To each their own. In my opinion, Adam was a showstopper. Big and tall but not in that meaty, Piet way. And he suited Claire. They were both immensely social, great fun and said yes to everything—at least everything that involved alcohol and other people. It would be hard to find a more perfect couple.

‘It would upset Adam if I had an affair on the sly—’

‘—ya think?’

‘—but if we were swingers, it would all be out in the open.’

‘Listen to me, Claire. Swinging is grand if everyone is on the same page. You and Adam need to talk about this. And remember, you and Adam have a good thing going. It’s rare and wonderful. Seriously, you don’t know how lucky you are.’

‘Ah, stop! No need to be all serious. Just tell me what to do. You’re wise.’ Jokily, she elbowed me. ‘Yes or no? G’wan, say yes!’

‘Okay.’ I sighed. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what to do.’

Her face lit up. Eagerly she said, ‘Yes?’

‘Golden Key it.’

‘NOOOOOOOO!’ Then, ‘Christ, here’s Margaret, in her anorak of doom. Say nothing.’

Claire and I clambered from the car, while Margaret gave us a wounded look from inside her navy nylon hood. ‘You’d think that, by now, I’d have got used to being left out of things,’ she said as the three of us hurried through the strangely wet mist to Mum’s front door, Claire holding her Bottega pouch over her wonderful hair. ‘But it still hurts.’

Luckily that was the moment when Claire’s high leather boots skidded on the damp pavement, sending her flying into Mrs Kilfeather’s hedge. By the time the diversion was over, Mum was hooshing us into the hall.

‘In, in, get in,’ she said, rotating her arm. ‘Before we’re all drowned.’

‘The soles of new boots should be sandpapered,’ Margaret said. ‘If you don’t want to slip.’

‘You’re right. They should. I’d do it, only they’re Louboutins.’ That was Claire’s version of an apology.

‘Take off those coats and shoes,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t be bringing the rain into my Good Front Room.’

Margaret obediently slung her anorak on the knob at the bottom of the stairs, I threw my coat over it but Claire refused to remove hers. ‘It’s not a coat, it’s a shirt-dress.’

Again, that was totally Claire. You’d see a photoshoot in a magazine, say of a woman wearing a floor-length, organza shirt-dress, over flared trousers and a clingy fine-knit sweater, and you’d think, That’s beautiful, but no normal person would ever wear it. Claire would, though.

‘Shirt-dress, coat-dress, call it whatever you like,’ Mum said. ‘It’s still wet. Take it off.’

‘For the love of God!’ Claire said, but she complied.