Three Weddings and a Proposal

by Sheila O'Flanagan

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE NO. 1 BESTSELLERS THE WOMEN WHO RAN AWAY AND THE MISSING WIFE

Delphine is at a wedding when the shocking news comes. Suddenly her life changes for ever . . .

Delphine has worked hard for her success and she knows she's got everything she wants. But not everyone agrees. Her opinionated family aren't convinced that living alone with no plans to 'settle down' could possibly make her truly happy, and no one appreciates it when she drops everything, day or night, whenever her boss Conrad calls. Yet Delphine wouldn't change a thing. And when Conrad makes her a surprise offer, it's clear that her hard work is going to pay off.

A few short days later, Delphine's life is unrecognisable. The man who once broke her heart has suddenly reappeared, and a shocking tragedy turns her world on its head.

Delphine must rethink everything that matters to her, and to those around her, and decide, once and for all, if love, family and a little compromise should come before career, security and independence . . . and if she's prepared to make that choice.

(P)2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: May 27, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 432

Sample

I’m very close to spending a hundred thousand euro on a silver bracelet when my mobile rings and the theme from Frozen blasts around the office at a pitch that could break glass. I pull open the bottom drawer of my desk, shove the leather bag with the ringing phone into it and close the drawer sharply with my foot. Elsa is now muffled, but the mobile continues to vibrate as she informs me that the cold never bothered her anyway.

‘What did you say?’

Denton, our expert, is in the auction room, and Elsa’s advice to let it go has clearly knocked him off his stride.

‘Nothing,’ I tell him. I take a deep breath. ‘Where are we now?’

‘The last bid is at ninety thousand,’ he says.

Will ninety-five finish it off, or will I have to go to the limit? In all honesty, I hadn’t expected it would get this high. The bracelet is antique, but although it’s sophisticated and stylish, it isn’t haute joaillerie. However, it belonged to Lady Annabel Ansley, who was a well-known model back in the day, and as she was wearing it the night she was photographed snogging one of the Beatles in the back of a car while her husband was giving an important speech in Parliament, it has a bit of sixties notoriety. Also the three stones set into the silver bangle are emeralds, and emeralds, even small ones, are popular right now.

I increase my bid to ninety-five.

‘OK,’ says Denton.

I pace behind the desk as I wait for his feedback. Conrad really wants this bracelet for Bianca’s thirtieth birthday, and Conrad usually gets what he wants, at the price he’s prepared to pay. He seldom exceeds his self-imposed spending limits, even when it comes to his stunningly beautiful (and much younger) girlfriend. So if the bidding goes much higher, he’ll be disappointed. And I don’t want him to be disappointed. I never want him to be disappointed. He depends on me to deliver.

‘Ninety-eight,’ says Denton.

Oh, for God’s sake! People who spend this sort of money on silver bracelets shouldn’t be haggling over a couple of thousand. I shouldn’t be haggling over a couple of thousand, even though it’s not my money to spend and even though if I had a spare hundred thousand lying around I wouldn’t blow it on jewellery, I’d use it to help pay down my mortgage. It would be nice to be a silver-bracelet-with-emeralds kind of person instead of a mortgage-paying-down kind of person, but I’m not the multimillionaire businessman Conrad Morgan, I just work for him. And he was as specific about the upper limit he was prepared to go to for the bracelet as he is about any of his business ventures.

Conrad started his investment company over fifteen years ago, and he didn’t get to where he is by overpaying for anything. He can be flexible when it comes to personal things (although he’s being ferocious about his potential divorce settlement with Martha), but he set a hundred thousand as the limit for today’s auction, and as he’s left the bidding to me, I’ll stick to it and take the flak if the bracelet goes to someone else for a few grand more.

‘A hundred thousand,’ I tell Denton. ‘And that’s it.’

All of a sudden, it’s quiet in the office. The triple-glazed windows have effectively shut out the sound of the Luas tram that’s passing by, while Elsa has stopped singing in my desk drawer. It’s as though she knows she’s muddying the waters. The only sound is my breath as I wait for news from the auction room.

‘Congratulations!’ Denton’s voice comes down the line. ‘You’re now the proud possessor of Lot 25. An antique silver bracelet with emerald stones, formerly the property of Lady Annabel Ansley.’

I heave a sigh of relief. I really wasn’t looking forward to telling Conrad that Lady Annabel’s bracelet had gone to someone else.

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ says Denton, and I know that he means it, because he lives for bidding at auctions and he especially loves buying jewellery. ‘I’ll get the paperwork organised and have it sent around as soon as possible. Great to do business with you as always, Delphine.’

‘And with you.’ I end the call and allow myself to relax.

In the desk drawer, the theme tune from Frozen recommences. I didn’t choose it. My ten-year-old niece, Noemi, who’s a Frozen fanatic, changed it a few weeks ago and I keep forgetting to change it back.

I take my bag from the drawer and the phone from the bag, then look at the caller ID. My younger brother, André. This time I answer.

‘Jeez, Delphie, this is the third time I’ve called. Is there no chance you’d listen to your voicemail and phone me back?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Yeah, well, we’re all busy.’ His voice mellows. ‘Listen, I wanted to check with you about your plus-one for the wedding.’

I stifle a groan. He texted me yesterday about the plus-one and I told him I’d get back to him asap, but I was busy and forgot. I don’t want to admit I forgot. My brother’s wedding is the family event of the year and we’re all supposed to be as excited about it as he is. But quite honestly, the incessant messages in the wedding WhatsApp group about the venue and the timetable and the menu and just about everything else are doing my head in.

‘It isn’t till the end of the month,’ I say. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘That’s only a couple of weeks away,’ he reminds me. ‘Tory is doing the place cards today. She needs to know what name to put beside you.’

Until André got engaged to Victoria Palmer, formal occasions weren’t on his radar. He was a frayed-jeans-and-bare-feet kind of person who thought suits and ties were the work of the devil. Now he owns a tuxedo and is badgering me about plus-ones and place cards.

‘I haven’t really had time to think about it properly,’ I say.

‘Oh, come on, Delphie.’ He sounds exasperated. ‘You’ve had months.’

Well, yes, I have. But when André got engaged, over a year ago, I was going out with Paul and I assumed he’d come along. However, Paul and I broke up long before the invitations were sent out, so I pencilled in Danny, my regular plus-one standby instead. Rather stupidly, I didn’t get around to actually inviting him until a few weeks ago, when he told me he was going to Las Vegas that weekend and wouldn’t be available. I was so annoyed with myself for not having asked sooner that I pushed it to the back of my mind. It’s not like me to put things off – I’m usually the model of efficiency when it comes to organisation – but André’s wedding wasn’t high on my priorities.

And now, suddenly, it is.

I know it’s really important to him and I know I should’ve dealt with it as soon as Danny told me he’d be away instead of filing it away under things to do when I get a minute. Because I didn’t get a minute, and now I feel like a really bad sister. I am a really bad sister.

I silently curse Danny and his unavailability, though I can hardly begrudge him his trip. After all, he’s turned up at two events for me in the last few months while I haven’t had to help him out even once. Danny and I dated back in our college days, but although we got on really well together, the chemistry was never there to turn it into anything else. That’s fine by me. I like having male friends who are simply friends. I enjoy their company. I like knowing it’s not going to be anything more. But as I mentally begin to run through a list of alternatives, I realise that I’ve fewer available friends than before, and I feel a knot of anxiety in my stomach.

I should have realised sooner that they’d all begun to couple up. Bob and Stan, stalwarts in the past, both got married and have had to be scratched off my list. Giles moved to Australia to be with his girlfriend, and Steve, though a great companion for a social night out, has started dropping hints about wanting to settle down. Which is why I’m not keen to ask him to a wedding. I don’t want him to think that settling down with him is on my mind. How have I not noticed the change in the status of so many people in my life? How has it passed me by?

I’ve had plenty of other things to think about, that’s how. Work has taken up a big chunk of my time and I’ve socialised less than before. Nevertheless, I go to yoga classes (I’m trying to be a bit more mindful, though I haven’t really succeeded because my thoughts wander when I’m supposed to be relaxed) and I played badminton all through the winter, which got me off the sofa when I could’ve been slouched in front of the TV. Now that summer’s coming, I’m back jogging again, even if I usually do that on my own. And I regularly meet Erin and Sheedy, my two closest girlfriends, for drinks and a bite to eat. Like me, they’re in no rush to hitch themselves permanently to a man. Erin is divorced and not inclined to give marriage another try, and although all three of us have gone through phases of intense dating, for now, at least, nothing has changed. But somehow things around us have, and now my pool of single male friends is shrinking rapidly.

Which is a bit of a problem when it comes to the wedding of the century.

I open my contacts list and start to scroll through it, but there’s no forgotten name leaping out to meet me. In fact I see another one to scratch off. Jim Blake has got engaged for the third time.

Maybe I shouldn’t bother with anyone. After all, I’m a grown woman and I don’t actually need a plus-one to enjoy myself. In fact I’d probably have a better time without some casual acquaintance I’d feel responsible for at my side; someone I’d be fretting over in case they were regretting having come with me. At André’s wedding I’ll be surrounded by family, so it’s not as though I’ll be sitting in a corner like an ageing, wilting wallflower. But the trouble is that weddings are all about being part of a couple, and despite my perfect contentment about my current single state, turning up by myself seems a little tragic. I know I’m letting how other people think affect how I feel, which I always try hard not to do, but I can’t help it. As I finish scrolling and realise that my list of plus-one options is, in fact, currently zero, I feel the knot of anxiety tighten into a hard stone of panic.

I really don’t want to face my family’s reaction to turning up alone. Ridiculous as it sounds, the Mertens clan has the unerring ability to turn me from a success into a failure based on my dating profile. It doesn’t matter that I have a good job. It doesn’t matter that I bought my own house two years ago. It doesn’t even matter that I’m the only one who hasn’t had some kind of notable drama or crisis in her life (if you exclude the time my passport was stolen and I got stuck in Caracas for a week). If they see me by myself at the wedding, they’ll decide that I’m putting a brave face on missing out on love and they’ll be sorry for me and despairing of me in equal measure. And while they might nod sympathetically at my repeated assurances that I’m very happy with my status, they’ll somehow find a way to inform me exactly why it is that I’m approaching my thirty-eighth birthday and am still single. Which, in the eyes of every last one of them, is definitely a life fail.

The last time we were together as a family (at Easter, when Mum invited everyone to dinner; seventeen opinionated people around the table), she remarked that I’m too picky when it comes to future life partners. As my siblings and their significant others chimed in, the general consensus was that being as demanding as I am means I’ll die alone with only my cat for company. The fact that I’m mildly allergic to cats and therefore wouldn’t dream of letting one over the threshold is irrelevant.

No matter what they think, I’m not demanding. I’ll admit to cutting my losses early on if I don’t feel things are working out with someone, but I continue to hold out a certain level of hope that the man of my dreams is out there somewhere. Nevertheless, I accept that as time goes by, this becomes an increasingly unlikely prospect. Meeting the right man would certainly be a bonus, but the quest to do this doesn’t occupy my waking hours. Yet whenever I say this to my family, they make me feel like I’m protesting too much. Honestly, I’m not. My future husband doesn’t have to be Mr Perfect, but he has to meet some minimum standards. Which involve more than being a random solvent single man!

In any event, as I’ve told everyone more than once, unmarried childless women are the happiest subgroup of the population, so I need a proper incentive to change my status. I’m not quoting made-up statistics here; it’s a finding of a professor of behavioural science at the London School of Economics. And in this day and age there’s no need for an unsuitable man to whisk a woman down off the shelf and confer married status on her before she gets so old she’s pitied and invisible. I earn a decent salary, so I’m not in danger of succumbing to genteel poverty like a heroine in a Jane Austen novel – though obviously in a Jane Austen novel I would’ve been given up as a lost cause by now and would be a slightly pitied maiden aunt. On the other hand, I might have become one of those formidable spinsters who sits in judgement on everyone else and terrifies them with a gimlet look whenever they cross her path.

I’d quite like to be a formidable spinster if it didn’t conjure up pictures of statuesque women with stately bosoms, booming voices and hairy chins. The male equivalent, bachelor, sounds fun-loving, carefree and attractive. Despite putting mortgage repayments over emerald bracelet purchases, I can be fun-loving and carefree, and I happily go to the local beauty salon, where Letizia deals with all of my hair removal needs.

Can I be a formidable spinster at André’s wedding?

‘Well, Delphie?’ My brother sounds understandably irritated by my lengthy silence.

I think frantically but to no avail, and finally tell him I’ll let him know for definite by the end of the week.

‘Delphie! She’s doing the cards right now.’

‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure of who’s coming yet,’ I say.

‘Your list of potential dates is that long?’

‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I’m sorry, André, honestly. I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

‘Oh, OK,’ says André, who in fairness is generally the most easy-going of my siblings. ‘But if everyone was as blasé as you, poor Tory would never get those cards written. So when you’ve decided what unfortunate soul you’re going to terrorise by bringing him to what we hope will be a wonderful weekend, please tell me straight away.’

I ignore the touch of sarcasm in his voice and assure him I’ll get back to him as soon as possible.

‘It’s going to be great,’ he says. ‘You’ll have a good time. So will your plus-one.’

‘I know. I do, honestly. I’m truly sorry to have put it off. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

I end the call and put my phone back in the desk drawer.

I draw up a shortlist.

There isn’t a single name on it.

I’ve been staring at the blank sheet of paper for over a minute when Lisa Hannigan walks into the office and asks if I’ve had time to read the research and analysis document she’s done for our latest client briefing. I know she’s anxious about it because she’s asked me face-to-face instead of messaging me.

‘I’m sorry, Lisa, I’ve been caught up in other stuff. I’ll look at it right away.’ I crumple up the blank sheet of paper and throw it in the recycling bin.

‘It’s just that we’re reporting on the switches we’ve made in the Preferred Cornerstone funds and I want to make sure it sounds reasonable before I send it out,’ she says.

‘I thought it wasn’t being sent until Friday?’

‘Yeah, but Justin wanted a look at it too and he’ll probably have some changes. I wanted your input first.’

Justin Delaney is head of company operations and is next in line to Conrad. His job is to know what’s going on everywhere in the firm, but he has a tendency to get involved in things that don’t concern him, and the client research stuff isn’t really any of his business. I remind Lisa, who only joined Cosecha a couple of months ago, that she’s the one whose opinion matters. She leaves looking a lot happier and I find the document she’s sent me and go through it. I send her a reply saying that it’s fine, even though there are a few slight changes I’d make myself. But they wouldn’t have a major impact on the report, and I’m not going to ask Lisa to change something just for the sake of it.

Another dozen or so emails landed in my inbox while I was reading Lisa’s report, so I deal with them and then contact Conrad’s insurance company so that I can add the Lady Annabel bracelet to his policy. I’ve already emailed the details, and Carrie Bryant, the adviser I deal with, is up to speed and tells me how much extra it will cost.

‘That’s fine,’ I say, although the amount Conrad pays in insuring jewellery is a breathtaking sum – far more than the value of any piece of jewellery I’ve ever owned.

‘It’s a beautiful bracelet, isn’t it?’ says Carrie. ‘Lucky woman.’

‘Sure is.’ I’m agreeing to both.

‘I wish I could afford gorgeous stuff like that,’ she continues. ‘The most expensive piece I own is my engagement ring. And I’m thinking of getting the diamond reset since my divorce.’

Carrie left her husband after he hit her for the second time. Although I know her well after years of dealing with Conrad’s insurance needs, I’d no idea that her husband was abusing her until she told me why she’d moved out.

Women are good at hiding things. We’re good at getting on with things too. I buy my own jewellery, although it’s usually Swarovski crystals, not antique emeralds.

There’s no need to wait for Prince Charming to have nice things for yourself.

I start a new shortlist and have added and crossed out two names when Conrad phones me from his business meeting in Geneva to congratulate me on acquiring the bracelet.

‘I’m sorry I had to go to the limit,’ I say.

‘It was there for a reason,’ he replies.

‘I would’ve liked to have got it for a bit less,’ I admit.

‘I don’t mind. Bianca will love it. It’ll go perfectly with the dress she plans to wear.’

‘Great,’ I say.

‘Has it arrived yet?’

‘Hopefully later this afternoon,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll keep it in the safe till you’re back.’

‘If you can get a flight before the weekend, would you mind bringing it to Palmyra instead? Otherwise you can courier it, but I’d like to go through a few office things with you face-to-face too.’

‘Aren’t you coming back here first?’

‘No,’ replies Conrad. ‘I’m heading straight there. Bianca flew out last week.’

I know she flew out last week. I dealt with her travel arrangements.

Palmyra is Conrad’s house in Mallorca. He moves his family there for six weeks at the beginning of summer; then, when it’s getting too warm, they come back to their holiday home in the south of Cork until the end of August.

Well, he used to do that when he was married to Martha. Things are different now he’s with Bianca. They haven’t yet settled into a pattern, and maybe they won’t. Despite the fabulous bracelet and the extravagant birthday party he’s planned for her, it’s not certain that she’s going to be a permanent fixture in his life. And even if she is, his divorce will take some time. There wasn’t a prenup, you see. When Conrad and Martha got married over twenty years ago, they didn’t even think of it.

But now they’ve split up, there are a lot of assets to divide. The apartment in New York. The house on Lansdowne Road. The mews off Anglesea Road (which is where he lives with Bianca when they’re in Dublin). The holiday home in Cork. And, of course, Palmyra, which is in Port d’Andratx on the south-west coast of Mallorca. Although he deals in financial assets, my boss has the very Irish desire to own tangible things. Specifically property. But he doesn’t buy houses or apartments simply as investments. He’s lived in every one of them. Well, strictly speaking, he only ever stays in the NY apartment (which is actually quite small) when he’s in the States on business; in fact Martha used to stay there more often when she went on shopping weekends with her mum. And although the Cork home is spacious, he and Martha took it on as a total wreck when the price was dropped during the last recession. Palmyra – well, Palmyra is beautiful. He bought it the year I joined the company.

It sounds like I’m making excuses for him, or that I’m trying to play down his wealth. I’m not. By any standards, Conrad Morgan is a very rich man. But he doesn’t act like it. He’s easy-going and friendly, and a great boss. And until his marriage went belly-up, I always thought he was a good husband and father too. Well, I guess he’s still a good father. And marriages do go wrong.

But I feel a little guilty about that, because it was me who introduced Bianca to him in the first place. It was when we were planning to do a presentational video of the Cosecha funds. I thought Conrad could do with a bit of sprucing-up and I suggested he chat to Bianca, who’s an image consultant. She was recommended by Erin, who’d gone to her when she was up for promotion in the law firm where she works. Bianca gave Erin some great tips on looking good, and they certainly helped her feel more confident at the series of interviews she had to go through.

‘A what?’ asked Conrad when I made the suggestion.

I looked at him critically. Financiers are usually portrayed as sharp-suited, well-groomed men with expensive taste in shirts and cufflinks. Conrad is not naturally that kind of man. He’s tall and thin, with wayward ginger hair that flops into his eyes, and he looks uncomfortable in the dark suits that are almost obligatory in the industry. The video was going to be seen by some very important clients. I wanted him to look less like a tech geek and more like someone who manages billions of other people’s money.

He met her. She gave him a complete makeover. We got the business we were hoping for.

And he got the image consultant too.

Denton arrives with the bracelet later that afternoon. It’s stunning in real life and I suddenly understand why the bidding went up to the level it did. The dark green emeralds gleam like cat’s eyes under the ceiling lights.

I slip it onto my wrist.

‘Suits you,’ says Denton.

It suited Lady Annabel better. There was a picture of her in the catalogue with her arm around whichever Beatle she was kissing, the bracelet clearly visible on her slender wrist. The bracelet itself would have identified her, because it’s quite distinctive, but so was Lady Annabel, with her golden hair in a sixties beehive secured by a diamond clip. There was another photograph of her in the brochure too, this time dressed for a formal ball, wearing a figure-hugging black dress and long white gloves, with the bracelet on her right arm. She was very beautiful back then and she’s very beautiful now, even in her eighties. She appeared recently on a programme about ageing gracefully and told Emily Maitlis that ageing disgracefully was much more fun. Emily asked her about the Beatles episode, because it was headline news back then – the English always love a bit of posh snogging in their gossip stories. Lady Annabel laughed at the idea that it was anything other than an innocent flirtation and pointed out that she and her husband had remained married until his death a few years earlier. She didn’t, however, comment on the understanding they were supposed to have had that meant that he did his thing and she did hers, an arrangement that had led to him being named in a paternity suit in the early nineties.

I unclasp the bangle from my wrist and break the connection I suddenly felt with Lady Annabel and her world. I’m sure Bianca won’t care about the life story of the woman who owned it; she’ll just be pleased that Conrad bought it.

Anyhow, none of that is my concern. All I have to do is deliver it.

Although it’s not an everyday occurrence, delivering precious jewellery to his overseas home is one of the perks of being the executive assistant to the CEO. I’m lucky to work for a boss who has given me the encouragement and opportunity to expand my original role. These days, as well as everyday admin tasks, I arrange client events, liaise with our legal advisers and work alongside Conrad on a variety of investment projects. I also oversee our corporate responsibility programme, which means managing the relationships and funding for the charitable institutions we support. While this is undoubtedly the most satisfying part of my work, purchasing a gorgeous emerald bracelet is certainly the most glamorous thing I’ve ever been asked to do, even if it was a personal rather than professional request.

I go online and am pleased to find that I can get a direct flight to Palma early the next morning with a return to Dublin later that night. I text Erin and Sheedy to tell them that I have to cancel our plans to meet after work tomorrow. Erin sends a sad emoji face in return and Sheedy replies with Jammy! and a laughing face. Erin and I used to work together at Haughton’s, the law firm where I started out after college. She’s a couple of years older than me and one of the most competent women you could ever hope to meet. Sheedy took over my job when she joined, but she now has her own practice and employs three people. My best friends are strong, ambitious women. And so, I hope, am I.

It’s after six when I leave the office, but I decide to call in on my parents on the way home to show Mum Lady Annabel’s bracelet. I’m feeling guilty for not having dropped by in ages, but I’ve been really busy over the last few weeks and there simply hasn’t been time. So instead of continuing home to Malahide on the train, I get off at Killester and walk the couple of hundred yards from the station to my parents’ house.

It was one of the homes built for Irish veterans of the First World War and started out as a slightly bigger version of the cottage by the sea that I bought for myself a few years ago. But with five children, it was inevitable that Mum and Dad would eventually need more space. Fortunately, like most of the houses in the development, there was a long garden and plenty of room to add on. So now their cottage is a good-sized family home. It needs to be because my sister Viviane and her boyfriend Jason are living there, along with their baby Charley. Additionally, the rest of the next generation have regular sleepovers with their grandparents. They’re a fixture almost every weekend and there isn’t a day that goes by without one or other of the grandchildren having a supposedly impromptu visit. Mum loves it, though. In fact it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that she loves her grandchildren more than her actual children.

When I arrive, Noemi, Phoebe and Elodie, my brother Michael’s daughters, are playing in the front garden. Elodie, the youngest at five years old, sees me first and runs over to hug me as I walk up the garden path. I swing her into my arms, kiss her, then put her down again, thinking that I won’t do that again in a hurry because I’ve nearly put my back out.

‘Hi, Auntie Delphie.’ Noemi releases Phoebe from the stranglehold she has on her. ‘We’ve already had tea. You’re too late.’

‘That’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just here to see Granny and Grandad.’

‘Grandad’s out,’ Phoebe informs me. ‘He’s gone to the pub to do his crossword in peace.’

I grin. It’s Mum who loves having the family around all the time. Dad’s more of a loner. He deals with the fact that his house is being perpetually invaded by distancing himself to do his crosswords. Clearly I get my solitary nature from him.

Mum, Vivi and my sister-in-law, Nichola, are deep in conversation when I walk into the kitchen, and I realise that I’m interrupting an intensive analysis of last week’s pre-wedding dinner. Apparently it’s become a thing for the bride to invite the female members of both sides of the family to a getting-to-know-you meal ahead of the main event, another piece of wedding lore I knew nothing about.

I wasn’t able to go to the dinner. Conrad was making a presentation to a set of potential new clients that evening, and I had to be there. To be honest, I was happy enough to have the excuse, because it wouldn’t really have been my thing, but I’m not sure Tory has forgiven me for not turning up. What with missing the dinner and being late with my plus-one, I’m probably deep, deep in her bad books by now.

‘It was wonderful,’ gushes Vivi as she takes out her phone to show me some photos. ‘Superb food and a fantastic atmosphere. Tory’s family are simply lovely. Really amazing people. We had a good old sing-song afterwards too.’

‘Looks great,’ I lie. Group singing after a few drinks is one of my least favourite things. I realise I sound like a killjoy, but I’m not. Honestly. It’s just that I’m more of a soft-music-in-the-background-and-gentle-conversation person. (Unless I go to a gig with Erin and Sheedy, where I jump around with the best of them.)

‘It was.’ Mum cuts a slice from the carrot cake in the centre of the table and puts it and a cup of coffee in front of me. ‘It’s such a shame you missed it.’

‘Oh, well, I’m su