Her invitation was received gratefully by Lady Polly. ‘It’s just what we need,’ she said to her husband. ‘Get Rose down to the country, fresh air, and away from the fear of that terrible doctor. We shall accept, of course. She has sent me a note with her invitation to say it will be a small party.’

‘Still, I wonder who else is going,’ said her husband.

‘What’s in the post?’ demanded Mrs Jerry Trumpington across the breakfast table.

Her husband lowered his morning newspaper and looked at her. ‘Haven’t opened it yet.’

‘You’re impossible. Give it to me. I don’t know why I put up with you.’

He signalled to a footman and handed him the post, which the footman placed next to Mrs Jerry.

Mr Jerry Trumpington surveyed his wife and began to indulge in one of his favourite fantasies. She was a greedy woman. In his mind’s eye, she choked on a lump of food. He would sit there calmly, watching her slowly choke to death. That gross body of hers would writhe about and then crash onto the floor like some great diseased tree. He would wait until she gasped her last. A simple funeral. No point in wasting money on the dead. No flowers. What about hymns?

‘Here’s one!’ called his wife down the table. He blinked the dream away and looked at her with something like shock in his eyes because in his mind he was already following the coffin to the graveside.

‘What?’

‘Lady Glensheil wants us to go to her house party. We must go. She’s got a French chef.’

‘When is it?’

‘Two weeks’ time.’

‘Bless me. Such short notice. Bit autocratic of her. I’ve got work in the City anyway.’

Mr Trumpington was director of a tea company. Although tea and beer were not considered trade, Mrs Jerry felt it was rather demeaning of her husband to work at all.

‘It’ll sound so common, me having to say my husband’s working.’

‘You spend so much money, I have to keep working. By the way, that gentleman’s watch you bought from Asprey’s.’

‘I told you and told you. That was for nephew Giles.’

‘But I saw Giles the other day and he said he had never received such a watch.’

‘It must be one of the other nephews. Stop prosing on. It’s only a watch.’

‘A gold half-hunter is not just an ordinary watch.’

‘Oh, shut up about the watch!’ she roared.

Her husband bowed his head and went back to arranging her funeral.