‘Oh Bruce,’ said Merry. Her cheeks were pink. The chardonnay was gone, as were two bottles of riesling Tate had chosen after careful consultation with the pimply yet sage attendant at the bottle shop. Everyone was a little louder, a little more at ease, the men spreading their legs and laying their arms along the backs of the chairs, Merry and I slathering melted butter on the rolls.

‘Six is fair,’ Bruce said, smiling. He was grabbing the edge of the table again. ‘Generous even.’ He looked at me. ‘To tell you the truth, my dear, the turkey was a little dry.’

‘You’re a terror,’ Merry said, opening another bottle Tate had fetched and filling her glass.

‘I’ll do better,’ I said. ‘Next time.’

Was I being sarcastic? I couldn’t tell.

‘Consistent basting,’ said Bruce. ‘That’s what you need. Bird is finicky like that. Needs attention.’

He rose from the table. We all rose after him.

‘How about a tour?’ said Bruce. ‘Settle the stomach before dessert.’

‘Sure thing,’ said Tate.

‘You go ahead,’ I said. ‘I’ll clear up.’

I made a ritual of it, of scraping and rinsing, of packing the dishwasher and hearing it commence its cycles. I looked up to the dark window above the sink, looked at the dark hollows of my eyes. They were sinking further into my head as I got older, that much was obvious.

I heard voices as our visitors moved around the house, opening doors, making remarks. I heard a heavy footstep directly above me. It could have been anyone’s, but it was Bruce’s foot I imagined, encased so securely in its hiking boot. The hairs on my arms went up. Is that you, Bellinda? I wondered. Are you trying to warn me?

But there was no answer.

I squeezed the sponge and set it down on the sink. Then I went to a cupboard, pulled out the jumbo Virgin Mary, removed her blue crown and took a nip of vodka.

‘What’s that? Holy water?’

I turned. Merry had struck a film star pose, leaning against the door jamb, hand on hip.

‘Not exactly.’

She approached, picked up the bottle, sniffed it. ‘May I join you? The men are talking about… men things.’

‘Sure,’ I said. I turned to fetch a glass, but when I turned back Merry was contentedly chugging vodka, leaving lipstick smeared on Mary’s face. She had turned sassy, even a little flirty, now that she was drunk. I decided I liked her better this way. I took the Mary from her and chugged some vodka myself.

‘You know, you’re too pretty for him,’ Merry said. She smelled like talcum powder, and like a baby goat. I supposed that was the angora.

‘I could say the same to you,’ I said.