The prosecco is driving my train of thought right off the rails.

‘What?’ Even Louise looks a little taken aback.

‘Nothing, nothing! These are so delicious!’ I’m talking through a mouthful of custard and crumbs. I swallow and take another slice. Plum gasps, audibly.

Then, I am ignored. Amelia complains at length about her parents, taking her to ‘fucking Verbier again’ at Easter, and it’s going to be so very dull, and no one even goes there any more, it’s over, why can’t she go to Courchevel, she’s twenty-eight and what’s the big deal about a family holiday? Plum says it could be much worse, his family are forcing him to come to Florence, where there is nothing to do ‘and the apartment is ridiculously small’. Buffy—I assume it’s Buffy—bravely breaks her silence to deliver a nine minute monologue about suitcases. ‘And if you don’t bother with the USB port and the monogramming, the carry-on is under a grand!’ she finishes, breathlessly.

I drink more prosecco.

‘No monogramming? I’m not an animal!’ howls Plum, slapping a chinoed thigh.

I drink more prosecco.

Slowly, the conversation becomes much more interesting, as the assembled guests assassinate the character of a woman called Caroline—did she catch chlamydia from Eddie, or did Eddie catch chlamydia from her? Louise occasionally attempts to join in, but mostly gets talked over, by Plum. Every so often, she mutters ‘anyway, I’ll just…’ and gets up, and returns with a platter piled with golden, miniature sausage rolls, or luscious, fudgy brownies, and at one point, a medium sized, tiered sponge cake adorned with spun sugar butterflies. Louise and her food is ignored. As am I. How dare these awful people treat her like that? In her own home? I’m trying to come up with something blisteringly, incisively crushing to say to Plum. The trouble is that I’ve drunk a whole bottle of prosecco.

Is that the door? ‘I’ll get it!’ Oh, that came out much more loudly than I was expecting. I try to jump up from the heirloom, fall onto the floor, leap up, brush my dress down, catch a melting chocolate chip brownie crumb and paint a brown streak from my arse to my thigh.

Deep breaths. I can recover my composure, sober up in the hallway and then hide in the kitchen and drink a lot of water until it’s OK to go home.

I open the door. I can do this! I am the gracious Deputy Hostess!

‘Hello! I’m Imogen, I’m a friend of…’