‘So a new year,’ Joss says, lighting one of her thin menthol cigarettes. ‘What are we all going to change? Apart from the no smoking – which starts at daybreak.’

Scout and I laugh. She and I have known each other since our school days, but we only became proper friends when we both wound up at the same uni and she, Joss and I were in halls together. The three of us became inseparable friends and we shared a flat in Ladbroke Grove when we graduated, partying together through the mid-Nineties. Scout and I stopped clubbing and smoking years ago when we got married and had babies, but Joss remains an eternal 25-year-old. Every new year, she swears she’s going to give up, but she never does. I don’t mind though, because it means I can still bum the occasional party cigarette off her. I check through the window to make sure that Tom really has distracted the teenagers. I can’t risk being caught by Tilly.

‘You know me, I hate change,’ I say, as she hands the cigarette to me. I take a drag, squinting through the unfamiliar smoke. ‘And anyway, everything is just fine and dandy.’

‘Now that you’re going to be Brightmouth’s retailer of the year,’ Joss says in an excited voice. She’s referring back to the speech Tom gave over dinner, saying how proud he was that Wishwells, my shop, has been nominated for the award.

‘Yes, well,’ I say, handing the cigarette to Scout. ‘I haven’t actually won yet, but it’s good to be recognised for what we’ve achieved.’

‘You’ll win it,’ Joss says confidently, and I smile at her unwavering faith.

‘What about you, Scouty? You happy living the dream?’ I ask.

Scout left a high-flying city job five years ago and moved up here to this lovely patch of Suffolk to start a new life as a farmer. You’d never know from looking at her. She’s small with a blonde bob and she looks lovely tonight in her ancient Karen Millen velvet dress. She blows a stream of smoke out thoughtfully.

‘It’s good, I think,’ she says. ‘But if I’m honest, it gets lonely sometimes with just the alpacas for company. I don’t get to meet new people.’ It’s true that she’s isolated up here and I worry about her. Mart still commutes to London, so he’s away three nights a week, and her twin boys are in boarding school during term time.

‘Oh, they’re overrated,’ Joss says, though for a second I’m not sure if she’s referring to people or the alpacas. She works in a London PR agency and has to schmooze for a living. ‘Right, K? New friends?’ She pulls a face. ‘Who has time for those?’

I nod and laugh in agreement. I already have a host of gorgeous women in my life – friends who I’ve known for twenty years, or even decades longer, like these two. Then there’s the staff in the shop, not to mention my suppliers and all my regular customers. My days are full of people. I don’t have room for anyone new.