‘We’re lucky,’ said Zoe. ‘The economic downturn means that more and more people are turning to tangible things like Bitcoin and art.’

‘But I thought Bitcoin was only virtual,’ replied Sally.

‘Who cares?’ Zoe knocked back her cup of tea as though it was a shot of eau de vie. ‘Truthfully I’d think we’re likely to reach about six mill.’

‘A mill each,’ crooned Carol, munching on a langue de chat.

‘La la la la la!’ Theresa put her fingers in her ears. ‘Please, Zoe, let’s not tempt fate.’

‘Theresa’s right,’ said Sally, moving over with the second tray, and taking a seat round the table. ‘It’s not as though this will be pin money for us. After the events of the last couple of years, well . . . If we don’t get good money, we’re all done for.’

Theresa laid the platter of sandwiches next to the teapot. She still couldn’t face eating, she felt so tense. ‘Not totally done for, Sally; we’re still scratching along. It’s not over . . . yet.’

‘For one awful moment,’ Zoe put her hand to her wrinkled chest, ‘I thought you were going to say, “It’s not over till the fat lady sings,” and then . . . God forbid, you were going to sing to us.’

Theresa did not like the implication that Zoe thought she was fat, even though, as she smoothed her hands down her sides, she could feel definite rolls of flab around her waist. She preferred to think of herself as slightly embonpoint.

‘I still don’t understand what we’re doing huddled around this phone?’ asked Carol. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to link up on the net? Then we could see it live and not be dependent on those two keeping us informed.’

‘No unofficial filming allowed.’ Sally grabbed a tomato sandwich and took a bite. ‘I imagine no one wants to have their buying splurges recorded and put on Facebook for their husbands or wives to see.’ She took a second bite just as, with a loud shrill tone, the phone rang.

Everyone leaned away from the table.

‘Well, go on.’ Zoe jerked forward. ‘Somebody answer it.’

Theresa put down the teapot and picked up. ‘Hello?’

All four faces strained to listen to the voice in the phone applied to Theresa’s ear.

‘Oui, Cyril. Évidemment.’

Everyone slouched back to their original positions.

‘Actuellement, il reste le même que d’habitude. Oui. Je t’aime. À demain.’ She put the phone down. ‘That was Cyril. About the meat delivery. Did we like the new sausage? Do we want to increase it up to the old level yet.’

All four women let out a sigh and reached out for the sandwiches.

‘“Je l’aime”, Theresa.’ Sally corrected her French. ‘“Aimez-vous la nouvelle saucisse?” Correct response – “Oui, je l’aime.” Not “Oui, je t’aime.” Unless you want Cyril to think you love him.’

‘Je l’aime,’ repeated Theresa. ‘I always get that one wrong. Je l’aime.’

‘Moi non plus,’ added Zoe, making a reference to the 1960s racy song ‘Je t’aime . . . mois non plus’. ‘But to be fair, I do adore his sausage.’ Zoe laughed alone at her own joke.