‘My lady mayoress, ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins, ‘welcome to what is a very special occasion.’

Hmph. He’s pinched my opening.

‘A lot of you here today knew Marcus Lowe,’ he continues, more sombrely. ‘Some, sadly, did not. Marcus was known to all of us here at the New London Hospital as a man of commitment, charm, great intelligence and an inability to take no for an answer.’ His eyes glint, and a lot of the guests laugh knowingly. ‘He masterminded the fundraising for this scanner suite with tremendous tenacity, and quite simply it would not exist today without him. I’m now going to hand you over to his daughter, Sylvie Winter, who will say a few words.’

I mount the podium and look at the faces – some familiar but most not – and take a breath.

‘Hello, everyone,’ I say simply. ‘Thank you for coming today to celebrate both this wonderful scanner suite, and my father, who was so determined to make it happen. Those of you who met my father know that he was a remarkable man. He had the looks of Robert Redford … the dash of Errol Flynn … and the persistence of Columbus. Or maybe I mean Columbo. Or both.’

Even as I’m finishing my speech, I know it was crap.

No, I’m being too hard on myself. It wasn’t crap, but it wasn’t what it could have been. People nodded and smiled and even laughed, but they didn’t look fired up. They didn’t get who Daddy was. I have a sudden urge to take a week off and rewrite my thoughts until I get to the real, real essence of him … and then invite everyone back and tell them properly.

But everyone’s clapping and smiling approvingly, and Mummy looks all misty-eyed and the honest truth is, no one cares about the real essence of Daddy, do they? They just want to swig champagne and start using the scanners and saving lives. The world moves on. As I’ve been told about 56,000 times.

I think I need a drink. As soon as the curtains have been opened, I’m having a drink.

We all watch as the mayoress takes the podium and introduces Sinead Brook, mispronouncing her name twice. (It’s obvious she doesn’t really know who Sinead Brook is.) Sinead Brook gives what is clearly a standard-issue speech about the hospital, then pulls the cord and the plaque is there this time. There’s another round of applause and a few photos. Then, at last, the glasses of champagne start coming around again, and everyone disperses into groups.

The children are being entertained by some younger members of hospital staff blowing up disposable gloves. Cedric is telling me about the new children’s wing campaign, which does sound like an amazing project, and I find myself drinking three glasses in quick succession. Dan’s promised to drive home. It’s fine.

Where is Dan, come to that?

I glance around the gathering and notice him with Mummy, huddled right over in the corner. At once I stiffen. Why are they huddled together? What are they talking about?

I can’t escape Cedric’s constant stream of facts on children’s hospital beds in London, and I am genuinely interested in what he’s saying. But, by reaching for a canapé, I’m also able to move subtly towards Dan and Mummy. I’m also able to tilt my head, and just about pick up snippets of their conversation.

‘… certain that’s the right course?’ she’s saying in a sharpish, anxious sort of tone.

‘… this is the reality of the …’ I can’t hear the end of the sentence, but Dan sounds fairly tense, too.

‘… really don’t understand why …’

‘… discussed this …’

‘… so, what exactly …’

The conversation seems to die out, and I turn, just in time to see Dan mouthing, ‘A million pounds, maybe two?’ at my mother.

My lungs seem to freeze. The next moment I’m choking on my champagne. A million pounds, maybe two? What does that mean? What ‘million pounds, maybe two’?

‘Sylvie!’ Cedric halts his flood of statistics. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine!’ I swivel back. ‘Sorry! Just went down the wrong way. Please do carry on.’ I smile at Cedric, but my head is whirring in a nasty, ominous way.

Is Dan borrowing money? Is Dan borrowing money without telling me, from my own mother? A million pounds, maybe two?

I don’t want to be a suspicious wife. I don’t. I’m not. There’s an explanation; I know there is. Maybe he’s won the Lottery.

No. He and Mummy did not look like Lottery winners. Quite the opposite, in fact.

At last Cedric presses his business card on me and disappears. I glance over at the girls, who are playing safely with Esme, then head towards Dan. He’s on his own now, all hunched and miserable-looking, gazing at his phone.

‘Hi!’ I say in a breezy, non-suspicious way. ‘I saw you chatting to Mummy just now.’

Dan’s eyes lift to mine and for an instant – just an instant – I see undiluted fear in them. But then it’s gone. His eyes have closed up. Did I imagine it?

‘Right,’ he says with a discouraging frown.

I try again. ‘Nice to see you two getting along.’

‘Right. Actually, Sylvie, I’ve got to make a call. Great speech, by the way,’ he shoots back over his shoulder as he strides away.

For a few seconds I just watch him go, trying to keep my breath steady, while my brain begins on an angry fishwife rant. He didn’t look me in the eye. He rushed off. He barely had anything to say about my speech, which, after all, was quite a big deal for me, even if it was crap. He was all frowning and tentery while I was making it. (I noticed.) Nor did he even clap very hard when I finished. (I noticed that, too.)

At last I wheel round, head to the drinks table and grab a spare bottle of champagne. I head to where three lurid red foam chairs have been pushed together to form a kind of sofa. Sue is sitting down (her shoes have uncomfortable-looking stiletto heels, I now notice) and her cheeks are rosy. I guess she’s been necking the champagne, too.

‘Hi,’ I say, flopping down beside her. ‘How are you doing, Sue?’

‘Oh, Sylvie.’ She regards me with slightly bloodshot eyes. ‘What a speech. I was quite choked up.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, touched.

‘It must be hard for you.’ She pats my knee. ‘So hard. Dan says you do marvellously, coping with everything.’

Dan does? I blink at her, trying not to give away my surprise. My fury is sliding away. The truth is, I’d always assumed Dan thought I was a complete shambles. Now I want to know more. I want to ask: ‘What else does Dan say about me?’ And: ‘Do you know about this million quid, maybe two?’ But that might cause more problems. So instead, I fill her glass up and lean back with a massive sigh.

‘It is hard,’ I say, nodding. ‘It is. It’s hard.’

As I take yet another gulp of champagne, I feel my brain cells gently tipping over the edge from pleasantly relaxed to actually quite drunk. Glancing at Sue, I’d guess hers are in the same state. Is this a good moment for a full-and-frank?

‘The thing is …’ I begin thoughtfully – then stop. There are so many things. I’ll pick one. Thing One. ‘The thing is, how do you stay married forever?’ I say, more plaintively than I meant to.

Sue laughs. ‘Forever?’

‘For a long time. Sixty-eight years,’ I clarify. Sue gives me a puzzled glance, but I press on. ‘Dan and I look at the future, and we think … we worry, you know?’ I gesture with my glass for emphasis and a little champagne spills out. ‘We think, how do we sustain it? And we look at you, still married after all this time, and we think …’ I trail off awkwardly. (Obviously I can’t say what we really think, which is: Oh my God, how do you stand it?)

But I don’t need to say anything more. Sue has sat up, her face more alert than I’ve ever seen it. As though finally, after all this time, I’m tapping into her special area of expertise.

‘It’s all about retirement,’ she says, and swigs her champagne with fresh determination. ‘All about retirement.’

‘Right,’ I say uncertainly. I wasn’t expecting that, somehow. ‘What exactly do you …’

‘When he retires’ – she eyes me firmly – ‘don’t let him in the house.’

‘Huh?’ I gape at her.

‘Hobbies. Interests. They need interests. Travel. You can manage if you travel. Travel separately!’ she adds. ‘Find some girlfriends. Weekends to Dublin, that kind of thing.’

‘But—’

‘Golf,’ she cuts me off. ‘Neville never would take up golf. Why not? That’s what I want to know. What’s wrong with golf?’ Her mouth twists and her eyes go distant, as though she’s mentally having an argument about golf, and winning. Then she comes to. ‘Just don’t let them loaf about the house asking you what’s for lunch every half-hour. That’s where it goes wrong. All my girlfriends agree. Fatal. Fatal!’

I’m dumbstruck. I hadn’t even thought about retirement. And anyway, why wouldn’t I want Dan in the house?

‘I’m looking forward to having Dan around more when he retires,’ I venture. ‘I mean it’s still a long way away, obviously …’

Sue surveys me for a moment, and then bursts into laughter. ‘Oh, Sylvie, I do forget, you’re very young.’ She pats my knee again. ‘But bear my advice in mind, when the time comes. That’s how to make it work.’

She relaxes back and sips her champagne. And here’s the thing. (Thing Two.) This is my mother-in-law talking. I should just nod. I should say, ‘I’m sure you’re right, Sue,’ and move the conversation on. It would be polite. It would be easy.

But I can’t. I can’t buy into this version of marriage, or retirement, or whatever we’re talking about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally up for some girlie trips to Dublin with Tilda and my mates from the school gate (excellent idea). But banning Dan from the house in case he asks for lunch? I mean, really? First of all, I’m more likely to ask him what’s for lunch. He’s the better cook. And secondly, we’d probably just make our own sandwiches. And third, why would you want your husband to take up a sport he didn’t enjoy?