“But surely the whole world is younger than you,” I mutter. Zeb lowers that hand to my knee and squeezes again, but I ignore him in favour of smiling coldly at the woman.

“I beg your pardon,” she says in a low voice.

I lean forward. “I said how young you look,” I say in a clear, loud voice, like I’m talking to someone deaf.

She glares at me but turns back to Zeb. “Did I say how glad I was that you and Patrick split up?”

“Quite a few times,” Zeb says wryly, and I snort.

She looks at me again. “This man is a serial predator. I’d get away from him if I were you.”

I inhale sharply, feeling rage sear me as Zeb stiffens all over.

“Nina,” her husband says in a resigned voice.

I lean forward and smile sweetly at her. “Predator, eh? The last time I heard that used was on Planet Earth.” I tap my finger on the table. “Is this a dinner-party game? Are we naming the animal that’s most like us as people? If we are, I’m trying to think what animal is most like a rude and excessively bad-mannered woman.”

She breathes in sharply, rage clouding her face. “I have never been so insulted.”

“You do surprise me,” I say sweetly.

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.