‘You were perfect at the wedding,’ I reminded her. ‘You looked lovely in the photograph.’

‘It rained then, too, would you believe?’

‘I wish he’d lived longer,’ I cried. ‘I wish you hadn’t had to suffer.’

‘There’s nothing special about suffering, Rose. It’s as common as hair growing. We just have to deal with it, and get on.’

Number fourteen was like a hothouse and I went round opening windows while Ianthe made tea. ‘One of the nurses would insist on calling it “Mr Comforter”. I ask you.’

Afterwards, I helped her to unpack. I had not been in Ianthe’s bedroom for a long time. A photograph of the three of us, taken outside Medlars Cottage when I was eight, was displayed prominently on the bedside table. A pot of Nivea face cream and a bottle of natural-coloured nail polish stood on the dressing-table beside her silver-backed brush, so old that many of the bristles were missing. The wardrobe contained six pairs of neatly stowed shoes, her herringbone winter coat, and dresses bagged up on hangers. Ianthe watched me inspecting them. ‘As you grow older, Rose, you need fewer clothes.’

‘How depressing.’

I opened a drawer to put away her clean nightdress and was choked by a familiar smell. ‘The lavender. It’s so strong.’

‘That reminds me…’ Ianthe searched on the shelf in the wardrobe. ‘I bought a couple of bags for you at the fête.’

Wordlessly, I held them in my hands, assaulted by the charged, never-to-be forgotten nostalgia of lavender.

Vee had not finished with me. The invitation to the summer gala dinner to celebrate the year’s best books arrived in the post. For years I had hosted a table – the guests and seating had occupied much time and debate. Scrawled on the back of Vee’s invitation was: ‘I have a table. You are on it.’

I propped it up on the desk in my study. This was a novel situation for me, and I felt an eddy of excitement and nerves in the pit of my stomach, even of curiosity to see what would happen and how I would react. Admittedly, during the past weeks, I had not thought much about my business world and it had grown distant. On cue, the phone rang.

‘No ifs and buts,’ said Vee. ‘I know it’s last-minute but you’re under orders to show up. And, Rose, treat yourself to the hairdresser.’

I was proud of myself as I got ready. Without a moment’s hesitation I pulled the black sleeveless dress out of the wardrobe and selected the outrageously stylish shoes I had bought in Paris. I applied foundation, brushed on grey eye shadow, drew a scarlet line around my lips and filled it in.

‘There,’ I addressed the resulting construct in the mirror, ‘not bad.’ I placed a hand on my stomach, which felt delightfully flat. My lips gleamed, my dress flowed over my hips and my feet arched in the high heels. To complete the vision, I emptied the contents of my handbag on to the bed, threw away crumpled tissues, picked out the fluff from my hairbrush and put it with my lipstick and keys into a witty bag in the shape of a flowerpot.

When I arrived at the hotel, a stream of men and women, dressed predominantly in black, flowed towards the room where the drinks were being served. A strange girl poked at my bag. ‘Safe,’ she said.

Someone else said, ‘Hi, Rose. Long time… let’s keep in touch…’ and drifted past.

Wearing a pair of large, flashy earrings, Vee materialized out of the mass and waved me over. ‘You look fabulous. Not even a hint of the wronged wife. Introductions,’ she cried. ‘This is Rose.’

I was introduced to a distinguished theatre critic, who had written a book on Whither the Theatre?, currently receiving a lot of attention, a man dressed from head to toe in leather and a cross-looking female novelist in a full skirt, a wide belt and a waterfall of necklaces. The theatre critic turned his attention to Leather Man and I was left to struggle with the novelist, who wrote under the name of Angelica Browne.

‘You’ve just published a new novel, I gather?’

Her crossness intensified. ‘It’s doing well and I’m rather proud of it except… I’ve had some nasty reviews. Critics, you know.’

‘I do know about critics.’

Anxious as writers always were, she pressed on. ‘I was writing about a design fault in nature. Young females are flooded with oestrogen and oxytocin, hormones that make them broody. Young men are flooded with testosterone, which tugs them in a different direction. In middle age, when male testosterone levels begin to fall, females lose their oestrogen and start producing testosterone and off they go, just as the men are happy to play golf and win prizes for their lawns. Fictionally speaking, it’s the stuff of tragedy’.

‘I suppose it is. Do male and female ever balance?’

She shrugged impatiently. ‘That’s the point.’

‘Angelica,’ Vee shepherded us into a huge dining room, which had revolving glass balls in the ceiling, ‘gender is dated. Gender is out. We don’t think about it any more.’

I found myself seated between the theatre critic, whose name was Lawrence, and Leather Man, a printer from Essex, who leant over and unfolded my napkin. ‘Let’s get stuck into the wine,’ he said hopefully.

I was getting along famously with Lawrence, who was on fine, spitting form, until I made the mistake of looking across our table to the next. Nathan was sitting there with his back to me. A seat away from him was Minty, whose profile I could observe – if I cared to. Their table was made up of senior executives, including Timon, from the Vistemax Group, with their wives – including the Good Wife, Carolyne Shaker – and a couple of big authors and their companions. Among them, Minty stood out like a sore thumb. She had chosen a dress in a dull green that was too low-cut and did not flatter her. Her contribution to the conversation appeared minimal.

Vee made desperate faces at me across our table. Sorry, sorry.

Ridiculously, it was Nathan’s obliviousness to my presence that upset me most. It brought back the terror that I was dissolving, becoming invisible, melting into the walls and carpet. It reopened the question: who was Rose?

I concentrated on summoning the figure in the mirror in Paris – the interesting, exquisitely dressed one who had something to say, who had managed motherhood, a career, a home, who had loved her husband, her children, food, wine, the sea… her garden. Little by little, the panic dissolved and I could breathe more easily. I looked down and discovered that I had shredded the roll on my sideplate into pellets and arranged them into a pattern, the smaller ones in the middle, the larger ones in a circle round the edge of the plate.

Under the cover of listening to Lawrence’s diatribe on the modern theatre – too expensive, no sense of adventure, mediocre – I studied Nathan. He seemed different. Looser and less contained. Less poured into a mould that had settled around him after he had been promoted to deputy editor. A colleague passed by the table, greeted him, and Nathan replied – easy and charming amid the clutter of candles and glasses. Smiling through the ease and affluence.

My breath quickened: leaving me had made him look like that.

Minty fumbled in her handbag and applied another layer of lipstick; her mouth was like a scarlet gash below the slanting eyes. Carolyne lifted her glass to her lips and sent me a nod of solidarity. The beef arrived, too spicy and fussy. I left most of it.

‘Not hungry?’ inquired Leather Man. With relief, I turned to talk to him.

I did not register much about the speeches. The lights dimmed, the globes flashed and, no doubt, the winners were modest. Eventually, the audience clapped for the final time and the evening began to break up. A hand descended on my shoulder. ‘Hallo, Rose, I’ve been searching for you,’ said Monty Chavet. ‘You look like a gorgeous flower. Can I put you in my vase?’

He propelled me through the crush and tapped a male back, whose owner swung round. ‘Hallo, Monty,’ said Timon, all affability until he saw me.

‘Look here, Timon,’ Monty was at his loudest, which was pretty loud and I was touched by his chivalry, ‘you’ve made a mistake getting rid of this girl. She was the best in town. You should think again.’

Timon did not miss a beat. ‘Rose did a brilliant job, didn’t she? I’m glad you think as highly of her as we do.’ He draped his arm across Monty’s shoulders. ‘A little bird tells me you have a book coming out in the autumn. You must be sure that we have a look at it. Send it to me.’

The battle taking place in Monty’s breast was probably a sincere, well-fought one, but doomed. ‘Sure.’ He gave a tiny shrug and I smiled at him to show there were no hard feelings.

Timon drew him away. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

There was a polite touch on my elbow. ‘Hallo,’ said Neil Skinner, the junior minister. ‘I thought there was a chance you might be here.’ He looked marginally less fraught than when I had met him in February. ‘The whisper is that I might gets arts in the next reshuffle, so I wangled an invite here.’ He eyed me up approvingly, which was infinitely cheering.

‘I thought about our conversation a lot after Flora Madder killed herself,’ I told him.

Neil frowned. ‘Yes, that was awful. Of course, it was a well-known secret that she was a manic depressive and had been threatening suicide for years. Charles had been trying to keep the show on the road, terrified that she’d kill herself, but it was only a matter of time.’

‘I’m sorry’ I thought this over. How stupid I’d been to forget that the press only deals with the appearance of something. ‘Even so, the papers must bear some responsibility’.

Again, he touched my arm. ‘You’re still in the nasty trade?’

‘I was sacked, but I’ll be looking for another job.’

‘Keep in touch, won’t you?’ It was with pleasure that I said I would.