‘But don’t you lose intimacy if you create barriers like that?’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘Don’t you create wedges?’

‘Wedges? What does that mean, wedges?’ says Sue suspiciously, as though I might mean potato wedges.

‘You know.’ My brain gropes for an explanation. ‘Things in the way. Things that stop you being what you should be as a partnership. As a relationship.’

‘Well.’ Sue sounds almost truculent. ‘What is a partnership? What is a relationship? What is a marriage? There are a thousand different answers to that.’ She takes another deep slug of champagne and for a while we’re both silent. My mind is chewing on what she’s just said. I close my eyes and squint into the back of my brain, trying to work out what I think.

I could tell you what I think about the Kardashians in a heartbeat. But ‘What is a relationship?’ not so much. I’ve neglected the subject. Or maybe I didn’t ever realize I should be thinking about it.

‘I think a relationship is like two stories,’ I say at last, feeling my way cautiously through my thoughts. ‘Like … two open books, pressing together, and all the words mingle into one big, epic story. But if they stop mingling …’ I lift my glass for emphasis. ‘Then they turn into two stories again. And that’s when it’s over.’ I clap my hands together, spilling champagne. ‘The books shut. The End.’

There’s quite a long silence, and I wonder if I’m so drunk that I’m not making sense. But when at last I turn, I see to my horror that Sue has tears running down her cheeks. Shit. Where did they come from?

‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim. ‘Sue! I’m sorry! What did I say?’

Sue just shakes her head. She produces a tissue from her snappy leather handbag and wipes her nose roughly with it.

We sit in silence for a while – then on impulse I put an arm around Sue’s shoulders and squeeze.

‘Let’s have lunch,’ I say. ‘One of these days.’

‘Yes,’ says Sue. ‘Let’s.’

The reception goes on and on. Staff keep popping up from different hospital departments and wanting to say hello to me and Mummy and tell me about that time they met Daddy at some fundraiser or other, and he was so charming/brilliant/amazing at darts. (Darts? I never knew he could play darts.)

During a lull, I find myself alone with Mummy, just the two of us. Mummy’s colour is high too, although whether that’s the champagne or the emotion, I can’t tell.

‘That was a lovely speech, Sylvie,’ she says. ‘Lovely.’

‘Thanks.’ I bite my lip. ‘I hope Daddy would have been proud.’

‘Oh, darling, he’s looking down at you now.’ Mummy nods emphatically, as though convincing herself. ‘He really is. He’s looking down at his beautiful daughter and he’s so, so proud …’ She reaches up and takes one of my blonde ringlets. ‘He loved your hair,’ she says, almost absently.

‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know he did.’

For a while, neither of us speaks, and a voice is telling me to leave the moment be. But another voice is urging me on to find out more. This is my chance.

‘So … I saw you talking to Dan.’ I try to sound casual, as though I’m just making chit-chat.

‘Oh yes.’ Her eyes slide away from mine. ‘Poor Dan. Such a rock for us all.’

‘What were you talking about?’

‘Talking about?’ Mummy blinks at me. ‘Darling, I have no idea. This and that.’

I feel a surge of frustration. ‘This and that’? Really? I saw Dan mouthing ‘a million pounds, maybe two’ at her. In what universe could this be described as ‘this and that’?

‘Nothing important, then?’ I say, more bluntly. ‘Nothing I should know about?’

Mummy gives me one of her most infuriating, wide-eyed looks. I know she’s hiding something. I know it. But what? Oh God, she’s not in debt, is she? The idea hits me with sudden force. Has she bought so many stupid gadgets to sell that she owes QVC a million pounds, maybe two?

Stop it, Sylvie. Don’t be ridiculous. But something else?

Gambling?

The thought comes to me in a flash. I remember Mummy blinking furiously in the kitchen when I’d just mentioned the play Dealer’s Choice. Oh God. Please don’t say that’s been her way of assuaging her grief.

But … no. Surely not. I can’t picture Mummy gambling. Even when we went to Monte Carlo that time, she wasn’t interested in the casino. She preferred drinking cocktails and eyeing up people on their boats.

I take a gulp of champagne, my thoughts all over the place. Am I going to push it? Am I going to confront my mother at a reception honouring her dead husband?

No. Clearly I am not.

‘Well, it was a lovely ceremony,’ I say, retreating into platitude. ‘Lovely.’

Mummy nods. ‘Sinead Brook looked older than I’d imagined, don’t you agree? Or was it all that make-up she was wearing?’

We bitch happily about Sinead Brook’s make-up for a few minutes, then Mummy’s car arrives for her and she leaves, and I look around for my family, who are all scoffing the mini eclairs, including Dan. I gather them up and find the children’s inflated disposable-glove toys, which they’ve named ‘Glovey’ and ‘Glover’ and which have obviously become their most precious, treasured friends. (God knows what’s going to happen when they burst this evening. Oh well, cross that bridge.) Then it’s time for goodbyes and thank yous and I start to feel I’ve really had enough of this event.

At last we emerge into the fresh air. I’m quite dazed and my head is pounding. There were too many bright lights and voices and faces and memories. Not to mention emotional encounters. Not to mention mystery conversations involving a million pounds, maybe two.

We stand in the hospital forecourt for the longest time, wondering whether to go for a cup of tea or not and looking cafes up on our phones, before Sue and Neville decide that no, in fact they’ll catch the earlier train to Leicester. So then we’re into a round of hugs and future arrangements, and that takes forever, too.

When, finally, we pile into the car, I feel exhausted. But I’m wired, too. I’ve been waiting to be alone with Dan. I need to get to the bottom of this.

‘So, you had a nice long chat with my mother!’ I say lightly as we pull up at some traffic lights. ‘And I thought I heard you talking about … money?’

‘Money?’ Dan gives me a quick, impenetrable glance. ‘No.’

‘You didn’t talk about money at all?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Right,’ I say after a long pause. ‘Must have made a mistake.’

I stare out of the windscreen, feeling a heaviness in my stomach. He’s lying. Dan’s actually lying to me. What do I do? Do I call him out? Do I say, ‘Well, guess what, I heard you saying “a million pounds, maybe two”,’ and see what he says?

No. Because … just, no.

If he wants to lie, he’ll lie, even if I do throw ‘a million pounds, maybe two’ at him. He’ll say I misread his lips. Or he’ll say, ‘Oh, that. We were talking about the local council.’ He’ll have some explanation. And then he’ll be on his guard. And I’ll feel even more desperate than before. I’m just quelling an urge to wail, ‘Oh, Dan, please tell me, please tell me what’s going on,’ when he wriggles in his seat and clears his throat and speaks.

‘By the way, I’m having some old friends round. But don’t worry, I’ve arranged it for your Pilates night so you won’t be bored by us.’

He gives a short little laugh, which doesn’t ring quite true, and I stare at him with fresh concern. The million pounds (maybe two) feel instantly less urgent. I’m now more perturbed by these old friends. What old friends?

‘Don’t worry!’ I say, attempting an easy tone. ‘I’ll cancel Pilates. I’d love to meet your old friends! Which old friends are these?’

‘Oh, just … friends,’ says Dan vaguely. ‘From back in the day. You don’t know them.’

‘I don’t know any of them?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Like I say, you don’t know them.’ Dan frowns into his mirror, as he changes lanes. ‘Adrian, Jeremy … There was a whole bunch of us. We volunteered at the St Philip’s Garden.’

‘Oh, right!’ I shoot him a savage smile. ‘The St Philip’s Garden. Brilliant. What a super idea, to invite them round, after all this time.’ And I leave it a full five seconds before I add in my lightest tones, ‘And what about Mary, did you ask her, too?’

‘Oh yes,’ Dan says, still apparently preoccupied by the road. ‘Of course.’

‘Of course!’ My savage smile gets even brighter. ‘Of course you invited Mary! Why wouldn’t you?’

Of course he bloody did.

ELEVEN

This is officially a Marital Situation. And actually I’m quite freaked out, in a way I really didn’t expect to be.

I feel as though our whole marriage, I’ve been playing around with worries. They were amateur worries. Mini-worries. I used to sigh and roll my eyes and exclaim, ‘I’m so stressed!’ without knowing what ‘stressed’ really was.

But now a real, genuine, scary worry is looming at me, like Everest. Ten days have passed since the hospital event. Things haven’t got any better. And I can’t sigh or roll my eyes or exclaim, ‘I’m so stressed!’ because they, I now realize, are things you do when you’re not really worried. When you’re really worried, you go silent and pick at your fingernails and forget to put your lipstick on. You stare at your husband and try to read his mind. You google Mary Holland a hundred times a day. Then you google husband lying what does it mean? Then you google husband affair how common? And you flinch at the answers you receive.

God, I hate the internet.

I especially hate the photo of Mary Holland that pops up every time I google her. She looks like an angel. She’s beautiful, successful and basically perfect all round. She runs an environmental consultancy and she’s done a TED talk on emissions and is on some House of Commons committee and she’s run the London Marathon three times. In all the photos I can find of her, she’s wearing what look like eco clothes – lots of natural linens and ethnic-looking cotton tops. She has clear pale skin and blunt yet gorgeous features and wavy dark hair (she’s got rid of the frizz) which sits around her face in a pre-Raphaelite cloud. Dimples when she smiles, obviously. Plus a single silver ring which she does not wear on her left hand.