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recalcitrant younger sister.
    ‘That’s OK, Cee, takeaway’s fine. It’ll be nice to hang out with you and the kids at home.’
    ‘Great. And I am sorry, Cassie, that you had to change your plans for this weekend. I know you’re not keen on family things.’ You’ve got to hand it to her, Celia knows how to twist the knife.
    Dinner was a rather greasy Chinese eaten while sitting on the floor and watching the DVD of Mamma Mia , Rosie and Tom singing along lustily and tunelessly, getting all the lyrics wrong. Eventually, Celia put them to bed.
    ‘Wouldn’t usually let them stay up this late, but they were desperate to see their Auntie Cassie,’ Celia said as I opened a bottle of Rioja. ‘They see you so infrequently.’
    We were sitting at her rather formal dining room table. I felt an interrogation coming on.
    ‘How’s work?’ she asked. ‘Are you worried, you know, with the credit crunch and this recession business? Do you think your bank’s going to be OK? Because Mike was saying that quite a few of the banks are in trouble.’ Michael, Celia’s husband, is a solicitor with a small local firm and something of a know-it-all. He spends most of his time drafting contracts for property sales but he likes to pretend that he has insider knowledge of the business world.
    ‘It’s mostly the US ones,’ I said, with a breezy confidence that I didn’t feel as strongly as I might have done a few days previously.
    ‘Really? Because Mike was saying that quite a few of the British banks are having problems, too.’
    Conversations with Celia are often like this. Mike was saying this, Mike was saying that. It drives me up the wall. She appears to have no opinions of her own, except for those on what Mike would call ‘women’s subjects’ like childcare and cake-baking.
    ‘We’re fine, Celia, really. My job’s great. I’m actually in my boss’s good books for a change – I had to organise this drinks party for the clients and it was a real success. It was in this amazing hotel, the Hempel, you know, designed by Anouska Hempel—’
    ‘Ooh, did I tell you I got the function room at the Holiday Inn for tomorrow?’ Celia said, cutting me off in full flow. ‘It’s ever so nice, actually. It’s out on the A43, towards Corby. Lovely place. There’s a gym and a pool and everything. I think it’s a three-star. Anyway, the function room is lovely – nice views of the countryside and fields and things, and they’ve given us a really good deal on the buffet.’
    ‘Sounds great, Cee,’ I said, pouring myself another glass of wine. As I replaced the bottle on the table, Celia picked it up and put the cork back in.
    ‘That’s probably enough for tonight – don’t want to be hungover tomorrow, do we?’
    Unused to being sent to bed at ten thirty in the evening on a Friday night, I hung around downstairs once Celia had gone up to bed, retrieved the bottle of red wine from its hiding place and rang Ali.
    ‘Where did you disappear to last night?’ I asked her when she picked up.
    ‘I went home.’
    ‘No, you did not. I saw you with that French guy again. What’s going on?’
    She laughed throatily. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really,’ she said.
    ‘It didn’t look like nothing.’
    ‘Well, maybe it’s something. I’ve been … seeing him on and off for a little while now.’
    ‘You kept that quiet. Is that because he’s married?’
    ‘Oh, don’t, Cass. It’s not like I’m trying to get him to leave his wife. He’s French – you know what they’re like. They all have a bit on the side. The wife probably does, too.’
    ‘And you’re OK with that?’
    ‘I’m great with that. Suits me down to the ground. Clandestine meetings, amazing sex and no relationship hassle. No meeting of the parents, no hanging out with his boring friends, no emotional dramas … You should try it. It’s bloody fantastic.’
    I was woken the following morning by Tom demanding that I play football with him immediately. I looked