose to drift across the sun just as you were starting to get warm; Bella herself had thrown on a vintage biker’s jacket over her summer frock, hoping it gave her a bit of street cred, as well as stopping her freezing to death.

Justin was staying with Olivia and Bernie for a few days, as he’d flown over from Mallorca to do a shoot for French Elle – provisionally, and unoriginally, entitled La Style Anglaise – at nearby Hambledon Hall. Accordingly, Olivia had invited Bella and Andy for Sunday lunch, saying how lovely it would be to have a family get-together (Bella’s brother Max was currently travelling around the world with his boyfriend Dave, and was sorely missed by all).

‘And don’t forget, your mum said that Justin’s bringing a guest,’ Andy added. ‘Presumably, fresh blood will help avert any potential disasters.’

‘Hmmm. Depends how young and stupid she is.’ Having run the gamut of more of her father’s girlfriends over the years than she cared to remember, Bella was sceptical.

‘You never know – he may surprise you.’ Andy smiled reassuringly as he turned off the road into the slightly ramshackle tree-lined drive that led to Bella’s childhood home, a late-seventeenth-century former mill house. ‘We’ll find out soon enough anyway.’

Andy parked and took their overnight case, and two carrier bags clinking with bottles, out of the boot. He’d booked Monday morning off work, as lunch with Olivia tended to become so boozy that driving back to London was never an option.

They walked past the magnificent horse chestnut tree that concealed the house from the drive, to be confronted by a splendid sight: Bernie, resplendent in a sharp pin-striped suit, open-necked, wide-collared shirt and flash Gucci shades, his teeth clamped around an enormous cigar, was posing for all he was worth in front of the creaky oak front door. He cut an incongruously Mafioso figure against the ivy-clad stone façade of the lovely old mill house, the climbing roses around the door framing his portly figure.