‘Hello, so glad you could come.’ A dazzling smile, with teeth to match, was directed at Laura. Its brilliance dimmed slightly as it moved to Shona. ‘Shona, I do hope you’ve read the book this time. You know we made a rule, three non-reads and you’re out. You’re on your fifth.’

Shona tossed her head defiantly. ‘Who cares? Anyway, it’s you lot’s fault for choosing such boring bloody books. Reading is a leisure activity not designed to improve the brain.’

‘I’m Jocasta,’ said the woman, ignoring this denial of a sine qua non as she would have undoubtedly phrased it, and putting a perfectly manicured hand into Laura’s.

‘I’m Laura. It’s very kind of you to let me come.’ The hand was cool and Laura was aware that hers was hot and anxious-feeling.

‘Well, we are a closed group really, but when Shona explained that you’re new to the area—’

‘And I said I’d never make cake again,’ put in Laura’s champion.

‘We felt it would be churlish of us not to let you come,’ finished Jocasta. Then she studied the woman she’d been so generous to. ‘Laura? That’s a pretty name.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I long for something more ordinary – Jocasta is from the classical Greek.’

‘So is mine, Laura that is. It means laurels.’

Jocasta laughed. ‘Oh. I don’t think mine means anything. But do come in. Most of the gang are here.’

They were ushered into more perfect space: cream walls, cream sofas, a cream rug on the blond floor, a massive abstract painting. Surprised, Laura noticed some wooden frames with pictures of children in them on a side table. Were they hers? If so, how did she keep all this so pristine? Maybe they never came in here.

Laura was introduced to the half-dozen women already there. They were all well dressed and probably went to the same hairdresser as Jocasta as their hair had that sleek every-three-weeks look. Unlike the one that Laura had run, this book group didn’t seem to have the young mums who ran out of the house with baked beans on their clothes, desperate for a bit of adult conversation and having to fight to get it.

She sat down on a sofa next to one of the other women. Some dog hairs on her black trousers, brought with her from Somerby, made her suddenly yearn for it, as if it were home. She wasn’t exactly untidy herself, but she felt out of place, like a pigeon in a flock of parakeets, in this elegant, magazine-like setting. She needed a bit of mess to make her truly comfortable.

There was a low glass coffee table in front of them and on it was a pile of books.