‘It’s a steamed omelette.’ I prod it disconsolately.

They’re right, it does look disgusting. And I spent ages separating all the eggs and chopping up all the kale. The recipe was in a book called Power Brunch, and I thought everyone would be really impressed. I don’t dare tell them about the mushroom protein shake, which I’ve got waiting in the blender.

‘Bex, where are the egg yolks you didn’t use?’ says Suze suddenly.

‘In a bowl.’

‘Well, why don’t I make an omelette with them?’

Before I can stop her, Suze is heating up a pan, putting lashings of butter into it, and frying up the most delicious, yellow, crispy omelette I’ve ever seen, together with ribbons of bacon which she got from the fridge.

‘There.’

She puts it on the table, and everyone falls on it. I take a forkful myself and nearly die with pleasure.

‘They should do egg-yolk omelettes in restaurants,’ says Suze, her mouth full. ‘Why’s everyone so obsessed by egg whites, anyway? They don’t taste of anything.’

‘They’re healthy.’

‘Crap,’ says Suze robustly. ‘We feed egg yolks to our lambs and they’re perfectly healthy.’

Luke is pouring coffee for everyone, Suze is slathering marmalade on a slice of toast, and spirits have generally lifted.

‘So.’ Luke looks around the table. ‘I’ve had an invitation today. Who fancies coming to a gala benefit at the Beverly Hilton?’

‘Me!’ Suze and I exclaim simultaneously.

‘It’s for …’ He squints at the letter. ‘Victims of discrimination. Some new charity.’

‘I read about that!’ says Suze in excitement. ‘Salma Hayek will be there! Can we really go?’

‘Sage is asking us all to sit on her table, house guests included.’ Luke smiles at Suze. ‘You’re in.’

‘Tarkie, did you hear that?’ Suze leans across the table, brandishing her toast. ‘We’ve been invited to a real Hollywood party!’

‘A party.’ Tarquin looks as though he’s been told he has to have a tooth out. ‘Wonderful.’

‘It’ll be fun,’ says Suze. ‘You might meet Salma Hayek.’

‘Ah.’ He looks vague. ‘Marvellous.’

‘You don’t know who Salma Hayek is, do you?’ says Suze accusingly.

‘Of course I do.’ Tarkie looks trapped. ‘He’s … an actor. Jolly talented.’

‘She! She’s jolly talented!’ Suze sighs. ‘I’ll have to coach you before we go. Here, read this, for a start.’ She passes him a copy of US Weekly, just as Minnie and Wilfrid run into the kitchen.

Having the Cleath-Stuarts to stay is brilliant for Minnie. I don’t think she’s ever had so much fun in her life. She’s wearing two baseball caps, one on top of the other, holding a shoe horn like a riding crop, and ‘riding’ Wilfrid like a horse.

‘Go, horsey!’ she yells, and pulls on the ‘reins’, which consist of about six of Luke’s belts buckled together. The next minute, Clementine appears, ‘riding’ Ernest.

‘Let’s jump, Minnie!’ she squeals. ‘Let’s jump over the sofas!’

‘No!’ says Suze. ‘Stop running about and come and have some breakfast. Who wants toast?’