‘Don’t you have to get to Andover?’ I say, eyeing up her suit.

‘I’ll go in a moment.’ Tilda waves an airy hand. ‘Spill.’

‘Well.’ I sit on her garden wall and wrap my arms around myself. ‘Slight backfire, if you must know.’

‘Really?’ She sounds surprised. ‘Dan looked pretty revved up to me. Didn’t he like the corset?’

‘It’s not that.’ I shake my head. ‘The sex was good. We went to this special secret garden and it was all pretty spectacular, in fact.’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

I’m silent for a few moments. The truth is, although I’m trying to be breezy and matter-of-fact, I am feeling the odd flicker of genuine worry. And saying it out loud is going to make it twenty times worse.

‘It “woke something up” in Dan,’ I say at last. ‘Apparently.’

Tilda stares at me. ‘Woke what up?’

‘The whole thing reminded him of this ex-girlfriend. An ex-girlfriend he’d never even told me about. And now he’s been googling her. Loads of times.’ I’m speaking calmly, but I feel a tremor in my face, as if my worries can’t be contained. ‘In secret.’

‘Oh.’ Tilda looks disconcerted for a moment, then rallies. ‘Oh, but googling means nothing. Everyone googles. I google Adam about three times a week. I like to torture myself,’ she adds with a wry shrug.

‘But he’s never googled her before. He’s never even thought about her before. And it’s all my own doing!’ I add in self-castigation. ‘I brought this on myself!’

‘No you didn’t!’ Tilda gives an incredulous laugh. ‘What, by dressing up in sexy gear?’

‘By poking our marriage with a stick! By pushing him to be adventurous! It made him think. And that’s what he thought of! His ex!’

‘Ah.’ Tilda pulls a wry, comical expression. ‘Well, yes. Maybe that wasn’t such a wild idea. You don’t want husbands to start thinking.’

‘You warned me,’ I say miserably. ‘You said, “Surprises have a bad habit of going wrong.” Well, you were right.’

‘Sylvie, I didn’t mean it!’ says Tilda in dismay. ‘And you mustn’t worry. Look at the facts. Dan loves you and you had great sex. A lot of couples would die to be having great sex,’ she adds pointedly.

‘Yes, but even the sex …’ I bite my lip and glance towards my front door again.

‘What?’ Tilda leans forward, looking fascinated, and I hesitate. I’m not really one for spilling intimate details. But since the boudoir shoot, there doesn’t seem any point in being coy with Tilda.

‘Well,’ I say, my voice almost a whisper. ‘It was super hot, but it was … different. He was different. At the time, I thought: Great, I’m turning him on. But now I’m thinking: Was it the memory of her?’ I give a little shudder. ‘Was it all about her?’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t—’

‘I said I wanted a surprise,’ I cut her off in agitation. ‘Well, what if his “surprise” is, he goes and shags someone else?’

‘Enough!’ says Tilda briskly, putting a hand on my arm. ‘Sylvie, you’re overreacting. All Dan’s actually done is google his ex. If you ask me, he’ll never mention her again. In a month, he’ll have forgotten her.’

‘You really think so?’

‘I’m positive. What’s her name?’ Tilda adds casually.

‘Mary.’

‘Well, there you go.’ Tilda rolls her eyes. ‘He’s never going to be unfaithful with someone called Mary.’

I can’t help laughing. Tilda has a knack of cheering me up, whatever the situation.

‘How are you two getting on otherwise?’ she queries.

‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Up and down …’ But there’s something quizzical in her expression which makes me add, ‘Did you hear me yelling at him this morning?’

‘Hard to miss it.’ Tilda’s mouth is clamped together as though she’s trying not to smile. Or laugh.

Great. So Dan and I really are the resident street soap opera.

‘You’ll be fine.’ Tilda pats me on the hand. ‘But promise me one thing. No more surprises.’

She doesn’t add ‘I told you so’, but it’s sitting there, unspoken in the air. And she did.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say in heartfelt tones. ‘I’m totally over surprises. Totally.’

I’ve never met Esme in person and for some reason I’m expecting someone small and thin, in a slimline jacket and heels. But the girl waiting for me at the New London Hospital is large and fair, and wearing endearingly childish clothes – a skirt covered in a sheep print and rubber-soled Mary Janes. She has one of those broad, well-structured faces which look naturally cheerful, but has a giveaway furrowed brow.

‘I think I’ve planned for everything,’ she says about five times as we walk through the lobby. ‘So, the green room area has got coffee, tea, water, snacks …’ She counts off on her fingers. ‘Biscuits … croissants … Oh, fizzy water, of course …’

I bite my lip, wanting to laugh. We’re talking about a small seating area which we’ll use for half an hour, if that. Not a polar expedition.

‘That’s very kind,’ I say.

‘And your husband’s on his way?’ She blinks anxiously at me. ‘Because we do have a parking space reserved for him.’

‘Thank you. Yes, he’s bringing our girls and his own parents.’

Dan’s parents suddenly decided they wanted to come to this event, about three days ago. Dan mentioned it to his mother on the phone and apparently she got all prickly and wondered why she and Neville hadn’t been asked? Were they not considered part of the extended family? Had it not occurred to Dan that they might like to pay their respects, too? (Which is weird, because they never got on with Daddy when he was alive.) Dan looked all beleaguered and I could hear him saying, ‘Mum, it’s not … No, it’s not a party … I mean, I never thought you’d want to come down from Leicester … I mean, of course you can come. We’d love you to!’

Dan’s parents can be a bit tricky. Although to be fair, my mother can be tricky, too. I expect the twins think Dan and I are tricky. In fact, I suppose all people are tricky, full stop. Sometimes I wonder how we all get anything done as a human race, there are so many misunderstandings and sore points and people taking umbrage all over the place.

I’m so busy thinking, it takes me a moment to realize that Esme is conveying information to me.

‘I’ll take you to the green room,’ she says, ushering me along, ‘then we’ll have a quick rehearsal and soundcheck and you can comb your hair or whatever … not that you need it,’ she adds, giving my hair a sidelong look. ‘It’s amazing, your hair.’

It does look quite spectacular. I took some time off work to have a blow-dry earlier, and it’s been tonged into ringlets, just how Daddy loved it.

‘Thanks.’ I smile back.

‘It must take forever to wash,’ she says next, just as I knew she would.

‘Oh, it’s not too bad,’ I reply, silently predicting her next remark: How long did it take you to grow it?

‘How long did it take you to grow it?’ she asks breathlessly as we turn a corner.

‘I’ve always had really long hair. Just like Rapunzel!’ I add swiftly, pre-empting any Rapunzel remarks. ‘So, is Sinead Brook here yet?’

‘Not yet, but she does have a very busy schedule. She’s lovely,’ Esme adds. ‘Really lovely. She does loads for the hospital. She had her three children here, that’s the connection.’

‘She looks lovely on the TV,’ I say politely.

‘Oh, she’s even more lovely in real life,’ Esme says, so quickly that I instantly wonder if Sinead is in fact a total bitch. ‘Now, I think I’ve planned for everything …’ As she leads me down a hospital corridor, filled with bright art and that antiseptic, hospital smell, her brow is furrowed again. ‘So here’s the green room …’ She ushers me into a tiny room with ‘VISITORS’ printed on the door. ‘You can leave your things here.’

I don’t really have any ‘things’. But to make Esme feel that everything is going to plan, I take off my jacket and put it on a chair. I can see her mentally checking off ‘leave things in green room’ and relaxing a little. Poor Esme. I’ve organized events myself. I know what it’s like.

‘Good!’ she says, and bustles me along the corridor again. ‘So, come this way … and here it is!’ We’ve stopped in a circular area, facing a new-looking set of double doors. There’s a podium and a microphone in front of the doors – and above them is a sign reading ‘The Marcus Lowe Suite’ in the standard hospital blue Helvetica. And as soon I see it, my throat clogs up.

I thought I was prepared for today. I thought I had my mental armour on. But I hadn’t imagined actually seeing Daddy’s name, up there like that.

‘That’s what your dad achieved,’ says Esme gently, and I nod. I don’t dare speak.

I wasn’t going to get emotional, but how do you not get emotional when your father paid for a facility which will help save lives, then lost his own life? The sharp, antiseptic hospital smell everywhere is reminding me of that last, terrible night, three days after the crash, when it became clear that ‘catastrophic’ really did mean ‘catastrophic’.

No. I can’t think about that. Not now.

‘Darling, you’re not going sleeveless?’ Mummy’s voice hails me, and instantly my throat unclogs. Trust Mummy to puncture the moment.

She’s approaching down the corridor with a smooth, suited man whom I’ve met before. He’s called Cedric and he’s in charge of all development so presumably he’s Esme’s boss. He must have been plying Mummy with coffee.

‘No,’ I say defensively. ‘I just took my jacket off for a moment.’

Why shouldn’t I go sleeveless? I want to add. Are you body-shaming me? What if the girls heard you and got a complex? (But, time and place.)

‘Your hair looks good,’ Mummy allows, and I instinctively run a hand through my ringlets.