‘A very nice gentleman,’ my mother says with a twinkle in her eye that I’ve never ever seen before. My mother hates men. All of them.

‘Regis Philbin,’ my sister mouths. ‘I told you!’

‘His name is John and he’s a retired architect.’ Our mother pats her hair. ‘He’s a lay preacher at the church and a magistrate. Very respected,’ she says in hushed tones. ‘He has a top-of-the-range Volvo and a weekend bungalow in Suffolk.’

My mother has hit the jackpot. The first man she’s set her sights on in twenty-odd years and she’s come up with three cherries.

‘Wow!’ I say.

‘Fuck me!’ Edie mouths.

‘I heard that, Edith.’ My mother bats not one eyelid. ‘You’re not too old to have your mouth washed out with soap.’

‘Congratulations.’ I raise my glass to her. ‘When’s the big day?’

‘Soon,’ she says. ‘And I hope you won’t be disappointed, but we’re flying to Antigua to get married on the beach. Just the two of us.’ She gives herself a cosy little hug. ‘John is very romantic like that.’

Even better! No chance of being pressed into service as overgrown bridesmaids.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘This calls for a toast.’ Edie slugs some more Blue Nun into her glass and we all chink them together. ‘To marriage!’

‘To marriage!’

I’m glad that I no longer have to explain to her that I’m moving from My Baby to My Divorce or I would get a dressing-down re the sanctity of marriage.

My sister and I get up and give her a hug. ‘I’m really pleased, Mum,’ I say. And I am; she’s been alone for far too long. From a purely selfish point of view, it also means that I no longer have to worry as much about leaving her. I just hope she doesn’t offer to cook for Regis—John—before the wedding.

‘Dinner’s getting cold,’ my mother says, as if she’s not the one who caused the hiatus.

‘Well,’ I say, digging Edie sharply in the ribs. ‘We both have little announcements too.’

‘You first,’ Edie says.

Thanks. I take a deep breath. ‘I’m going back to Nepal.’

‘For a holiday?’

‘Permanently.’ I hope. My mother recoils slightly. ‘You see, I’ve met someone too.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

Ah, the important things first! I’m not sure Dean has quite the same credentials as my mother’s catch. ‘He’s a conservationist and trekking guide.’

My mother looks very worried. I can’t really elaborate on this. Mum, he digs latrines, plants cabbages and earns less than thirty dollars a month—but, hey, he can do some extraordinarily athletic things in a very small tent.

‘He’s great,’ I say.

‘And does he love you?’ There’s a question.

‘Yes. I think he does.’

‘It’s a very long way to go for “think”, Lyssa.’