On the table were two ice buckets and a tray of champagne flutes, a bowl of little salted crackers and a stack of papers.

Jensen pulled a bottle from the ice and began peeling off the foil cap.

‘There is absolutely no need for me to up sticks and move,’ said Betsy crisply. ‘I’m managing perfectly well, especially with your help, wouldn’t you agree, Lottie?’

‘Well,’ I began, conscious that whatever I said I’d annoy somebody, ‘we did have a good sort-out in the kitchen on Friday afternoon, and I’ve written labels in large print and stuck them on tubs of things to make it easier to identify their contents.’

I’d also thrown away all the food that had passed its sell-by date – an entire bin’s worth – but I thought it best not to mention that. Unfortunately, Marjorie felt no such loyalty.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally chucked that commemorative tin of Marks and Spencer’s biscuits from the royal wedding,’ she said.

‘It was a wrench,’ Betsy admitted, not meeting my eye.

We’d had words about that. The biscuits, like that tin of shortbread from the other day, hadn’t been opened, but even so, they wouldn’t have been out of place on the Antiques Roadshow.

‘Wonders will never cease.’ Marjorie helped herself to crackers and pushed them in my direction. I took a few and ate them. The saltiness was exactly what I needed and I had a couple more before sliding the bowl away.

Jensen sighed as he eased the cork from the bottle with a twist. The contents gave a pleasing pop and we all whooped politely.

‘If you’ve still got biscuits from 2011, Gran, I think the first toast should be to the fact you haven’t given yourself food poisoning.’

‘Just a small one for me,’ said Betsy, holding up a glass to him. ‘Don’t be silly, Charles and Diana got married much earlier than that.’

The look of horror on Jensen’s face was a picture. Marjorie slapped her thigh and burst out laughing and I popped some more crackers in my mouth to hide my mirth. Betsy remained po-faced, but she couldn’t quite conceal the twinkle in her eye.

‘To go back to your suggestion, Jensen,’ she said, ‘I love you dearly, but I’m afraid the answer is no. N O spells no. I won’t move out, so I’m toasting independent women. Cheers!’

‘Lottie, have this.’ Marjorie wisely changed the subject to the Butterworth 2015 Classic Cuvée in our glasses, handing me a sheet of paper containing the tasting notes.

‘You’ll notice the wine is probably not as chilled as you’d normally get it. But cold masks the flavour. To appreciate it properly, professionals always taste at room temperature,’ she explained.