‘Well, if it’s one of the school mums, Harry, I’m disappointed in you. I really am. How could you be attracted to any woman who’d name her kids “Sage”, “Moon”, “Melody” or “Apple” because they think they’re so “unique” and “gifted”? Guess what, ladies? Your kids are not going to be special. They’re going to be average – just like all of you.’ Certain guests were now shrinking from my words as if they were body blows. ‘All those lectures about what your lactose-intolerant brats could and couldn’t eat on a sleepover . . . Only spoilt middle-class kids are lactose intolerant. Nobody working class has ever bloody well heard of it!’

I could not believe what was coming out of my mouth. I was the nice sister – the one who remembered the birthdays of extended family members and sent gifts proxy-signed from the three of us. The one who volunteers to pick up pals from the airport, mind their disgusting pets or watch their untalented offspring’s pathetic attempts at creative dance or comedy improv. I give money to buskers even when they’re singing that awful ‘Blurred Lines’ song. I apologise when someone’s supermarket trolley bumps into mine. This drunken diatribe was as out of character as the US Republican Party signing up to a climate change agreement.

My sisters had reached the steps leading up to the stage and were waving at their husbands to hurry up. Harry tried once more to forcibly steer me away from the mic. In the tussle, my dress shed a shower of sequins, which made me even madder. I’m only five foot three but, fuelled by fury, I shoved my husband so violently he crashed backwards into the drum kit and fell to the floor in a cacophonous rattle. ‘Now you really can call yourself a sex cymbal,’ I scoffed. This bonsai ball of Aussie sass who was impersonating me then lifted the mic off the stand so she could prowl around the stage in order to scrutinise the startled female guests more closely.

‘So, who is it, Harry? Oh, god, it’s one of the women from book club, isn’t it? Though they’re not so s . . . s . . . s . . . special either. They watch movie adaptations of the assigned novels. D’you know that? Most of their reading material’s limited to Instagram captions – oh, and your phone sexts, clearly.’

Who was I? I felt estranged from myself, but the imposter pressed on, rashly.

‘But, wait . . . It’s much more likely to be one of the smug yoga crowd. Those girls are so bendy. Shit. It’s Jaynie, isn’t it? My so-called “best friend”. Oh, god, Harry. Do you have any idea how many years you need to practise the downward dog to be able to kiss your own arse like that?’

A crisp, steely voice cut across the room. ‘Ruby, sit down! You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’