Parents arriving to pick up their children came rattling at the pub’s locked doors eventually; Pam and Tibs, descending into the lounge, kept on their party hats, sporting them with stiff dignity. Pam’s paper crown even helped her maintain a regal kind of order — the naughtier children glanced nervously in her direction, hurrying to play the video games Tibs had promised, which were ranged like robot-sentinels against the walls downstairs, flashing their coloured lights. The children in their ignorance were satisfied without putting any money in, pushing levers and pressing buttons. Grace’s white satin party dress was stained with orange squash, her cheeks were shiny with sugar and flushed with power, she was intoxicated from so much attention; hurtling towards Lydia she clasped her about the knees, rubbing a sticky face against her skirts, shrieking My Mummy! Lydia sat down abruptly on the padded banquette, awkward for once, seduced and flattered by Grace’s peremptory claim. Amazing that such a child, so wild and full of force, could possibly belong to her – or she to it! Pam came holding Isobel by the hand, saying she had been such a help with the little ones; so sensible and mature. And stolid, conscious Isobel blushed with pleasure, although Christine knew Pam meant she wasn’t spirited like Grace.

— Lydia’s parents don’t like me, Christine said to Alex later, when they were at home and Isobel was asleep, mumbling anxiously in her dreams. — They never did. Or at least, Pam doesn’t. Tibs doesn’t even notice me.

— It’s class, said Alex. — You’re not their type. They think that you think you’re superior. Perhaps they think you took Lydia away from them.

She considered this idea for an instant, conscience-stricken. — But they couldn’t seriously think I took her anywhere! It’s always Lydia who takes me. And if it’s class, then how come they like you? Pam likes you, anyhow. But you’re an intellectual, you’re more superior than I ever was. I try so hard with them!

— They feel you trying. And I doubt whether Pam has any thoughts about me either way. I don’t think we’ve ever exchanged more than a few platitudes.

— It isn’t words, Alex. She watches you, I see it; women watch you. Pam thinks you’re wasted on me, she’s always thought that. She admires you from a safe distance – relieved at the same time that Lydia’s got Zachary, who makes everything easy.