I said a kind of rosary to Bellinda as I scrubbed and polished, then rinsed the turkey breasts and patted them dry. By the time the house was clean and the food prepared, dusk was falling. I could still hear the murmur of Tate’s voice in the little room off the kitchen; I could hear his assurances, his confidential tone.

I ran myself a bath, adding no salts, no foam. It was too hot, like all of my baths. I liked to sit in the hottest bath I could stand. I would imagine steaming myself like a lobster. I would imagine how it would feel to be thrown like a martyr into a cauldron of boiling oil.

Eventually it got too much. I had to haul myself out and lie on the cold tiles, watching the steam rise from my body as though my spirit were leaving it. Then I heard Tate’s knock on the door. ‘Honey,’ he said. ‘They’re here.’

Something about Merry’s outfit made me want to embrace her. Not just because her sweater was pink and angora, but because it was shoulder-padded, with diamantes shooting out in a starburst pattern from the collar. It was a sultry evening; I was in a floral dress, Tate in his popsicle shorts. Bruce wore the floppy khaki hat he’d had on when we first met, the kind you might wear fly-fishing. He didn’t take it off inside. He wore the same lemon-yellow polo he usually wore, with the collar unbuttoned and turned up. His chest hair was grey and plentiful.

‘Here,’ said Merry. She pressed a bottle of chardonnay and a box of after-dinner mints into my hands. I passed them to Tate, hugged her lightly and took the opportunity to stroke the angora.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

When they came into the hallway, Bruce sniffed. ‘Bird?’ he said.

‘Turkey,’ said Tate, smiling.

‘I’ve always found it strange, men eating birds,’ Bruce said. ‘It’s a woman’s meat.’

‘Turkeys have killed people,’ I said.

‘Only in the mating season,’ said Bruce, maintaining eye contact. ‘And even then they only attack people they perceive to be subordinates.’

Tate laughed. ‘Guess you’ve got to get them before they get you,’ he said.

I served the chardonnay with dinner. I served fresh rolls and green salad gently tossed with vinaigrette. I had made scrolls of the napkins, and every component of the main course was warm. I ignored most of the dinner conversation in favour of a serene survey of my own domestic competence. I was relieved and satisfied. I hadn’t forgotten a thing.

Finally Bruce dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin and threw it over his empty plate.

‘A good dinner,’ he said. ‘I’d give it a six out of ten.’