“Totally bonkers, don't you? I mean — where's the daughter? Etta? Why is she never mentioned? And why is that guy," she jerked her head back at Hugo, "your ex-husband, totally welded to his Mum's side? What's with the silent Iris? Who refuses to join in, and is like some Greek chorus, some all-seeing, all-knowing sage, and who I rate, incidentally, but who baffles the heck out of me. And the adorable Roger, who's escaped, but only so far, and only into Babs’ arms, not her life. He still has to exist in this madhouse. And the sad, inscrutable and fading-into-the-background-by-the-day Christina, also baffling, because I ask myself, what's in it for her? And then at the top of the tree, at the top of this crazy, bulb-busting Christmas tree, the weirdest, maddest, loony woman herself, Belinda Bellingdon. Fat controller extraordinaire, puppeteer woman, pulling every string, who is now telling her son she misses London — where I gather she's never lived — and is thinking of buying a little place up there."

I glanced at her, horrified. Janey nodded. “I swear! She said it as plain as anything at lunch the other day. And no one says, shut up - Belinda, give the boy some space, everyone just goes a bit quieter. And a bit grayer. Toys limply with their Caesar salad. I mean, what the heck?" She knocked back the remains of her whisky, eyes wide.

I nodded. "You're right. They are a bit . . . strange."

"And despite you thinking Pete's swerved away from the family business, she’s doing her best to swerve him back again."

"Belinda?"

"Oh, every opportunity. Family name, family reputation, all that nonsense. We had a chat that night, though, in the club. He's not doing it."

"No, I know." I did. Nonetheless, I was thinking about what she'd said earlier. About Peter really getting away. How it wasn't a bad idea.

She read my thoughts. "He's his own person, Flora. Not saying he needs to get away to America — this isn't some Brideshead, Catholic dilemma — just saying, let him look at the options."

I regarded her gratefully. "You're right. Of course you're right. And thank you."

She grinned. She raised her glass and waggled her eyebrows. "You wanna thank me for not sleeping with him, too?"

I smiled. Looked sheepishly at my feet. "I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not, you're great. In fact, I almost think you're as great as Tommy does."

“Tommy? Oh no, Tommy and I have never got over our hate at first sight."

She blinked. "Oh, OK, guess I read that wrong. He certainly goes out of his way for the rest of this dopey family, though. He one hundred percent goes out of his way for Hugo."

I remembered Tommy's face as he'd swung round from the computer in the study. I'd thought he was angry at being interrupted. And worried about what he'd seen, obviously. But now I realized. Worry was putting it mildly.