'Are you all right?' asked Mum, as she opened the door to me.

I was all right. But the way she kept asking me, that sympathetic tone in her voice, it was like glass sandpaper being rubbed on my skin. And because she kept asking me, I had become more and more self-conscious about what to say in response. It was no longer enough just to say 'fine' because that sounded defensive. I started to think of what a person who was fine would say, what I could say that would genuinely convince my mother that there was no awkwardness because in actual fact there wasn't – on my side, at least.

'I'm absolutely fine,' I said. 'There's no problem about any of this.'

Too much. My mother was immediately sympathetic.

'You're looking lovely, Miranda,' she said.

I was looking all right, but it had been a delicate balance. There's the old cliché that when you're dumped – and of course I hadn't actually been dumped, but that was neither here nor there – you should make yourself look dazzling to show the person who has dumped you, or who people think has dumped you, what they're missing. But because it's an old cliché which everybody knows, then making a huge effort in those circumstances can end up looking slightly pathetic. On the other hand, you can't go the other way and give the impression that you've been lying in bed all day crying and drinking cooking sherry. It should have been easy, but it wasn't, and the only way I could decide what to wear was to think back to the last time I'd been out to meet someone socially (not counting Kerry and Brendan) and wear what I'd worn then. Unfortunately, that had been a hen night for an old friend and I'd worn a skimpy black dress that was completely unsuitable for a Sunday lunch at my parents'. But the time before that had been a casual night out at a bar and I'd worn jeans and a white shirt and my new denim jacket with the suede collar, and that would do fine.

'You're looking very nice,' said my mother, which made me think something must be wrong. 'Everybody's here already. Kerry is looking gorgeous. I don't mean…' She glanced at me awkwardly. 'Shall we go through?'

'Is Troy here?' I asked.

'Yes. He seems quite well. A bit less hyper than on Thursday, but on an even keel. Touch wood,' she added and thumped the door for luck.

It seemed that all was well with the Cotton family. Kerry was happy. I was looking lovely. Troy seemed all right. I was tempted to make some sort of protest, but today was a day I was going to be on my best behaviour. The sun was shining, as if in honour of the occasion, and although it was October everybody was out in the long, narrow back garden. Everybody except Troy, who was uncomfortable in groups. You'd see him there at first and then he would melt away, go upstairs somewhere and read a book or listen to music.

Even so, the small garden seemed crowded. Bill and Judy were there as well. My parents hadn't told me they were inviting my boss. So he knew as well. Know: there should be a different word for knowing something that isn't actually true. The weather was so good that Dad had lit a barbecue. I could see him at the end of the garden, standing over it, poking at the coals with – yes, there was no doubt about it – with Brendan. The two of them were talking to each other with great animation, but were too far away for me to hear anything of what they were saying. Kerry was standing with Judy. She was wearing baggy black trousers and a tight-ribbed pink top, and she looked the way she did at La Table: happy, confident.

I decided to put off any potential awkwardness for as long as possible and walked over to Bill, who seemed like the most neutral person in the garden. He gave me a friendly nod.

'Hi, Miranda,' he said. 'How are you doing?'

He handed me a bottle of beer from the table next to him.

'I don't see you here very often,' I said to him.

'Marcia was most insistent.'

I took a sip from the beer and looked up at the back of my parents' narrow terraced house, which was covered by scaffolding.

'What do you think?' I said.

'If it wasn't being redone it wouldn't be standing by next year.'

'That bad?'

'Worse. You can almost see that crack growing.'

'Miranda,' said my father, appearing suddenly from the side. 'How are you?'

I ignored the question, especially as Brendan was hovering at his elbow dressed in new, ironed jeans and a light blue sweater with the sleeves pulled up to just below the elbow, and gave my father a little hug. He patted me on the back awkwardly. He's not a great hugger, my father.

'Hi, Dad,' I said. 'Lovely to see you.'

'I've got to admit that Brendan is a master with the barbecue,' he said.

'It's all about piling up the coal,' Brendan said. 'You make the bricquettes into a pyramid and put several fire lighters underneath and then really get it all burning. You only spread them out when the flames have died down.'

'Bill and I were talking about the house,' I said.

'You should pay attention to Brendan,' Dad said. 'You might learn something.'

'I don't make many barbecues in my flat,' I said.

'You might need to one day,' said Brendan.

'I've always thought it was something men liked doing,' I said.

'We never had a barbecue, did we, Mirrie?'

I was tempted to say: 'No, Brendan. We never had a barbecue because we only went out for about nine days, so we didn't have time for that or indeed almost anything at all.' I didn't. I made myself take a deep breath. A silent, metaphorical deep breath.

'No, we didn't,' I said.

'I'm afraid that I've been boring Brendan,' Dad said. 'He's been letting me talk shop.'

'Boxes,' said Brendan and rubbed his hands together. 'So simple, and yet imagine life without boxes.'

Bill gaped. Even my father looked a bit startled by such enthusiasm.

'Yes, well,' he said. 'I don't know about that. I'm a practical man. I like making things; I've always been interested in problem solving. Finding solutions. You can do that with the packaging business.'

'I know exactly what you mean,' said Brendan. 'On the face of it, packaging sounds obvious. But a few years ago, this man called Harry Vermont and I set up this dotcom company.'

'What company?' my father asked.

Brendan laughed ruefully.

'One of those that was going to make us all millionaires,' he said. 'But it's gone now.'

'What did it do?' said Bill.

'The point of it,' said Brendan 'was that people could order different sorts of consumer goods from the website and we would deliver them. We would be middlemen. Middlepersons, I should say. When it started, I thought it was all about technology. But once it started, I realized it was partly that but, when it came down to it, it was also about packaging and delivery. You had to get the right packaging at the right place, you had to source it and do the actual packing, and then you had to deliver it on time. It was an amazing challenge for us.'

'Who did you source it from?' asked Dad.

'Sorry?'

'Packaging in this country is quite a small world. I was wondering if you were dealing with someone I know.'

'We were only in the planning stage,' said Brendan. 'Then the dotcom collapse happened and we lost our funding. Poor old Harry never quite got over it.'

'If you're interested, Brendan, I'll show you around some time,' said my father.

'I'd love that,' said Brendan. 'Meanwhile, I reckon it's time to get the food on the barbecue.'

As it turned out, it wasn't time to put the food on the barbecue. While we had been talking, the barbecue had gone out. Brendan said that this sometimes happened when the bricquettes had been left in the shed for a long time and had become damp. My father looked pleased and said that he wouldn't have been able to bear it if there were somebody better than him at lighting barbecues in the family. His position as lord and master would have been threatened.