The gracious Deputy Hostess is drowned in vowels. A stadium roar from a cheering crowd. I hear a ‘waheeeeeeeeeeey!’ and a ‘whooooooooo’ and an ‘oi oi oi!’ The sound of thousands is being made by four very drunk men. I thought I was pissed, but…‘Louise, Louise Louise Louise!’ sing the men, surprisingly melodically, pushing past me, and changing tunes. ‘Where’s Louise? Where’s Louise? Where’s Louiiiiii-ise?’

The door opens. Plum can be heard saying ‘And if I were her, I simply wouldn’t bother to show my face in Hertford Street, ever again…’ Two beats of ominous silence, then…

‘Willo! You came!’ Louise’s voice.

‘Oh, God, Lou, I just had to say I love…I really love…’ Standing outside the door, I hear a violent and unmistakable sound. My own stomach gurgles in sympathy and threatens to violently eject the prosecco and millefeuille.

The voice is now drained of all its fanfare. And, I suspect, solids. ‘I’m so sorry. Could I possibly have a glass of water?’

The only vessel I can find in the kitchen that is definitely not priceless and inherited is bright yellow and has Bart Simpson’s buttocks on it, but at least it’s big. I return to the drawing room, where Louise is gazing reverentially at a pile of puke, as though she can see the Virgin Mary’s face within it. Willo, I assume, is sitting beside it, looking contrite. The other members of his choir are, if not exactly sobered by the change in circumstances, briefly silenced by them.

Of course, Plum is not silenced. Plum is apoplectic. ‘All! Over! The Aubusson!’ he hisses. ‘We were having a pleasant afternoon tea, and you came in and heaved right beside me! You nearly ruined my—’

He’s just a bully. I know exactly what to expect from a bully.

‘Plum. Be quiet.’ I sound low, loud and clear, summoning the same energy I used to defeat Dora. ‘You have been rude to Louise all afternoon. I’ve watched you. She has gone out of her way to make you happy and comfortable. She has made all of this food by hand. And you have ignored her, you have sneered and bitched and been cruel and I think you should leave.’

Muffy and Amelia look down at their Ferragamo flats. The brass logo on Muffy’s left shoe appears to be adorned with a small chunk of carrot. Only Buffy catches my eye and gives me the most luminous smile.

Plum opens his mouth and makes another series of dolphin squeaks. ‘I…I…I…how dare…how very…you uncouth…anyway, we were just leaving!’

I’d braced myself for Plum to have a lacerating, vicious comeback, but he’s deflated. It’s almost as if no one has ever interrupted him or criticised him in his life before.