‘We all like our meat well done, don’t we?’ she says, flourishing a carving knife. ‘Well done’ in my mother’s eyes means that she has reduced it to a lump of charcoal.

‘Yes,’ we chorus.

Edie and I exchange glances, but neither of us can identify it. And you can never ask my mother outright what it might be. I did once, and she didn’t speak to me for over a month. Its accompaniments will give us the only clue to its origins. Pork—apple sauce will appear. Lamb—mint sauce. Beef—horseradish. Chicken—rather wet Pepperidge Farm stuffing. If my mother ever deviates from this routine, we’ll be lost. She fusses about putting the oblong glass dishes from the hostess trolley onto heat-proof mats on the table and then produces a delicate crystal boat containing a livid green slurry of mint sauce. Edie and I exchange relieved sighs.

‘Booze,’ Edie mouths to me. ‘I need booze.’

‘You’re pregnant,’ I mouth back when my mother has turned away.

‘You’re driving!’ she silently spits in return.

‘I’ve bought some Blue Nun,’ Cecilia says. I’m sure she can read minds. ‘It’s a lovely drop of wine. Nice and sweet. I’m glad it’s back on the shelves. It was very popular in the seventies.’

So was Gary Glitter, and look how he turned out. Cecilia sits down and we all help ourselves to lunch. Edie and I take the smallest portions we can manage while still appearing polite.

‘Cheers,’ Edie says and knocks back her Blue Nun in one go. We both reluctantly start to eat, but my mother doesn’t join us. Instead, she picks at her food with her fork.

Edie and I eyeball each other nervously.

Cecilia puts down her fork, clinking it against her plate as if she’s calling us to order. She coughs delicately into her napkin and lowers her eyes. ‘I have something I want to discuss with you,’ she says.

The lumpy mash sticks in my throat. Normally she waits until after the apple crumble, so this must be desperately important if she can’t wait to spit it out. Edie and I wait expectantly—each of us hoping that it’s going to be the other one who’s for the high jump.

‘I’m getting married,’ my mother announces without further preamble.

The lumpy mash goes down the wrong hole and I cough loudly, grabbing at my wine to glug while Edie bangs me on the back.

‘I thought it would come as a surprise,’ our unruffled parent says.

Surprise? I couldn’t be more surprised if she’d told me that Boy George had decided to change sides and get married. ‘Married?’ I splutter. ‘Married?’

My mother smiles and exudes an air of gentility.

‘Who to?’ I manage to spit out. ‘Who to?’