I think it’s only the fact that the waiters start to clear the table that saves me from total annihilation. I shoot a quick glance at Zeb who is staring hard at me with an inscrutable look on his face that doesn’t promise good things. Something to look forward to, I muse gloomily. My gloom intensifies as a plate with more small food is placed before me.

I turn slightly desperately to the woman on my other side in an attempt to avoid Nina. “So, what do you do?” she asks cheerfully.

Why do people like this always ask that question? Why don’t they ask someone’s favourite colour or what music they’re listening to at the moment?

“I’m an architect,” I say brightly. Zeb jerks and gives a desperate sort of groan, but the woman immediately sits forward.

“Really? My son wants to do that. Do you have any career advice for him?”

“No,” Zeb says in a very loud voice and we slowly turn to face him. He looks slightly panicked. “I mean no,” he says in a lower voice. “Oh no, not … trifle. It’s trifle for dessert,” he finishes somewhat lamely, and I bite my lip.

“He’s very passionate about his food,” I confide in the woman. “But it’s nice to have strong feelings about things.” I catch Nina’s eye. “Unless they’re homicidal ones, of course,” I finish robustly.

“Career advice for my son?” the woman reminds me.

“He should be very enthusiastic about buttresses,” I say seriously.

Zeb leans forward. “I’m so sorry,” he says very charmingly to the woman. “Could I just borrow Jesse for a minute?”

He then forces me to listen to a conversation he’s having with an old man about stocks and shares. I muse rather sadly on the fact that I wasn’t able to spin my architect story. It would have been a hell of a lot more interesting than what the city closed at today, which I’m pretty sure has nothing to do with when they all clocked off and went to the pub.

Towards the end of dessert, which is basically one mouthful of peach juice and a bit of cream smeared on the plate, Nina leans forward again. Her expression doesn’t bode well.

“I was very sad to see your eye.”

“My eye?” I stare at her and then realise that she’s gesturing at the remnants of my black eye. “Oh, thank you,” I offer.

“I have the number of the domestic-abuse hotline if you’d like it,” she says in a very sweet but carrying voice.

“Mother,” Patrick says in a loud voice, but she just smiles at me, widening it to include Zeb.

A startled silence falls over the table. I stare at her. What a fucking horrible bitch. “Oh, there’s no need,” I say loudly. “Zeb didn’t punch me, if that’s what you’re thinking. That is what you’re trying to imply, isn’t it?”