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Evie, I’ve just got to know something.’
    ‘Oh?’ I say, scanning the room for an escape route.
    ‘The reason you split up with me. Was it,’ he looks around to see if anyone is listening, ‘was it the underwear ?’
    A group of guests a couple of tables away start laughing and, even though I know they can’t hear us, I shift uncomfortably. Just the thought of the underwear–his hideous Valentine present purchased from the Classified Section of a publication called Hot and Horny –would elicit a hysterical response anywhere. I never did try it on but couldn’t help thinking that, even with the two big holes in the chest as ventilation, all that rubber had the potential to induce one hell of a rash.
    ‘I can’t pretend I wouldn’t have preferred La Perla, Gareth. But no,’ I add hastily, not wanting to appear coldhearted, ‘it really wasn’t that.’
    But it’s too late. His puppy-dog eyes are looking at me as if I’m a vivisectionist. I feel a stab of guilt.
    ‘Then what, Evie?’ he wails. ‘For God’s sake, what was it?’
    Then Gareth sniffs. I say sniffs, but it would be better described as a grunt. A grunt so long and loud it sounds like a cappuccino machine about to spontaneously combust. This can only mean one thing: we’re heading for emotional meltdown.
    ‘Don’t cry,’ I plead, grabbing his hand. I mean it too. Andnot just because Grace’s Uncle Bob and Auntie Marion are looking over.
    Gareth produces a threadbare piece of tissue from his pocket and gives his nose the most almighty blow I’ve ever witnessed. A blow so forceful his eyes look in danger of popping out. Then he scrunches up the tissue and, instead of putting it back in his pocket, chucks it idly on the table next to us.
    I try to concentrate on what he’s saying, but suddenly find it very difficult to focus on anything other than the content of his tissue, which looks alarmingly like something from Ghostbusters .
    ‘I’m not going to cry,’ he says with a brave, wobbly smile. ‘I’m not going to cry.’
    Then he pauses for a second. ‘Ohhh! Evieee!’ he blubs.
    I pull my eyes away from the tissue, suddenly torn between despising myself and being desperate to get out of there. There is only one thing for it. I turn to Gareth, grab his arm and look intensely into his eyes.
    ‘Gareth,’ I say, gripping his elbow. ‘We do need to talk about this. You’re absolutely right.’
    Gareth couldn’t look more surprised if I’d suggested we elope to Finland and adopt twelve reindeer.
    ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You agree then? That we ought to talk?’
    ‘Absolutely. But the thing is, I can’t. Not just now anyway. I’ve got to go and help Grace’s mum…’ I scan the room for inspiration ‘…with the napkins.’
    He looks at me as if I’m insane.
    ‘What do you need to do with the napkins?’ he asks. ‘Everyone’s finished eating.’
    ‘They’re a fire hazard,’ I say authoritatively. ‘You can’t justgo leaving that amount of paper around the place, it’s against EU regulations. One stray cigarette and this place will be like the Towering Inferno . With no Steve McQueen on hand to rescue us.’
    He scrunches up his face. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that before,’ he says. ‘Besides, weren’t they linen?’
    ‘Even worse,’ I gasp. ‘I’m sorry, Gareth, I’m going to have to go. We’ll catch up soon. Promise .’

Chapter 16
    Charlotte spent the first eighteen years of her life in a dormer bungalow in Widnes, which is Cheshire, but not the wealthy part where none of the women’s breasts are real.
    She had two loving parents who stayed together for the sake of the children for so long they almost forgot they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. These days, she works for the Inland Revenue doing…well, I must admit I’ve never quite worked out what she does exactly. Whenever she tells anybody about it, you can see people’s eyes glazing over, the way my Great Aunt Hilda’s do when the