‘What is it, Dad?’

‘Well, the first thing is this.’ He takes from his breast pocket a small paper bag and pulls out an ancient autograph book with a picture of a Cadillac on the front and California in white swirly writing. ‘Remember this?’

‘Of course!’

Dad’s autograph book is a family tradition. It gets pulled out every Christmas and we all politely listen as he tells us about all the signatures. They’re mostly autographs of obscure TV stars from American shows that no one’s ever heard of, but Dad thinks they’re famous, so that’s all that matters.

‘Ronald “Rocky” Webster,’ he’s saying now, turning the pages fondly. ‘He was a big star then. And Maria Pojes. You should have heard her sing.’

‘Right.’ I nod politely, even though I’ve heard these names a million times and they still mean nothing to me.

‘It was my friend Corey who spotted Maria Pojes, drinking in a hotel bar,’ Dad’s saying. ‘Our first night in LA. He dragged me over, offered to buy her a drink …’ He laughs reminiscently. ‘She wouldn’t accept it, of course. But she was sweet to us. Signed our books.’

‘Wow.’ I nod again. ‘Fantastic.’

‘And so …’ To my surprise, Dad presses the open autograph book into my hand. ‘Over to you, Becky. Fill her up with some new blood.’

‘What?’ I stare at him. ‘Dad, I can’t take this!’

‘Half the book’s empty.’ He points at the blank pages. ‘You’re off to Hollywood. Finish the collection.’

I look at it nervously. ‘But what if I lose it or something?’

‘You won’t lose it. But you’ll have adventures.’ Dad’s face flickers oddly. ‘Oh, Becky, love, I am envious. I’ve never known anything like those adventures I had in California.’

‘Like the rodeo?’ I say. I’ve heard that story a zillion times.

‘That.’ He nods. ‘And … other things.’ He pats my hand, twinkling. ‘Get me John Travolta’s signature. I’d like that.’

‘What’s the other favour?’ I say, putting the autograph book carefully into my bag.

‘Just a small thing.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a slip of paper. ‘Look up my old friend Brent. He always lived in Los Angeles. This is his old address. See if you can track him down. Say hello from me.’

‘OK.’ I look at the name: Brent Lewis. There’s an address in Sherman Oaks, and a phone number. ‘Why don’t you call him up?’ I suggest. ‘Or text him? Or Skype! It’s easy.’

As I say the word ‘Skype’ I can see Dad recoiling. We once tried to Skype Jess in Chile and it wasn’t exactly a resounding success. The picture kept freezing, so we gave up. But then the sound suddenly came back on and we could hear Jess and Tom having a row about Janice while they made their supper. It was all a bit embarrassing.

‘No, you go and say hello,’ says Dad. ‘If he wants to, we can take it from there. Like I say, it’s been a long time. He may not be interested.’

I really don’t get the older generation. They’re so reticent. If it were me getting in touch with my old friend from all those years ago, I’d be sending them a text instantly: Hi! Wow, it’s been decades! How did THAT happen? Or I’d track them down on Facebook. But Dad and Mum just aren’t into it.

‘Fine,’ I say, and put the piece of paper into my bag, too. ‘What about your other two friends?’

‘Corey and Raymond?’ He shakes his head. ‘They live too far away. Las Vegas, Corey is. I think Raymond’s in Arizona somewhere. I’ve stayed in touch with them … at least, I have in a way. But Brent just disappeared.’

‘Shame you didn’t have Facebook back then.’

‘Indeed.’ He nods.

‘Oh, thank you so much! They’re a new present from my husband.’ Mum’s voice rises above the hubbub and I turn to look. Some lady I don’t recognize is admiring her pearls, and Mum is preening in delight. ‘Yes, lovely, aren’t they?’

I grin at Dad, who winks back. Mum was so thrilled with her pearls. They’re antique, from 1895, with a ruby clasp set in diamonds. (I helped her go shopping for them, so I know all the details.) Dad’s BB was bigger than usual this year, so we all went a bit mad.

BB is our family shorthand for ‘Big Bonus’. Dad worked in insurance for years, and now he’s retired. But he still does consulting work, and it’s amazingly well paid. He goes off a few times a year in a suit, and then once a year he receives a bonus cheque and we always get a treat. This year it was particularly good, because Mum got her pearls, and he bought me an Alexis Bittar necklace and Minnie a new dolls’ house. Even Luke got a beautiful pair of cufflinks.

Luke always says to me that Dad must have some sort of niche, specialist knowledge that is really valuable, because he commands such high fees. But he’s so modest about it. You’d never know.

‘My clever husband.’ Mum kisses Dad fondly.

‘You look beautiful, my love!’ Dad beams back. Dad bought himself a new tweed jacket with his share of the BB, and he looks really good in it. ‘Now, where’s this famous fountain?’

A few feet away, Tarquin is being interviewed for the TV. Poor Tarkie. He’s not cut out to be a media star. He’s wearing a checked shirt that makes his neck look bonier than ever, and he keeps wringing his hands as he speaks.

‘Ahm,’ he keeps saying. ‘Ahm, we wanted to … ahm … enhance the house …’

‘Bloody stupid idea,’ comes a gruff voice behind me.

Oh God, it’s Tarkie’s dad, the Earl of Whatsit, stalking up. (I can never remember where he’s earl of. Somewhere Scottish, I think.) He’s tall and lanky with thin, greying hair and an Aran jersey, just like Tarkie wears. I’ve never spoken to him properly, but he’s always seemed pretty scary. Now he’s glowering at the lake and jabbing a weather-beaten finger at it. ‘I said to the boy, that view’s been unspoiled for three hundred years. Why on earth would you want to go messing with it?’

‘They’re going to do fireworks on the lake in winter,’ I say, wanting to stand up for Tarkie. ‘I think it will be beautiful!’

The earl gives me a withering look and turns his attention to a plate of canapés being offered to him. ‘What’s this?’

‘Sushi, sir,’ says the waitress.

‘Sushi?’ He peers at her with bloodshot eyes. ‘What?’

‘Rice and raw salmon, sir. Japanese.’

‘Bloody stupid idea.’

To my relief he stalks off again, and I’m about to take a piece of sushi myself, when I hear a familiar, ear-splitting noise.

‘Please! Pleeeease!’

Oh God. It’s Minnie.

For a long time, my daughter’s favourite word was ‘mine’. Now, after intensive training, we’ve got her on to the word ‘please’. Which you’d think would be an improvement.

I swivel around wildly, and finally spot Minnie. She’s balanced on a stone bench, tussling with Suze’s son Wilfrid over a red plastic truck.

‘Pleeease!’ she’s yelling crossly. ‘Pleeease!’ Now, to my horror, she starts hitting Wilfrid with the truck, yelling with each blow, ‘Please! Please! Please!’

The trouble is, Minnie hasn’t really absorbed the spirit of the word ‘please’.

‘Minnie!’ I exclaim in horror, and run towards her across the lawn. ‘Give the truck to Wilfie.’ Luke is coming towards her too, and we exchange wry looks.

‘Please truck! Pleeease!’ she cries, clutching it harder. A few people gathered around start to laugh, and Minnie beams at them. She is such a show-off, but she’s so adorable with it, it’s hard to stay cross.

‘Hey, Becky,’ says a cheerful voice behind me, and I turn to see Ellie, who is Suze’s nanny and absolutely brilliant. (There’s also Nanny, who looked after Tarkie when he was little and has never left. But she just potters around and tells people to wear vests.) ‘I’m taking the other children to watch from the steps over there.’ She points at a bank on the other side of the lake. ‘They’ll get a better view. Does Minnie want to come?’

‘Oh thanks,’ I say gratefully. ‘Minnie, if you want to go to the steps with the others, you have to give the truck to Wilfie.’

‘Steps?’ Minnie pauses at this new word.

‘Yes! Steps! Exciting steps.’ I grab the truck from her and give it back to Wilfie. ‘Go with Ellie, sweetheart. Hey, Tarquin!’ I call, as I see him hurrying by. ‘This all looks spectacular.’

‘Yes.’ Tarquin seems a bit desperate. ‘Well, I hope so. There’s a water-pressure problem. Whole area’s affected. Terrible timing for us.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Turn it up,’ Tarkie says feverishly into his walkie-talkie. ‘Whatever it takes! We don’t want a feeble little gush, we want a spectacle!’ He looks up at us and grimaces. ‘Fountains are trickier blighters than I realized.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be great,’ Luke says reassuringly. ‘It’s a marvellous idea.’

‘Well, I hope so.’ Tarkie wipes his face, then checks the countdown clock, which reads 4.58. ‘Crikey. I must go.’

The crowd is getting bigger and there are now two local TV-news crews, interviewing people. Luke takes a couple of glasses of wine and hands me one, and we clink glasses. As we near the cordoned-off VIP area, I can see Suze talking animatedly to Tarquin’s business manager, Angus.

‘Tarkie must surely have business interests in the States,’ she’s saying. ‘I’m certain he needs to do a trip out there. Don’t you agree?’

‘It’s really not necessary, Lady Cleath-Stuart,’ Angus says, looking surprised. ‘All the US investments are taken care of.’

‘Do we have any investments in California?’ persists Suze. ‘Like, an orange grove or something? Because I think we should visit them. I’ll go, if you like.’ She looks over at me and winks, and I beam back. Go Suze!

The earl and countess are making their way to the front of the crowd now, forging a path with their shooting sticks and staring critically at the lake.

‘If he wanted to build something,’ the earl is saying, ‘what’s wrong with a folly? Tuck it away somewhere. But a fountain? Bloody stupid idea.’