Lindsay didn’t want to think about how much whisky she’d drunk. She knew she’d only had three and a half hours sleep after the Scots/Irish ceilidh, but lack of sleep was only a tiny component of the pounding, gut-churning hangover that had invaded her body. She felt like the ball in a rugby match somewhere towards the end of the first half: it was bad already, but she knew it was going to get worse. At least it was the final morning of the conference. She could probably lay her head on her arms and sneak a couple of hours’ kip at the delegation table. Someone would happily hang on to her card and vote in her stead. The hangover would pass. Her guilt at not being in a fit state to carry out her duties as a delegate would probably hang around for longer.

As she slowly crossed the hotel dining-room, she managed to grasp that she was far from the only one who looked like they used to be members of the human race. As she passed the buffet table laden with fruit juices and cereals, she gave a shudder and slunk into her seat at the table she shared with Ian, Siobhan and a sub-editor from the Evening Standard who hadn’t yet managed to make it to breakfast. “Coffee?” she croaked. Siobhan passed her the pot. Lindsay’s shaking hand knocked over the salt-cellar as she reached for the milk. Ian moved his pot of hot water out of Lindsay’s line of fire.

“You’re not fit to be let out,” he commented, looking up from his copy of The Watchman. “And that poison won’t help.” Self-righteously, he dunked his herbal teabag in his cup, then dropped it in the ashtray.

Ignoring him, Lindsay drained her first cup of coffee and shuddered as the shock hit her system. “Come on then, Siobhan, don’t keep me in suspense. Did you crack it?”

Siobhan giggled. “Sure did. Four men in four nights.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Monday, Toby Tranter from Brighton; Tuesday, Peter Little, the Manchester branch chairman; Wednesday, Danny Stott, that radio reporter from Newcastle with the cutest bum at conference. And then last night. I’ll be glad to get home. I need the rest.”

“So who was the lucky guy last night?” Lindsay asked.

“Search me. I went for a meal with the Racial Equality Caucus, and I got pissed as a newt. We ended up back in my room, and when I awoke, he’d gone,” she reported.

Ian tutted. “I don’t know, you spent the seventies slagging us men off for treating you like sex objects, and the minute you get liberated, all you do is do exactly what you gave us a bad time for,” he said in mock reproach.

“Shut up, Ian,” they chorused.