‘But we haven’t been introduced! What kind of unnatural daughter marries a man none of her family have even met?’

It’s time to get out the big guns.

‘Perhaps one with an unnatural mother?’

The silence that follows my statement is extremely awkward, or would be if I hadn’t meant to create it. But Maz, insulated by her new status, looks untroubled, and I’m cushioned by the bouncy Zorb of the New Me, who’s immune to embarrassment or shame. It’s like Cinderella’s carriage – it might not last, but it’s magnificent.

‘Why, you—’

‘Dinner is served.’

Alan saves the day, for now, appearing loaded with dishes. Immediately, we all paste on appreciative smiles, as he presents our dinner with a courtly flourish. The smiles fade to puzzlement as each of us contemplates our . . . plates. Something is very off.

My shepherd’s pie sits on an upturned metal bin lid that lists to one side on the table. The pie itself looks fairly normal, but nothing else about the meal is. Glancing across, I see that Maz’s lasagne is presented in an open toolbox, with garlic bread tucked into the top tier. And Rose’s cod and chips are carefully laid out on a . . . toilet seat lid. Smothering a laugh, I eye our host quizzically. He’s beaming.

‘Intriguing plating, Alan,’ I say. ‘Novel.’

‘We at The Brycgstow are proud of our sustainable credentials,’ he replies. ‘All our presentation platters and cocktail jars are sourced from the bed of the Avon.’

‘You mean . . . plucked out of the river?’

‘Indeed.’

Rose gives a little moan.

‘Dredgewood.’ I snigger as, with another of his bows, he leaves us to enjoy our meal.

‘I can’t eat this,’ says Rose, pushing her toilet seat away from her, which isn’t far, because there’s very little room. ‘It’s disgusting.’

‘I’m sure they cleaned it when they pulled it out,’ I say, through my first mouthful. It’s bloody good pie, rich and filling, although I do have to chase it as the lid rolls around on the table.

‘The very idea,’ sniffs Rose. ‘Of eating off a lavatory seat.’

‘We could ask them to put it on an ordinary plate.’

‘I would still know where it’s been.’

Surely no trace of the riverbed remains on these unorthodox vessels? I remember what David Lyon-James said about grape skins leaving their mark. What has my bin lid rubbed up against? I suddenly feel a bit sick, but the pie is very good, I’m hungry and need to soak up the booze. Maz is attempting to close her toolbox as an experiment, and we all watch in fascination as it slowly glides shut.

‘Useful for keeping it warm,’ she says, opening it and breaking off a piece of garlic bread.

‘That couple in IKEA were right,’ I reply. ‘It certainly does have an ambience here. Eau de estuary.’

‘The space really flows,’ she agrees.

‘It’s very current.’

‘I bet they’re laughing all the way to the bank.’

We’re in danger of becoming hysterical again, but I need my wits about me if I’m going to complete this mission, so pour myself a glass of water from a metal jug that was probably covered in algae six months ago.

‘Tell us about Calum,’ I say, partly to annoy my mother, and partly because I’m genuinely interested in my sister’s man of mystery. When this is all over, I would like to get to know my new brother-in-law, maybe get him to check out Bigwig, who I hope is safe and happy in the staffroom.

‘He’s from Cornwall, he likes surfing, and he has a dog called Gawain.’

Wonderful stuff; I can feel Rose bristling beside me. ‘So Gawain lives with you on the farm now?’

‘Yes. The girls didn’t like him at first but now they get on.’

‘What breed is he?’ I’m prolonging this avenue of conversation purely for the pleasure of the pain it’s causing the old dear. My sister in a three-way with a vet and his dog.

‘Collie, but Calum thinks there’s something else in there – maybe a bit of Labrador?’

‘Mixed breeds are healthier, aren’t they?’

‘Oh yes, hybrid vigour.’

Rose, who considers herself entirely pure-bred and all the better for it, changes the subject. ‘Were there any guests at your . . . ceremony?’

Maz’s gaze slides away. ‘No.’

‘No one?’

‘Well . . . we had lunch with his parents after.’

Rose’s gasp is audible. ‘And did they not think it unconventional that you had no family members present? That your own mother wasn’t there?’

There’s another silence as Maz cuts and chews her lasagne. ‘No, they knew why you weren’t there.’

‘Why wasn’t I there? Pray enlighten me?’

Maz swallows. ‘Because I didn’t want you there. If I’d had you, it would have had to be everyone. All . . . the family. You would have turned it into a fanfare.’

It’s truth bombs all round today. As my mother subsides into enraged silence, I say ‘Did you not want me there either?’ I don’t ask it with rancour – I thoroughly approve of Maz’s decision and just wish I’d had the balls to do it myself, rather than enduring the wasps’ nest. All through my wedding, I was mentally under the table, spooning Viennetta.

Maz’s smile is sympathetic, infinitely understanding. ‘You would have ended up telling her, you wouldn’t have been able to help yourself. Or at least, the usual you wouldn’t.’

It’s a low blow, but a fair one. I would have tried to lie, failed miserably, and ruined it all. I take her hand across the table.

‘Well done,’ I say, and she squeezes it, her eyes full.

‘You may be having a sisterly moment,’ says Rose. ‘But I remain appalled by this. To be treated so shoddily. It’s made one thing very clear to me.’

Still holding hands, we both turn to her.

‘Made what clear?’

Rose straightens in her seat, clearing her throat. ‘We are gathered here today because I have my own announcement to make . . .’