I wonder what the hell I’m doing. I can barely check the mail. We have an ironing board I bought at the beginning of the year with great intentions, yet I’ve never opened it. I can’t host a dinner party for the best surgeons in the world! What the fuck was I thinking? I start wishing like mad I had just suggested we go out to a restaurant, like a normal person.

I stand in aisle four, staring at all the napkin options in front of me. Fuck, it’s just the party aisle at Coles and yet there are so many damn napkins. Do I want the white napkins, the blue, the red, the novelty patterns? What does a napkin really say about a person? Will Dr Prince judge me if I lay out the wrong napkins? Should I be using linen napkins, like the ones Mum puts out at Christmas? And the glasses … I cringe. Our glassware is all from Big W. Dr Prince’s crystal ware is probably worth more than my entire year’s salary.

I run home and dump five packets of napkins on the new dining table.

Winnie rushes out from the kitchen, where she is making canapés. ‘Well, we’re well sorted for napkins,’ she says briskly. ‘Probably didn’t need this many, though!’

I check the time: 6.45 pm. The clock is ticking, and I’m starting to feel as if I’m a contestant on the final round of MasterChef.

‘I’ll handle the serving,’ Winnie says, like a true friend. ‘You just keep the conversation rolling.’

I admire how clean number 19 looks. The table is set, the prawns are in a bowl, the canapés are made, and the champagne is chilling on ice. No one would ever guess that we don’t usually live like this.

‘We’d better get ready!’ Winnie says. ‘Don’t worry, Kitty. Everything looks great. It’ll be great. We’ll be great.’

After trialling a variety of outfits I’ve settled on something innocent yet racy, pure yet naughty, decent yet indecent. It’s a high-necked sleeveless white lace dress that’s cut dangerously low at the back. But it’s a cotton blend, so it has a casual summery look to it without being too skimpy.

I never normally bother too much with make-up but tonight’s a special occasion. I even put on eye shadow. I actually use a blow dryer and brush on my hair, like a normal woman.

Winnie and I stand in the kitchen, allowing ourselves a glass of champagne to relax prior to the guests arriving.

‘We can do this,’ I say, breathing out.

Winnie looks less sure. ‘Should we have one of Max’s valiums?’ she suggests.

‘Good thinking!’

But before I can act on the idea we hear a knock at the door.