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sparkle would fade from her eyes, her face would crumple into deep creases and her plump mouth, which she was constantly feeding, would droop at the corners. Or take Seth, who controlled the conversation as he controlled his actors, by virtue of the fact that his voice rarely rose above a whisper – you had to strain sometimes to catch what he was saying – whose face (if you paid close attention) became suffused with repressed anger if he was interrupted or crossed. Francesca was at apparent ease before the TV camera, but was betrayed by herexpression of chronic anxiety when her public persona was switched off, and the supercilious Jonathan by the way he looked round the table for approval each time he spoke. Although Sebastian’s diagnostic skills were unquestioned, his emotional immaturity was revealed by his often puerile jokes. Tony’s mouth beneath his sophisticated moustache lapsed into a thin line of petulance and jealousy whenever Clive, a macho six-footer , paid too much attention to somebody else, while Zoffany’s true self was exposed by her bitten fingernails which, when she thought no one was looking, she surreptitiously chewed. Only Oleg was a closed book except for the unmistakably sexual signals which were directed not towards Nicola but, to her great discomfort, towards Clare herself.
    These were her friends and she loved them. There had been none when she was growing up.
    When Jamie finally arrived, he was greeted with inebriated hugs and kisses both from Clare and her girlfriends, with whom he was extremely popular. Upending the Rioja, he proceeded to make up for lost time.
    It was two o’clock in the morning before everyone had gone home, and already getting light by the time Clare had finally got to sleep. The delay was due to the fact that, having carried out the traditional post-mortem on the evening, which had turned out to be a noisy but unqualified success, Jamie had asked her to marry him.
    ‘How would you feel about spending the rest of your life with me?’
    ‘Sorry?’ Clare, who was knackered, was almost asleep.
    ‘How would you feel about spending the rest of your life with me?’
    ‘Can’t think of anything nicer. ’Night.’
    ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
    ‘Honestly, Jamie, I can’t keep awake.’
    Ten minutes later, Clare sat bolt upright.
    ‘Was that a proposal?’
    ‘You could say that. What on earth are you crying for?’
    ‘It’s the nicest proposal I’ve ever heard.’
    The following two hours had been spent planning the wedding. Clare, egged on by her grandmother, had always had a romantic picture of herself as a bride drifting, in a cloud of ivory tulle, down the aisle of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in Farm Street, and Jamie, who had something much more laid back in mind, had suggested a simple little church in the heart of Soho followed by a few drinks in a wine-bar with their friends.
    They were just drifting off to sleep with the matter unresolved when Jamie said, ‘You haven’t answered the question.’
    ‘What question?’
    ‘How would you feel about spending the rest of your life with me?’
    ‘I’d like that more than anything else in the world.’
    Still on cloud nine – Nicola, who made no secret of the fact that she thought weddings a bit naff and marriage bonds an outmoded symbol of patriarchal ownership, had nonetheless been delighted with the news and had crackedopen a bottle of champagne for breakfast – Clare hurled herself at the glass door of Hermès. She almost fell flat on her face, on to the thick carpet of the emporium, as it was swung open for her by the bemedalled commissionaire.
    A neat navy-blue salesperson with large gold earrings registered Clare’s ankle-length skirt and sneakers. Knowing a time-waster when she saw one, she disdainfully displayed a selection of traditionally patterned scarves to do with the signs of the zodiac and horseshoes. Clare rejected the almond greens and sugary pinks, which were