Sally wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

‘Come on, darling.’ Theresa reached out and stroked her hair. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘We can’t.’ Sally burst into tears again. ‘I drank far too much. I’m way over the limit.’

‘Me too,’ said Theresa. ‘Those ruddy waiters keep topping up the glasses. You can’t count. You really have no idea you’ve drunk too much till you can’t walk straight. Should we phone Carol?’

‘She wouldn’t thank us,’ said Sally. ‘Last time she was quite snippy with me.’

‘Isn’t that because you were canoodling with the married actor, fella-me-lad?’ Theresa signalled with her head.

Sally jerked herself away. ‘Me and Eggy? Good God, no. Is that what she told you?’

‘There you are!’ Phoo was bearing down upon them. ‘Break it up, you lovebirds. You can get your nookie once you’re home.’

Both Theresa and Sally shook their heads and opened their mouths and closed them again, realising there was no point even trying to explain.

Eggy ambled round the corner. ‘Can’t remember which car is yours, Salz, old girl. Is it the blue one?’

‘I remember,’ said Phoo, strolling towards Sally’s car and slapping it on the boot. ‘It’s this one. Isn’t it?’

While Theresa rooted in her handbag for a tissue to give to Sally, Phoo put her knee up on the bonnet of the car. At first no one had any idea what she was intending to do.

Next thing she was clambering up over the windscreen, dragging herself on to the sunroof. Once on top of the car, she stood up.

Theresa lurched forward and offered Phoo a hand, trying to lure her back down.

‘I am somebody.’ Phoebe Taylor started beating her chest. ‘You can all get lost.’

Theresa looked to Sally, who was gaping up, open-mouthed, still wiping away her tears.

Then Phoebe started bouncing up and down, as though the roof of Sally’s car was a trampoline, and, while she bounced, she chanted, ‘Paddy and Pat, Paddy and Pat . . .’

Theresa looked to Eggy, but he remained still, standing there. But he wasn’t looking at his wife. He stared down at the pavement, as though searching for lost keys.

When Theresa glanced up again, Phoebe was tearing at her pink cashmere sweater, pulling it over her head, revealing her plump, naked top, covered only by a greying brassiere.

‘We have to get her down,’ said Theresa, tugging at Eggy’s elbow. ‘She’ll hurt herself. She’s ruining Sally’s car, and . . . well . . . if anyone gets a photo of this, it’ll be the end . . .’

‘The end of what?’ Eggy looked Theresa in the eye. ‘You see . . . That’s exactly the problem.’

‘Paddy and Pat, Paddy, Paddy, Paddy . . .’ Phoo was still bouncing, all the while grabbing at her own back, trying to unfasten her bra. ‘Paddy’s dead. Paddy’s dead.’