He leant towards her, whispered in her ear, ‘Keep up the good work. You’re doing great.’ His breath tickled her neck and she giggled, then told herself to grow up, because she sounded like a teenager on a first date. It was the champagne. It always made her silly.

Keep your distance, this is business, her sensible self whispered.

She leant away from him, unfolded her napkin and spread it on her lap while waiters served the first course.

Lewis was sitting opposite her, and as the person in charge of the event, his eyes roamed the room, making sure everything was okay. But several times his gaze caught hers and he gave her a little smile. She wasn’t sure why it made her uncomfortable – maybe because she’d never been to such a formal event, with people she didn’t know – but she wished she didn’t have quite so much cleavage on show. It was coincidence, she told herself when she found him looking at her again, inevitable when you sat opposite someone. But still she felt hot and bothered, like a child forced to sit at a dinner table with distant relatives talking about them as if they weren’t there, wanting to go home. It’s just this once, she reminded herself as she took another mouthful of smoked salmon. Tough it out, keep your eyes on your food.

The night trudged on, the buzz of chatter and laughter getting increasingly loud as more champagne was consumed. After her first glass, Sara made a point of not drinking any more. There was no way she could roll home drunk without Matt having serious suspicions about where she’d been, and anyway, she had to drive herself back from the community centre. She checked her watch. Almost nine. The meal was being served at a snail’s pace, all five courses of it, and there was still dessert to come, followed by a cheese board. She’d been hoping to be home by ten, but it was going to be much later. The muscles at the back of her neck pulled tighter, the tension almost unbearable now.

Her neighbour, a portly middle-aged man called Alan, was very attentive, leaning in towards her when he spoke so she could hear what he was saying. He was pleasant enough, told her about his ex-wife, his children. Then they got on to her family, to the point where she didn’t want to tell him any more details and changed the subject back to business. Apparently he imported a range of women’s yoga wear, and at last she was on familiar ground. Christ, this is hard work, she decided as he regaled her with the technicalities of weft and weave and Lycra versus cotton.