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The memory fills me with so much happiness that I’ve done everything possible to avoid it.

I haven’t painted since the engagement. I couldn’t, even if they moved my studio over here.

If I picked up a brush, nothing beautiful would come out. Only rage. A furious scribble carved so violently into the canvas that the brushes would break. I’d probably slash the canvas to pieces.

The triptych has already met its reserve price of three hundred thousand pounds. Dad told me over dinner a few nights ago, as though he’d negotiated it himself. Mum produced champagne with an oh my goodness!

I drank half a glass and went upstairs. It hurt too much to pretend I was in control of my emotions.

Christopher told them I was overwhelmed.

For once, he was right.

Overwhelmed struck again last night, to a whole other level. Dad was discussing the travel arrangements over dinner when he casually dropped the news that Bryce would be accompanying us.

“He’ll meet us at Hammersmith. I’ve asked him to stay near you during the sale.”

My fork hit the plate.

I pretended it slipped.

For the rest of the evening, my body became a charge of electric wiring. Heart racing, hands shaking, thoughts jumping around like lightning.

Bryce will be there tonight. Close enough to see. Too far away to touch.

I don’t know which will be more painful.

I rise from the dressing table once Serena has packed up and left, and put on the navy dress. When I finish up my makeup and look in the mirror, I see the person everyone needs me to be. But I’m not her tonight. I’m too nervous, even under the shield of uncaring.

Christopher is waiting in the entrance hall. Dark suit. White shirt. Silver tie.

His eyes travel over the dress.

“Excellent choice.”

“My mother’s choice,” is all I can say.

I pick up my evening bag. Even now, after a few weeks together, he still hasn’t got a clue what I’m truly feeling beneath the veneer.

Mum comes downstairs in a sage green dress, down to the knee. Very tasteful. Dad appears from the drawing room in full on black tie, glancing at his watch.

“The car is here.”

Helen opens the door for us. She takes hold of my arm, so softly that nobody notices.

“Good luck, Alice,” she says quietly.

The words almost undo me. I feel the prick of genuine tears in my eyes.

“Thank you.”

Christopher places his hand at the base of my back as we walk towards the car. I speed up enough to escape and climb into the rear seat beside Mum.

The journey becomes a stream of London lights and yet more wedding conversation. Mum has received a revised proposal from the florist. The bridesmaid fabric is available, but she’s debating blue, now. Maybe a warm gold would photograph better? Look more affluent.

“What do you think, Alice?”

“Either. Whatever.”