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‘I was… going to surprise you.’

Not quite true. It was my insurance policy. Something to do with Bella Edgeworth. Which of course, I didn't need now. But I did love it. Loved being useful. Except now that Stacey was coming I'd be useful in my more familiar, maternal way: my supportive role. The one I still felt was instinctive, biological. I hesitated.

‘Don't even think about it,’ he said, lying down again. ‘If you love it, do it. You'll need a distraction. Something for you. Don't even think about chucking it, Evie.’

I lay down quietly impressed. Quite forceful, for Ant.

I went on through the fields following the post-and-rail fence that bordered our farm, past the cottage Maroulla and Mario had once had, now occupied by Tim's farm worker, Phil, and his girlfriend, Carly. Glancing in I saw that the sentimental print of a gypsy girl with a tear in her eye that had once hung over the fireplace and I'd thought the height of sophistication, had been replaced with a mirror. I remembered plates of pasta in front of that fire – in front of the telly too, if Maroulla was in a good mood.

Carefully skirting piles of manure I achieved the gate to the main horse arena. It had a bossy notice on it: ‘Shut firmly behind you.’ I did as I was told. Vast horseboxes and lorries, which, by virtue of their cargo, were allowed to progress here whilst lesser pilgrims like me had to stop short in the yard, were parked in neat lines just proud of the collecting ring, which was cordoned off with white tape. Every so often a harassed mother in wellingtons would run past in that middle-aged, shuffle bottom way, shouting, ‘Kick on, Clarissa!’ or ‘Shorten your reins!’ as a tearful, red-faced child on a pony yelled back, ‘I'm trying!’ Lots of fat little girls on thin ponies, and lots of thin little girls on fat ponies. Apparently Norman Thelwell's house had backed on to just such a field, and he'd stood at his garden fence with his sketchpad and pencil, and smiled at his good fortune.

Despite the numbers, and the frenetic activity, almost the first person I saw was Anna. She'd tied Hector to a fence post where he was munching a hay net, and was sitting cross-legged on the grass beside him, iPod in her ears, texting away on her phone. She looked up as I approached. Her face, which a moment ago had been a blank, teenage canvas, suddenly became watchful, apprehensive. I gave her a broad smile. Then a little nod.

I watched relief flood her face. She got up with just the merest tinge of uncertainty, pulled her earplugs out and came towards me tentatively, eyes searching my face.

‘Really? Have you talked to Daddy? Have you – did you—’

‘Yes, yes and yes. What a lot of doubting Thomases I've got. Did you really think I wouldn't?’

She flew the last few steps into my arms. I gathered her to me. Her eyes were damp when she pulled back.

‘Well, you might have said no, why shouldn't you?’ she demanded, brushing her eyes roughly with her sleeve. ‘She's not yours, after all.’

‘No, but she's yours. And Daddy's. And that's good enough for me.’

We laughed and she hugged me again.

‘You and Bob Geldof,’ she said suddenly, drawing back.

‘What?’

‘Bob Geldof took on Tiger Lily after Mike Hutchence and then Paula Yates died. She wasn't his, but she was Peaches and the other sisters'.’

I blinked. ‘Right.’ I wasn't quite as au fait with the pages of OK! as my daughter these days. I had a vague idea what she was talking about, though.

‘And she's lovely, Mum, isn't she? Really sweet. You'll love her when you get to know her properly.’

I smiled. ‘She is, and I will. I know I will.’

We linked arms and walked back towards Hector.

‘But, Mum…’ she hesitated. Stopped suddenly. ‘She's not like my other friends.’

‘What d'you mean?’

‘Well, she's not – you know – like Chloe and Poppy. Not…’ she struggled to explain; looked worried, as Ant had looked worried last night. About reality dawning. Not posh, was what she meant. Not Oxford High. Not flicky-haired and clued up and rally rally nice.