‘It’s normally worse going into London, isn’t it?’ Christine said, sorting broccoli florets into portions. ‘How nice, to have Elena here.’ She turned and gave her a side-hug. ‘Now, the boys are having a beer, Robin, and there’s lemonade.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Natalie’s not drinking at the moment but don’t make a song and dance about it.’

‘Really? The thinnest woman in the West Midlands? Is she on another diet?’

‘Sssh. They’re trying again. Don’t say anything.’

‘Trying what?’ Lennie whispered.

‘To have a baby.’

‘Oh.’

‘Have you got a drink, Mum?’ Robin asked.

‘I’m going to have a spritzer once everything’s on the table. Would you like one?’

‘No, thanks, I’ll have one of these.’ She picked up a beer from the cluster on the end of the counter. ‘Purity? I haven’t seen this before.’

‘It’s local – the brewery’s out near Studley, I think. Your father likes it.’

Robin flipped off the cap and took a sip. ‘Yeah, I can see why. What?’

‘At least use a glass. And take that jacket off before we sit down, please. And those boots. You look like …’

She couldn’t help herself. ‘A dyke?’

Christine suppressed a shudder. ‘Like you’re going yomping across the Falklands.’

They managed the soufflés without major incident. As he’d pulled out her chair, her dad had murmured, ‘Don’t have a fight, will you? For your mother’s sake,’ and he’d done his best, steering the conversation towards such anodyne topics as the decking that Natalie and Luke were laying in their garden – or rather Natalie’s brother was relaying, Luke having botched it – and the restaurant in Moseley where they’d been for their anniversary, which now had a Michelin star, apparently.

‘A Michelin star in Birmingham – who’da thunk it?’ Robin said.

‘Actually,’ said Natalie, tight-lipped, ‘there’s five.’

The main course proved a bridge too far. The temperature in the room seemed to be rising, the oxygen level decreasing in inverse proportion. Robin had had the same piece of beef in her mouth for a minute but her stomach was drum-taut, painful when it met the table-edge. Glancing to her right, she saw Lennie – genius! – disappear a roast potato into a piece of kitchen roll on her lap. She pushed back her chair to go and get a piece for herself but Luke, obviously afraid of losing his sitting target, cut Dennis off mid-sentence.

‘So, Robin,’ he said, ‘Mum and Dad told me, obviously, but I’m still having problems getting my head around your … situation.’

‘Which part is troubling you?’

‘Well, for a start, how did you actually get fired? We thought, me and Nat, that you were some sort of golden girl down there, the great white hope of Scotland Yard.’ They looked at each other, struggling not to snicker.

‘Luke,’ warned Dennis.

‘What? I’m trying to understand.’