Oddly, the male sibling, Anthony, was the one we all knew least. He came after Serena and before the others. He was still young, not much more than a boy, when Serena and I were running around together, but I can’t say that even when he was grown up we were ever much the wiser where he was concerned. He was polite, of course, and pleasant to talk to at dinner or while having a drink before lunch, but he was always curiously opaque. He revealed nothing. The kind of person who, years later, might turn out to be a terrorist or a serial killer, without causing any great surprise. I liked him though, and I will say that he never demonstrated that supremely tedious habit that some people acquire, of loudly advertising to all and sundry the amount of information they are concealing. He hid everything about himself, but without pretence, mystery or conceit.

‘So, how are you?’ she said. ‘Have you got another book out? I shouldn’t have to ask. I feel rather feeble, not knowing.’ There is a way of enquiring into an artistic career, which may sound or read as generous, but which in fact manages to reduce the value of it almost to nothing. The contempt is contained within its enthusiastic kindness, rather as a little girl’s painting will be praised by someone who is hopeless with children. No one can do this better than the genuinely posh.

‘There’s one coming out next March.’

‘You must let us know when it does.’ Such people often say this sort of thing to their acquaintance in the media: ‘Let me know when you’re next on television,’ ‘Let us know when it’s published,’ ‘Let us know when you’re back on Any Questions.’ As if one is likely to sit down and send off three thousand postcards when a personal appearance is scheduled. Obviously, they understand this will never happen. The message is really: ‘We are not sufficiently interested in what you do to be aware of it if you don’t make us aware. You understand that it does not impinge on our world, so you will please forgive us in future for missing whatever you are involved in.’ Serena did not mean it unkindly, which is the case with many of them, but I cannot deny it is disheartening at times.

Her friendliness continued unabated. ‘When did you know you’d be here tonight? You might have given us some warning. You could have come to dinner.’ I explained the situation. Serena raised her eyebrows. ‘Are they friends of yours? He’s acquired the title of Bore of the County, but perhaps we’re being unjust.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

She laughed. ‘Well, it’s nice to welcome you back. Has it changed?’

‘Not really. Not as much as most of the rest of my life.’

‘A trip down Memory Lane.’

‘I’m living in Memory Lane at the moment.’ Naturally, this demanded an explanation and I gave a partial one. I did not tell her the reason for why I was interviewing all these women from our joint past, only that Damian wanted to check up on what had happened to them and he’d asked me to do it, because he met them all through me in the first place.

‘But why did you agree? Isn’t it very time-wasting? And you certainly don’t owe him a favour.’ She raised her eyebrows to punctuate this.

‘I’m not completely sure why I’m doing it. I didn’t intend to when he made the request, but then I saw that he was dying-’ I broke off. She was visibly shocked and I rather regretted blurting it out as I had done.

‘Dying?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

She took stock, regaining command of herself. ‘How odd. You don’t think of someone like Damian Baxter as “dying.”’

‘Well, he is.’

‘Oh.’ By now she had quite recovered her equilibrium. ‘Well, I’m sad. Surprised and sad.’

‘I think he was always quite surprising.’

But Serena shook her head. ‘I don’t agree. He was exciting, but most of what he got up to was not surprising, it was inevitable. It wasn’t at all surprising that he gatecrashed the Season so effectively. And it wasn’t a bit surprising that he made more money than anyone else in recorded history. I knew all that would happen from the moment I met him. But dying thirty years before his time…’

‘How did you know?’

Serena thought for a moment. ‘I think because he was always so angry. And in my experience people who are angry when young, either explode and vanish or do tremendously well. When I heard he’d gone into the City I knew he’d end up with zillions.’

I could not contain my curiosity, even if it felt like biting down on a loose tooth. ‘Did you like him? When all was said and done?’

She looked at me. She knew the significance of the question, despite the years that we had travelled since it had the smallest relevance to either of our lives. On top of which she shared the usual reluctance of her tribe to give emotional information that might later be used in evidence against her. But at last she nodded. ‘At one point,’ she said. Then she seemed to gather up her carapace from the floor and wrap it firmly round herself once more. ‘We really ought to join the others. I think it’s about to start.’ In answer to her words there was a sudden fizzing roar and through the uncurtained tall windows we could see a rocket darting across the night sky. With a loud bang, it exploded into a wide shower of golden sparks, accompanied by an appreciative ‘ooh!’ from the watching crowd.

‘Is Andrew here?’ In common courtesy I could avoid the question no longer. Even so, it felt lumpy, as if it had stuck to my lips.

She nodded. ‘He’s outside with the children. He always loves fireworks. ’ Behind her, the anteroom was suddenly filling up again, as some of the contents of the drawing room beyond spilled out to take advantage of another way outside. Serena started towards them. I fell into step beside her as we passed through the open French windows and in a moment we were enveloped in the sudden chill of the now dark, night air. Further along to the right, the rest of the house’s guests were emerging from the doors of the Tapestry Drawing Room itself and the wide terrace was already becoming quite crowded. Another rocket, another bang, another twinkling shower, another ooh. ‘Andrew, look who’s here.’

It is still an offence to me that, of all people on earth, she should have married Andrew Summersby. How could my goddess have married this clottish beast of burden willingly? At least Shakespeare’s Titania chose Bottom when she was on drugs. My Titania picked her Bottom when stone-cold sober and with her eyes wide open. Obviously, we all knew that Lady Claremont had propelled her daughter towards it, as in those days she did not question the accepted wisdom that a mother’s job was to promote a suitable marriage, and a husband of equal rank and fortune trumped every trick. And obviously we all knew that Lady Belton was pushing from the other side until her shoulder must have been out of joint. But even so, it was hard to understand at the time, and harder still now, looking back. I wondered silently if Lady Claremont, with the different values and awarenesses of the modern world, would have promoted the match quite so furiously today. I rather thought not. But what good are such contemplations? If my grandmother had had wheels, she would have been a trolley car.

Andrew’s stupid, bovine face, wider and flatter and redder and, if possible, even more repulsive than when I knew him, turned blankly towards me, with a solemn, self-inflating nod. ‘Hello,’ he said, without any question or courtesy to mark the gap since we last met.

Bridget had now found her way to us through the crowd and she chose this moment to curl her arm through mine in a deliberately possessive manner, advertising ownership, smiling smugly at Serena as she did so, all of which I found incredibly irritating but I did not show it. ‘May I present Bridget FitzGerald?’ I nodded towards my companions. ‘Andrew and Serena Summers-’ I corrected myself. This was wrong. Andrew’s father was dead, which I knew. I just wasn’t thinking. ‘Sorry. Andrew and Serena Belton.’ Serena smiled and shook Bridget’s hand, but Andrew for some reason looked rather insulted and raised his glance back towards the fireworks. I thought at the time it was because I had got his name wrong, but I have a horrible suspicion, knowing his absolute lack of brain or imagination, that he had objected to being introduced to a stranger of lower rank as anything other than ‘Lord Belton.’ You may find this suggestion hard to believe, but I can assure you he was not alone among perfectly genuine toffs in this brand of foolishness, which takes the form of imitating the clothes and customs of their fathers from half a century ago and more. This is in the mistaken belief that it is an indicator of their good breeding, as opposed to absolute proof of their idiocy,